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A 


CYCLOPEDIA 

OF  THE 

BEST  THOUGHTS 

OF 

Charles  Dickens. 


COMPILED  AND  ALPHABETICALLY  ARRANGED 

BY 

F.  G.  de  FONTAINE. 


“ We  should  manage  our  thoughts  as  shepherds  do  their  flowers  in  making  a garland ; flist 
select  the  choicest,  and  then  dispose  them  in  the  most  proper  places,  that  every  one  may 
reflect  a part  of  its  color  and  brightness  on  the  next.” — S.  T.  Coleridge. 


NEW  YORK: 

E.  J.  HALE  & SON,  PUBLISHERS, 

Murray  Street. 

1873. 


I 


o 

4> 


* V 


* ' 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S72,  by 
E.  J.  HALE  & SOX, 

lii  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Lancik,  Little  i;  Kii.lma:;, 
rni\?-:nn,  M.ncruoTV i,icb3  an;>  bti  r.soTvi'cr.a, 
in  i t > 111  \V 00*7  Kit  fir.,  N :.w  Von::. 


22652.^ 


so 


At  the  New  York  Tress  Dinner  to  Charles  Dickens,  the  late  Hon.  Ilenry  J.  Raymond,  expressed 
himself  as  follows : 

“All  that  he  has  written— I say  it  without  the  exception  of  a single  word  that  has  proceeded 
from  his  pen — has  been  calculated  to  infuse  into  every  human  heart  the  feeling  that  every  man 
was  his  brother,  and  that  the  highest  duty  he  could  do  t'  the  world,  and  the  highest  pleasure 
he  could  confer  upon  himself,  and  the  greatest  service  he  could  render  to  humanity,  was  to  bring 
that  other  heart,  whether  high  or  low,  as  close  to  his  own  as  possible.  * * * I be- 

lieve there  is  not  a man  here  who  knows  anything  of  his  writings,  who  has  not  been  made  there- 
by a better,  as  well  as  a wiser,  kinder,  and  nobler  man.” 

The  object  of  this  volume  is  to  present  in  a compact  form — alphabetically  arranged  for 
ready  reference— a selection  of  the  Test  Thoughts  of  Charles  Dickens.  It  is  only  a great 
genius — one  which  has  identified  itself  with  the  reading  millions — that  will  bear  such  a test. 
But  when  an  author  has  become  a fountain  of  phrases  and  characters,  and  for  more  than  thirty- 
five  years  tinged  our  current  literature  with  his  personages  and  phraseology — when  Pickwick  and 
the  Wellers  ; Pecksniff  and  Mark  Tapley  ; Dick  Swiveller  and  the  Marchioness  ; Peggotty  and 
Barkis;  Susan  Nipper  and  Dot;  Captain  Cuttle  and  Wal’r ; Sairey  Gamp  and  Mrs.  Harris; 
Micawber  and  Mr.  Turveydrop  : Little  Nell,  “Jo,”  and  Paul  ; nay,  the  entire  roll  of  fourteen 
hundred  and  twenty-five  creations  of  his  fancy,  have  become  “ as  household  words  ” — a collec- 
tion of  the  “ Best  Thoughts  ” of  such  an  author  will  be  neither  unwelcome  nor  useless  to  those 
who  admire  the  existing  monuments  of  his  literary  labors. 

A compilation  of  this  kind,  indeed,  has  long  been  a want,  for  Charles  Dickens  has  so  forcibly 
impressed  his  strong  individualities  upon  all  he  has  written,  that  there  is  scarcely  a profession, 
or  trade,  or  stratum  of  society,  or  subject,  which,  touched  by  his  artistic  pen,  has  not  received 
some  new  light  or  .shadow  that  makes  the  picture  more  vivid  than  before.  Hence,  he  who  reads 
simply  to  converse  well  or  quote  aptly,  or  he  who  would 

*•  Steal  a thought  and  clip  it  round  its  edge, 

And  challenge  him  whose  ’twas,  to  swear  to  it,” 

will  find  within  these  pages  that  which  concerns  every  theme  in  life. 

The  Lawyer,  Minister,  Physician,  Journalist,  Artist,  Actor,  Author,  Orator,  Inventor,  Musi- 
cian, Architect,  School-master,  Philanthropist,  Life  Insurance  Agent,  Broker,  Auctioneer,  Col- 
lector, Short-hand  Writer,  Undertaker,  Jailor,  Executioner,  Stage  Driver,  House  keeper,  Nurse,— 
all  these  and  more  have  their  place  in  the  intellectual  phantasmagoi ia  all  aie  the  objects  of 
unmistakable  satire,  humor,  or  pathos— all  will  find  something  within  these  pages  which  concerns 
their  various  callings.  Critics  may  quarrel  with  the  art  of  Dickens,  but  the  people  will  always 
admire  his  genius.  Regarded  from  any  point  of  view,  his  works  constitute  a unique  gallery  of 
portraits,  wherein  one  may  enjoy  sympathy  with  all  that  is  tender  and  true  in  humanity,  01,  on 
the  other  hand,  find  not  extravagant  illustrations  of  that  which  is  false  and  forbidding. 

The  author  dwells  among  powerful  contrasts.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  has  described  him  as 
“a  kind  of  Shakespeare,  working  in  terra  cotta,  instead  of  marble  ;”  while  M.  Taine,  in  his 
History  of  English  Literature , alleges  that  he  “ contains  an  English  painter,”  who,  with  passion- 
ate art,  gives  a voice  to  matter,  and  makes  imaginary  objects  equivalent  to  realities. 

Whatever  Dickens  has  described,  is  impressed  upon  the  imagination  with  all  the  detail  and 
truth  of  a living  presence.  Is  it  the  massive  machinery  of  a “Dock  Yard”— you  hear  the 
“scrunch”  of  the  power  press.  Is  it  the  wind— you  witness  the  “small  tyranny  with  which 
it  wreaks  its  vengeance  on  the  fallen  leaves,  and  then  goes  whirling  among  the  crazy  timbers 
of  a steeple  to  mingle  its  moans  with  the  Yoices  of  the  Bells.”  Is  it  an  English  heme,  at 
Christmas — you  are  sitting  at  the  same  board  with  1 iny  l im  and  Bob  Cratchit,  and  Licre  is 

46?  W 


4 


INTRODUCTION. 


not  a detail  of  the  feast  missing,  from  the  aroma  of  the  annual  pudding  to  the  brewing  of  the 
punch.  Does  he  paint  a portrait — his  masterly  touches  fasten  upon  memory  the  hypocrisy 
of  Fecksniff,  Chadband,  and  Stiggins  ; the  rude  devotion  of  Captain  Cuttle,  Sam  Weller,  and 
Mark  Tapley  ; the  sturdy  strength  of  Boythorn  ; the  villainy  of  Carker,  Jonas  Chuzzlewit, 
Fagin,  and  Sikes  ; the  noble  generosity  of  the  Cheeryble  Brothers  ; the  selfish  obstinacy  of 
Dombey  and  Gradgrind  ; the  imperiousness  of  Bounderby  ; the  dying  face  of  Stephen  Black- 
pool, turned  to  the  star  that  “ha’  shined  upon  me  in  my  pain  and  trouble  down  below  the 
simplicity  of  Tom  Finch,  and  the  sweet  child-life  of  Paul  Dombey,  Florence,  and  Little  Nell  ! 

As  the  diamond-cutter  chips  from  the  rough  stone  an  angle  here  and  an  angle  there  to  give 
perfection  to  the  brilliant,  so  did  Dickens  develop  thought  until  it  became  prismatic  and  pictur- 
esque, each  character  standing  out  as  the  incarnation  of  some  virtue,  vice,  or  absurdity. 

Nor  was  the  satire  of  Dickens  without  a healthful  purpose.  Ilis  descriptions  of  Debtor’s 
Prisons,  the  Court  of  Chancery,  the  Yorkshire  schools  and  school-masters,  the  Circumlocu- 
tion Office,  the  spurious  philanthropists,  hypocritical  pretenders  to  goodness,  organized  business 
swindlers,  stony-hearted  capitalists,  and  brutal  hospital  nurses,  illustrate  the  power  with  which 
he  thrust  his  victim  through  and  through  until  life  was  extinct.  Ilis  irony  and  ridicule  thus 
concentrated  upon  all  the  classes  of  institutions  which  he  exposed,  directed  public  attention 
to  the  existing  evils,  and  resulted  in  reform. 

In  the  language  of  Thackeray,  “As  for  the  charities  of  Mr.  Dickens,  the  multiplied  kind- 
nesses which  he  has  conferred  upon  us  all,  upon  our  children,  upon  people  educated  and  un- 
educated, upon  the  myriads  who  speak  our  common  tongue,  have  not  you,  have  not  I,  all  of 
us,  reason  to  be  thankful  to  this  kind  friend,  who  soothed  and  charmed  so  many  hours  ; 
brought  pleasure  and  sweet  laughter  to  so  many  homes  ; made  such  multitudes  of  children  hap- 
py ; endowed  us  with  such  a sweet  store  of  gracious  thoughts,  fair  fancies,  soft  sympathies, 
hearty  enjoyments?  There  are  creations  of  Mr.  Dickens  which  seem  to  me  to  rank  as  personal 
benefits  ; figures  so  delightful  that  one  feels  happier  and  better  for  knowing  them,  as  one  does 

for  being  brought  into  the  society  of  very  good  men  and  women Thankfully  I 

take  my  share  of  the  feast  of  love  and  kindness  which  this  gentle,  and  generous,  and  charitable 
soul  has  contributed  to  the  happiness  of  the  world.  I take  and  enjoy  iny  share,  and  say  a 
benediction  for  the  meal.” 


F.  G.  de  F. 


THE 


BEST  THOUGHTS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“So  live  thy  better — let  thy  worst  thoughts  clie.” 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


ABBEY— Nell  in  the  old. 

Already  impressed,  beyond  all  telling,  by  the 
silent  building  and  the  peaceful  beauty  of  the 
spot  in  which  it  stood — majestic  age  surrounded 
by  perpetual  youth — it  seemed  to  her,  when  she 
heard  these  things,  sacred  to  all  goodness  and 
virtue.  It  was  another  world,  where  sin  and 
sorrow  never  came  ; a tranquil  place  of  rest, 
where  nothing  evil  entered. 

When  the  bachelor  had  given  her  in  con- 
nection with  almost  every  tomb  and  flat  grave- 
stone some  history  of  its  own,  he  took  her  down 
into  the  old  crypt,  now  a mere  dull  vault,  and 
showed  her  how  it  had  been  lighted  up  in  the 
time  of  the  monks,  and  how,  amid  lamps  de- 
pending from  the  roof,  and  swinging  censers 
exhaling  scented  odors,  and  habits  glittering 
with  gold  and  silver,  and  pictures,  and  precious 
stuffs,  and  jewels  all  flashing  and  glistening 
through  the  low  arches,  the  chaunt  of  aged 
voices  had  been  many  a time  heard  there,  at 
midnight,  in  old  days,  while  hooded  figures 
knelt  and*  prayed  around,  and  told  their  rosaries 
of  beads.  Thence,  he  took  her  above  ground 
again,  and  showed  her,  high  up  in  the  old  walls, 
small  galleries,  where  the  nuns  had  been  wont 
to  glide  along — dimly  seen  in  their  dark  dresses 
so  far  off — or  to  pause,  like  gloomy  shadows, 
listening  to  the  prayers.  He  showed  her,  too, 
how  the  warriors,  whose  figures  rested  on  the 
tombs,  had  worn  those  rotting  scraps  of  armor 
up  above — how  this  had  been  a helmet  and  that 
a shield,  and  that  a gauntlet — and  how  they 
had  wielded  the  great  two-handed  swords,  and 
beaten  men  down  with  yonder  iron  mace. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  54. 

The  very  light  coming  through  sunken  win- 
dows, seemed  old  and  gray,  and  the  air,  redolent 
of  earth  and  mould,  seemed  laden  with  decay, 
purified  by  time  of  all  its  grosser  particles,  and 
sighing  through  arch,  and  aisle,  and  clustered 
pillars,  like  the  breath  of  ages  gone  ! Here  was 
the  broken  pavement,  worn  so  long  ago  by  pious 
feet  that  Time,  stealing  on  the  pilgrims’  steps, 
had  trodden  out  their  track,  and  left  but  crumb- 
ling stones.  Here  were  the  rotten  beam,  the  sink- 
ing arch,  the  sapped  and  mouldering  wall,  the 
lowly  trench  of  earth,  the  stately  tomb  on  which 
no  epitaph  remained — all,  marble,  stone,  iron, 
wood,  and  dust,  one  common  monument  of  ruin. 
The  best  work  and  the  worst,  the  plainest  and 
the  richest,  the  stateliest  and  the  least  imposing — 
both  of  Heaven’s  work  and  man’s — all  found  one 
common  level  here,  and  told  one  common  tale. 

Some  part  of  the  edifice  had  been  a baronial 


chapel,  and  here  were  effigies  of  warriors  stretch- 
ed upon  their  beds  of  stone  with  folded  hands 
— crost-legged,  those  who  had  fought  in  the 
Holy  Wars — girded  with  their  swords,  and 
cased  in  armor  as  they  had  lived.  Some  of 
these  knights  had  their  own  weapons,  helmets, 
coats  of  mail,  hanging  upon  the  walls  hard  by, 
and  dangling  from  rusty  hooks.  Broken  and 
dilapidated  as  they  were,  they  yet  retained  their 
ancient  form,  and  something  of  their  ancient 
aspect.  Thus  violent  deeds  live  after  men  upon 
the  earth,  and  traces  of  war  and  bloodshed  will 
survive  in  mournful  shapes  long  after  those  who 
worked  the  desolation  are  but  atoms  of  earth 
themselves. 

The  child  sat  down,  in  this  old  silent  place, 
among  the  stark,  figures  on  the  tombs — they 
made  it  more  quiet  there  than  elsewhere,  to  her 
fancy — and  gazing  round  with  a feeling  of  awe, 
tempered  with  a calm  delight,  felt  that  now 
she  was  happy,  and  at  rest.  She  took  a Bible 
from  the  shelf,  and  read  ; then,  laying  it  down, 
thought  of  the  summer  days  and  the  bright 
springtime  that  would  come — of  the  rays  of  sun 
that  would  fall  in  aslant  upon  the  sleeping 
forms — of  the  leaves  that  would  flutter  at  the 
window,  and  play  in  glistening  shadows  on  the 
pavement — of  the  songs  of  birds,  and  growth  of 
buds  and  blossoms  out  of  doors — of  the  sweet 
air  that  would  steal  in  and  gently  wave  the  tat- 
tered banners  overhead.  What  if  the  spot 
awakened  thoughts  of  death  ! Die  who  would, 
it  would  still  remain  the  same  ; these  sights  and 
sounds  would  still  go  on  as  happily  as  ever. 
It  would  be  no  pain  to  sleep  amidst  them. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  53. 

ABILITY— Misdirected.  (Stryver.) 

When  his  host  followed  him  out  on  the  stair- 
case with  a candle,  to  light  him  down  the  stairs, 
the  day  was  coldly  looking  in  through  its  grimy 
windows.  When  he  got  out  of  the  house,  the 
air  was  cold  and  sad,  the  dull  sky  overcast,  the 
river  dark  and  dim,  the  whole  scene  like  a life- 
less desert.  And  wreaths  of  dust  were  spinning 
round  and  round  before  the  morning  blast,  as 
if  the  desert-sand  had  risen  far  away,  and  the 
first  spray  of  it,  in  its  advance,  had  begun  the 
overwhelming  of  the  city. 

Waste  forces  within  him,  and  a desert  all 
ai-ound,  this  man  stood  still  on  his  way  across  a 
silent  terrace,  and  saw  for  a moment,  lying  in 
the  wilderness  before  him,  a mirage  of  honora- 
ble ambition,  self-denial,  and  perseverance.  In 
the  fair  city  of  this  vision  there  were  airy  gal- 


ACTOR 


0 


ACTOR 


leries  from  which  the  loves  and  graces  looked 
upon  him,  gardens  in  which  the  fruits  of  life 
hung  ripening,  waters  of  hope  that  sparkled  in 
his  sight.  A moment,  and  it  was  gone.  Climb- 
ing to  a high  chamber  in  a well  of  houses,  he 
threw  himself  down  in  his  clothes  on  a neglected 
bed,  and  its  pillow  was  wet  with  wasted  tears. 

Sadly,  sadly,  the  sun  rose  ; it  rose  upon  no 
sadder  sight  than  the  man  of  good  abilities  and 
good  emotions,  incapable  of  their  directed  ex- 
ercise, incapable  of  his  own  help  and  his  own 
happiness,  sensible  of  the  blight  on  him,  and  re- 
signing himself  to  let  it  cat  him  away. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  5. 

ACTOR— The  Dying-. 

“ I kept  my  promise.  The  last  foil  r- an  d- 
twenly  hours  had  produced  a frightful  alteration. 
The  eyes,  though  deeply  sunk  and  heavy,  shone 
with  a lustre  frightful  to  behold.  The  lips  were 
parched,  and  cracked  in  many  places  ; the  dry 
hard  skin  glowed  with  a burning  heat,  and  there 
was  an  almost  unearthly  air  of  wild  anxiety  in 
the  man’s  face,  indicating  even  more  strongly 
the  ravages  of  the  disease.  The  fever  was  at  its 
height. 

“ I took  the  scat  I had  occupied  the  night  be- 
fore, and  there  I sat  for  hours,  listening  to 
sounds  which  must  strike  deep  to  the  heart  of 
the  most  callous  among  human  beings — the 
awful  ravings  of  a dying  man.  From  what  I 
had  heard  of  the  medical  attendant’s  opinion,  I 
knew  there  was  no  hope  for  him  : I was  sitting 
by  his  death-bed.  I saw  the  -wasted  limbs, 
which,  a few  hours  before,  had  been  distorted 
for  the  amusement  of  a boisterous  gallery, 
writhing  under  the  tortures  of  a burning  fever 
— I heard  the  clown’s  shrill  laugh,  blending 
with  the  low  murmurings  of  the  dying  man. 

“ It  is  a touching  thing  to  hear  the  mind  re- 
verting to  the  ordinary  occupations  and  pur- 
suits of  health,  when  the  body  lies  before  you 
weak  and  helpless  ; but  when  those  occupa- 
tions are  of  a character  the  most  strongly  op- 
posed to  anything  we  associate  with  grave  or 
solemn  ideas,  the  impression  produced  is  infi- 
nitely more  powerful.  The  theatre,  and  the 
public-house,  were  the  chief  themes  of  the 
wretched  man’s  wanderings.  It  was  evening, 
he  fancied  ; he  had  a part  to  play  that  night ; it 
was  late,  and  he  must  leave  home  instantly. 
Why  did  they  hold  him,  and  prevent  his  going? 

• — he  should  lose  the  money — he  must  go.  No  ! 
they  would  not  let  him.  lie  hid  his  face  in  his 
burning  hands,  and  feebly  bemoaned  his  own 
weakness,  and  the  cruelty  of  his  persecutors.  A 
short  pause,  and  he  shouted  out  a few  doggerel 
rhymes — the  last  he  had  ever  learnt.  He  rose 
in  bed,  drew  up  his  withered  limbs,  and  rolled 
about  in  uncouth  positions — he  was  acting — he 
was  at  the  theatre.  A.  minute’s  silence,  and  he 
murmured  the  burden  of  some  roaring  song, 
lie  had  reached  the  old  house  at  last : how  hot 
the  room  was.  lie  had  been  ill,  very  ill,  but 
1m:  was  well  now,  and  happy.  Fill  up  his  glass. 
Who  was  that,  that  dashed  it  from  his  lips?  It 
was  the  same  persecutor  that  had  followed  him 
before.  He  fell  back  upon  his  pillow  and 
moaned  aloud.  A short  period  of  oblivion,  and 
he  was  wandering  through  a tedious  maze  of 
low-arched  rooms — so  low,  sometimes,  that  he 
must  creep  upon  his  hands  and  knees  to  make 
his  way  along ; it  was  close  and  dark,  and 


every  way  he  turned,  some  obstacle  impeded 
his  progress.  There  were  insects  too,  hideous, 
crawling  things,  with  eyes  that  stared  upon  him, 
and  filled  the  very  air  aroupd — glistening  hor- 
ribly amidst  the  thick  darkness  of  the  place. 
The  walls  and  ceiling  were  alive  with  reptiles 
— the  vault  expanded  to  an  enormous  size — 
frightful  figures  flitted  to  and  fro — and  the 
faces  of  men  he  knew,  rendered  hideous  by 
gibing  and  mouthing,  peered  out  from  among 
them — they  were  scaring  him  with  heated  irons, 
and  binding  his  head  with  cords  till  the  blood 
started — and  he  struggled  madly  for  life. 

‘ At  the  close  of  one  of  these  paroxysms, 
when  I had  with  great  difficulty  held  him  down 
in  his  bed,  he  sank  into  what  appeared  to  be  a 
slumber.  Overpowered  with  watching  and  ex- 
ertion, I had  closed  my  eyes  for  a few  minutes, 
when  I felt  a violent  clutch  on  my  shoulder. 
I awoke  instantly.  He  had  raised  himself  up, 
so  as  to  seat  himself  in  bed — a dreadful  change 
had  come  over  his  face,  but  consciousness  had 
returned,  for  he  evidently  knew  me.  The  child, 
w ho  had  been  long  since  disturbed  by  his  rav- 
ings, rose  from  his  little  bed,  and  ran  towards 
its  father,  screaming  with  fright — the  mother 
hastily  caught  it  in  her  arms,  lest  he  should  in- 
jure it  in  the  violence  of  his  insanity  ; but,  ter- 
rified by  the  alteration  of  his  features,  stood 
transfixed  by  the  bedside.  He  grasped  my 
shoulder  convulsively,  and,  striking  his  breast 
with  the  other  hand,  made  a desperate  attempt 
to  articulate.  It  was  unavailing — he  extended 
his  arm  towards  them,  and  made  another  vio- 
lent effort.  There  was  a rattling  noise  in  the 
throat — a glare  of  the  eye — a short  stifled  groan, 
and  he  fell  back — dead  ! ” — Pick.,  Chap.  3. 

ACTOR— His  Reading-  of  Hamlet. 

“ How'  did  you  like  my  reading  of  the  charac- 
ter, gentlemen  ?”  said  Mr.  Waldengarver,  almost, 
if  not  quite,  with  patronage. 

Herbert  said  from  behind  (again  poking  me), 
“ massive  and  concrete.”  So  I said  boldly,  as 
if  I had  originated  it,  and  must  beg  to  insist 
upon  it,  “ massive  and  concrete.” 

“I  am  glad  to  have  ycur- approbation,  gen- 
tlemen,” said  Mr.  Waldengarver,  with  an  air 
of  dignity,  in  spite  of  his  being  ground  against 
the  Avail  at  the  time,  and  holding  on  by  the  seat 
of  the  chair. 

“But  I’ll  tell  you  one  thing,  Mr.  Waldengar- 
ver,” said  the  man  who  was  on  his  knees,  “ in 
w hich  you’re  out  in  your  reading.  Now  mind  ! 
I don’t  care  who  says  contrairy  ; I tell  you  so. 
You’re  out  in  your  reading  of  Hamlet  when  you 
get  your  legs  in  profile.  The  last  Hamlet  as  I 
dressed  made  the  same  mistakes  in  his  reading 
at  rehearsal,  till  I got  him  to  put  a large  red  wafer 
on  each  of  his  shins,  and  then  at  that  rehearsal 
(which  was  the  last)  I went  in  front,  sir,  to  the 
back  of  the  pit,  and  whenever  his  reading 
brought  him  into  profile,  I called  out,  ‘ I don’t 
see  no  wafers  !’  And  at  night  his  reading  was 
lovely.” 

s><  Sis  sjs  He 

When  we  were  in  a side  alley,  he  turned  and 
asked,  “I low'-  do  you  think  he  looked? — J 
dressed  him.” 

I don’t  know  what  he  had  looked  like,  ex- 
cept a funeral  ; with  the  addition  of  a largo 
Danish  sun  or  star  hanging  round  his  neck  by  n 
blue  ribbon,  that  had  given  him  the  appearance 


ACTOR 


7 


ADJECTIVES 


of  being  insured  in  some  extraordinary  Fire 
Office.  But  I said  he  had  looked  very  nice. 

“ When  he  come  to  the  grave,”  said  our  con- 
ductor, “ he  showed  ljis  cloak  beautiful.  But, 
judging  from  the  wing,  it  looked  to  me  that 
when  he  see  the  ghost  in  the  queen’s  apartment, 
he  might  have  made  more  of  his  stockings.” 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  31. 

ACTOR— “ Feeling:  a part.” 

“We  had  a first-tragedy  man  in  our  company 
once,  who,  when  he  played  Othello,  used  to 
black  himself  all  over.  But  that’s  feeling  a 
part  and  going  into  it  as  if  you  meant  it ; it  isn't 
usual — more’s  the  pity.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  48. 

ACTORS— A gathering  of. 

A pretty  general  muster  of  the  company  had 
by  this  time  taken  place  ; for  besides  Mr.  Len- 
ville  and  his  friend  Tommy,  there  were  present, 
a slim  young  gentleman  with  weak  eyes,  who 
played  the  low-spirited  lovers  and  sang  tenor 
songs,  and  who  had  come  arm-in-arm  with  the 
comic  countryman — a man  with  a turned-up 
nose,  large  mouth,  broad  face,  and  staring  eyes. 
Making  himself  very  amiable  to  the  Infant  Phe- 
nomenon, was  an  inebriated  elderly  gentleman 
in  the  last  depths  of  shabbiness,  who  played  the 
calm  and  virtuous  old  men  ; and  paying  espe- 
cial court  to  Mrs.  Crummies  was  another  elderly 
gentleman,  a shade  more  respectable,  who  played 
the  irascible  old  men — those  funny  fellows  who 
have  nephews  in  the  army,  and  perpetually  run 
about  with  thick  sticks  to  compel  them  to  marry 
heiresses.  Besides  these,  there  was  a roving- 
looking person  in  a rough  great-coat,  who  strode 
up  and  down  in  front  of  the  lamps,  flourishing 
a dress-cane,  and  rattling  away,  in  an  under- 
tone, with  great  vivacity,  for  the  amusement  of 
an  ideal  audience.  He  was  not  quite  so  young 
as  he  had  been,  and  his  figure  was  rather  run- 
ning to  seed  ; but  there  was  an  air  of  exag- 
gerated gentility  about  him,  which  bespoke  the 
hero  of  swaggering  comedy. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  23. 

ACQUAINTANCE— The  art  of  extending. 

Sir  Barnet’s  object  in  life  was  constantly  to 
extend  the  range  of  his  acquaintance.  Like  a 
heavy  body  dropped  into  water — not  to  dispar- 
age so  worthy  a gentleman  by  the  comparison — 
it  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  Sir  Barnet 
must  spread  an  ever-widening  circle  about  him, 
until  there  was  no  room  left.  Or,  like  a sound 
in  air,  the  vibration  of  which,  according  to  the 
speculation  of  an  ingenious  modern  philosopher, 
may  go  on  travelling  for  ever  through  the  inter- 
minable fields  of  space,  nothing  but  coming  to 
the  end  of  his  mortal  tether  could  stop  Sir  Bar- 
net  Skettles  in  his  voyage  of  discovery  through 
the  social  system. 

‘ Sir  Barnet  was  proud  of  making  people  ac- 
quainted with  people.  He  liked  the  thing  for 
its  own  sake,  and  it  advanced  his  favorite  object 
too.  For  example,  if  Sir  Barnet  had  the  good 
fortune  to  get  hold  of  a raw  recruit,  or  a country 
gentleman,  and  ensnared  him  to  his  hospitable 
villa,  Sir  Barnet  would  say  to  him  on  the  morn- 
ing after  his  arrival,  “ Now,  my  dear  Sir,  is 
there  anybody  you  would  like  to  know  ? Who 
is  there  you  would  wish  to  meet  ? Do  you 
take  any  interest  in  writing  people,  or  in  paint- 


ing or  sculpturing  people,  or  in  acting  people, 
or  in  anything  of  that  sort  ? ” Possibly  the  pa- 
tient answered  yes,  and  mentioned  somebody 
of  whom  Sir  Barnet  had  no  more  personal 
knowledge  than  of  Ptolemy  the  Great.  Sir 
Barnet  replied,  that  nothing  on  earth  was  easier, 
as  he  knew  him  very  well  : immediately  called 
on  the  aforesaid  somebody,  left  his  card,  wrote 
a short  note  : — “ My  dear  Sir — penalty  of  your 
eminent  position — friend  at  my  house  naturally 
desirous — Lady  Skettles  and  myself  participate 
— trust  that  genius  being  superior  to  ceremo- 
nies, you  will  do  us  the  distinguished  favor  of 
giving  us  the  pleasure,”  etc.,  etc. — and  so  killed 
a brace  of  birds  with  one  stone,  dead  as  door- 
nails.— Dombey  and  Son , Chap.  24. 

ACQUAINTANCE— A Charity  to  Mr.  Toots. 

“ Captain  Gills,”  blurted  out  Mr.  Toots,  one 
day  all  at  once,  as  his  manner  was,  “ do  you 
think  you  could  think  favorably  of  that  propo- 
sition of  mine,  and  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance  ? ” 

“ Why,  I tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lad,”  replied 
the  Captain,  who  had  at  length  concluded  on  a 
course  of  action  ; “ I’ve  been  turning  that  there 
over.” 

“ Captain  Gills,  it’s  very  kind  of  you,”  retorted 
Mr.  Toots.  “ I’m  much  obliged  to  you.  Upon 
my  word  and  honor,  Captain  Gills,  it  would  be 
a charity  to  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  ac- 
quaintance. It  really  would.” 

“You  see,  Brother,”  argued  the  Captain 
slowly,  “ I don’t  know  you.” 

“ But  you  never  can  know  me,  Captain  Gills,” 
replied  Mr.  Toots,  steadfast  to  his  point,  “if 
you  don’t  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaint- 
ance.”— Dombey  and  Son,  Chap.  39. 

ADAPTABILITY— 

Gentlemen  of  the  free  and  easy  sort,  who 
plume  themselves  on  being  acquainted  with  a 
move  or  two,  and  being  usually  equal  to  the 
time-of-day,  express  the  wide  range  of  their 
capacity  for  adventure  by  observing  that  they 
are  good  for  anything  from  pitch-and-toss  to 
manslaughter ; between  which  opposite  ex- 
tremes, no  doubt,  there  lies  a tolerably  wide 
and  comprehensive  range  of  subjects.  Without 
venturing  for  Scrooge  quite  as  hardily  as  this,  I 
don’t  mind  calling  on  you  to  believe  that  he 
was  ready  for  a good  broad  field  of  strange  ap- 
pearances, and  that  nothing  between  a baby 
and  rhinoceros  would  have  astonished  him  very 
much. — Chris.  Carol,  Stave  3. 

ADDRESSES— Public. 

Mayors  have  been  knighted  for  “ going  up  ” 
with  addresses : explosive  machines  intrepidly 
discharging  shot  and  shell  into  the  English 
Grammar. — Ed.  Drood,  Chap.  12. 

ADJECTIVES— Barli’s  usa  of  profane. 

We  enter,  and  Bark  flies  out  of  bed.  Bark  is 
a red  villain  and  a wrathful,  with  a sanguine 
throat  that  looks  very  much  as  if  it  were  ex- 
pressly made  for  hanging,  as  he  stretches  it  out, 
in  pale  defiance,  over  the  half-door  of  his  hutch. 
Bark’s  parts  of  speech  are  of  an  awful  sort — 
principally  adjectives.  I won’t,  says  Bark,  have 
no  adjective  police  and  adjective  strangers  in 
my  adjective  premises  ! I won’t,  by  adjective 
and  substantive  ! Give  me  my  trousers,  and  I’ll 


ADMIRER 


8 


ADVERTISING 


send  the  whole  adjective  police  to  adjective  and 
substantive  ! Give  me,  says  Bark,  my  adjective 
trousers  ! I’ll  put  an  adjective  knife  in  the 
whole  bileing  of  ’em.  I’ll  punch  their  adjective 
heads.  I’ll  rip  up  their  adjective  substantives. 
Give  me  my  adjective  trousers  ! says  Bark,  and 
I’ll  spile  the  bileing  of  ’em  ! — On  Duty  with 
Inspector  Field.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

ADMIRER  -Quale  as  an  indiscriminate. 

While  we  were  in  London,  Mr.  Jarndyce  was 
constantly  beset  by  the  crowd  of  excitable  ladies 
and  gentlemen  whose  proceedings  had  so  much 
astonished  us.  Mr.  Quale,  who  presented  him- 
self soon  after  our  arrival,  was  in  all  such  excite- 
ments. He  seemed  to  project  those  two  shining 
knobs  of  temples  of  his  into  everything  that 
went  on,  and  to  brush  his  hair  farther  and 
farther  back,  until  the  very  roots  were  almost 
ready  to  fly  out  of  his  head  in  inappeasable 
philanthropy.  All  objects  were  alike  to  him, 
but  he  was  always  particularly  ready  for  any- 
thing in  the  way  of  a testimonial  to  any  one. 
Ilis  great  power  seemed  to  be  his  power  of  in- 
discriminate admiration.  He  would  sit  for 
any  length  of  time,  with  the  utmost  enjoyment, 
bathing  his  temples  in  the  light  of  any  order  of 
luminary.  Having  first  seen  him  perfectly 
swallowed  up  in  admiration  of  Mrs.  Jellyby,  I 
had  supposed  her  to  be  the  absorbing  object  of 
his  devotion.  I soon  discovered  my  mistake, 
and  found  him  to  be  train-bearer  and  organ- 
blower  to  a whole  procession  of  people. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  15. 

ADVERTISEMENTS— Peculiarities  of. 

“ Dreaming,  Tom  ? ” 

“ No,”  said  Mr.  Pinch,  “ No.  I have  been 
looking  over  the  advertising  sheet,  thinking 
there  might  be  something  in  it  which  would  be 
likely  to  suit  me.  But,  as  I often  think,  the 
strange  thing  seems  to  be  that  nobody  is  suited. 
Here  are  all  kinds  of  employers  wanting  all 
sorts  of  servants,  and  all  sorts  of  servants  want- 
ing all  kinds  of  employers,  and  they  never  seem 
to  come  together.  Here  is  a gentleman  in  a 
public  office  in  a position  of  temporary  dif- 
ficulty, who  wants  to  borrow  five  hundred 
pounds  ; and  in  the  very  next  advertisement 
here  is  another  gentleman  who  has  got  exactly 
that  sum  to  lend.  But  he’ll  never  lend  it  to 
him,  John,  you’ll  find  ! Plere  is  a lady  possess- 
ing a moderate  independence,  who  wants  to 
board  and  lodge  with  a quiet,  cheerful  family: 
and  here  is  a family  describing  themselves  in 
those  very  words,  ‘ a quiet,  cheerful  family,’ 
who  want  exactly  such  a lady  to  come  and  live 
with  them.  But  she’ll  never  go,  John  ! Neither 
do  any  of  these  single  gentlemen  who  want  an 
airy  bed-room,  with  the  occasional  use  of  a 
parlor,  ever  appear  to  come  to  terms  with  these 
other  people  who  live  in  a rural  situation,  re- 
markable for  its  bracing  atmosphere,  within 
five  minutes’  walk  of  the  Royal  Exchange. 
Even  those  letters  of  the  alphabet,  who  are 
always  running  away  from  their  friends  and 
being  entreated  at  the  tops  of  columns  to  come 
back,  never  do  come  back,  if  we  may  judge  from 
the  number  of  times  they  arc  asked  to  do  it, 
and  don’t.  It  really  seems,”  said  Tom,  relin- 
quishing the  paper,  with  a thoughtful  sigh,  “ as 
if  people  had  the  same  gratification  in  printing 
their  complaints  as  in  making  them  known  by 


word  of  mouth  ; as  if  they  found  it  a comfort 
and  consolation  to  proclaim,  ‘ I want  such  and 
such  a thing,  and  I can’t  get  it,  and  I don’t  ex- 
pect I ever  shall ! ’ — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Ch.  36. 

ADVERTISING  As  a means  of  revenge. 

If  I had  an  enemy  whom  I hated — which 
Heaven  forbid  ! — and  if  I knew  of  something 
that  sat  heavy  on  his  conscience,  I think  I 
would  introduce  that  something  into  a Posting- 
Bill,  and  place  a large  impression  in  the  hands 
of  an  active  sticker.  I can  scarcely  imagine  a 
more  terrible  revenge.  I should  haunt  him,  by 
this  means,  night  and  day.  I do  not  mean  to 
say  that  I would  publish  his  secret,  in  red  let- 
ters two  feet  high,  for  all  the  town  to  read  : I 
would  darkly  refer  to  it.  It  should  be  between 
him,  and  me,  and  the  Posting-Bill.  Say,  for  ex- 
ample, that,  at  a certain  period  of  his  life,  my 
enemy  had  surreptitiously  possessed  himself  of 
a key.  I would  then  embark  my  capital  in  the 
lock  business,  and  conduct  that  business  on  the 
advertising  principle.  In  all  my  placards  and 
advertisements,  I would  throw  up  the  line 
Secret  Keys.  Thus,  if  my  enemy  passed  an 
uninhabited  house,  he  would  see  his  conscience 
glaring  down  on  him  from  the  parapets,  and 
peeping  up  at  him  from  the  cellars.  If  he  took 
a dead-wall  in  his  walk,  it  would  .be  alive  with 
repr  oaches.  If  he  sought  refuge  in  an  omnibus, 
the  panels  thereof  would  become  Belshazzar’s 
palace  to  him.  If  he  took  a boat,  in  a wild  en- 
deavor to  escape,  he  would  see  the  fatal  words 
lurking  under  the  arches  of  the  bridges  over  the 
Thames.  If  he  walked  the  streets  with  down- 
cast eyes,  he  would  recoil  from  the  veiy  stones 
of  the  pavement,  made  eloquent  by  lampblack 
lithograph.  If  he  drove  or  rode,  his  way  would 
be  blocked  up  by  enormous  vans,  each  pro- 
claiming the  same  words  over  and  over  again 
from  its  whole  extent  of  surface.  Until,  having 
gradually  grown  thinner  and  paler,  and  having 
at  last  totally  rejected  food,  he  would  miserably 
perish,  and  I should  be  revenged.  This  con- 
clusion I should,  no  doubt,  celebrate  by  laugh- 
ing a hoarse  laugh  in  three  syllables,  and  fold- 
ing my  arms  tight  upon  my  chest,  agreeably  to 
most  of  the  examples  of  glutted  animosity  that 
I have  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  in  con- 
nexion with  the  Drama — which,  by-the-bye,  as 
involving  a good  deal  of  noise,  appears  to  me 
to  be  occasionally  confounded  with  the  Drum- 
mer.— Bill- Sticking.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

ADVERTISING— A building-  “billed.” 

The  foregoing  reflections  presented  them- 
selves to  my  mind,  the  other  day,  as  I contem- 
plated an  old  warehouse  which  rotting  paste 
and  rotting  paper  had  brought  down  to  the 
condition  of  an  old  cheese.  It  would  have 
been  impossible  to  say,  on  the  most  conscien- 
tious survey,  how  much  of  its  front  was  brick 
and  mortar,  and  how  much  decaying  and  de- 
cayed plaster.  It  was  so  thickly  encrusted  with 
fragments  of  bills,  that  no  ship’s  keel  after  a 
long  voyage  could  be  half  so  foul.  All  traces 
of  the  broken  windows  were  billed  out,  the 
doors  were  billed  across,  the  waterspout  was 
billed  over.  The  building  was  shored  up  to 
prevent  its  tumbling  into  the  street ; and  the 
very  beams  erected  against  it,  were  less  wood 
than  paste  and  paper,  they  had  been  so  con- 
tinually posh'd  and  reposted.  The  forlorn  dregs 


ADVERTISING 


9 


AFFECTION 


of  old  posters  so  encumbered  this  wreck,  that 
there  was  no  hold  for  new  posters,  and  the 
stickers  had  abandoned  the  place  in  despair, 
except  one  enterprising  man  who  had  hoisted 
the  last  masquerade  to  a clear  spot  near  the 
level  of  the  stack  of  chimneys,  where  it  waved 
and  drooped  like  a shattered  flag.  Below  the 
rusty  cellar-grating,  crumpled  remnants  of  old 
bills  torn  down  rotted  away  in  wasting  heaps  of 
fallen  leaves.  Here  and  there,  some  of  the 
thick  rind  of  the  house  had  peeled  off  in  strips, 
and  fluttered  heavily  down,  littering  the  street  ; 
but  still,  below  these  rents  and  gashes,  layers 
of  decomposing  posters  showed  themselves,  as  if 
they  were  interminable.  I thought  the  building 
could  never  even  be  pulled  down,  but  in  one 
adhesive  heap  of  rottenness  and  poster.  As  to 
getting  in — I don’t  believe  that  if  the  Sleeping 
; Beauty  and  her  Court  had  been  so  billed  up, 
the  young  prince  could  have  done  it. 

Reprinted  Pieces . 

. * * * * * -si- 

Robbery,  fire,  murder,  and  the  ruin  of  the 
United  Kingdom — each  discharged  in  a line  by 
itself,  like  a separate  broadside  of  red-hot  shot 
— were  among  the  least  of  the  warnings  ad- 
dressed to  an  unthinking  people. 

Reprinted  Pieces.  ‘ ‘ Bill-sticking.  ’ ’ 

ADVERTISING-— Show-bills. 

Next  day  the  posters  appeared  in  due  course, 
and  the  public  were  informed,  in  all  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow,  and  in  letters  afflicted  with 
every  possible  variation  of  spinal  deformity, 
how  that  Mr.  Johnson  would  have  the  honor  of 
making  his  last  appearance  that  evening,  and 
how  that  an  early  application  for  places  was  re- 
quested, in  consequence  of  the  extraordinary 
overflow  attendant  on  his  performances..  It 
being  a remarkable  fact  in  theatrical  history, 
but  one  long  since  established  beyond  dispute, 
that  it  is  a hopeless  endeavor  to  attract  people 
to  a theatre  unless  they  can  be  first  brought  to 
believe  that  they  will  never  get  into  it. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  30. 

ADVERTISEMENTS  - Alphabetical  an- 
swers to. 

Answers  out  of  number  were  received,  with 
all  sorts  of  initials  ; all  the  letters  of  the  al- 
phabet seemed  to  be  seized  with  a sudden  wish 
to  go  out  boarding  and  lodging  ; voluminous 
was  the  correspondence  between  Mrs.  Tibbs 
and  the  applicants  ; and  most  profound  was 
the  secrecy  observed.  “ E.”  did’nt  like  this  ; 
“ I.”  couldn’t  think  of  putting  up  with  that ; 
“ I.  O.  U.”  did’nt  think  the  terms  would  suit 
him  ; and  “ G.  R.”  had  never  slept  in  a French 
bed. — Tales.  The  Boarding  House,  Chap.  1. 

ADVERTISEMENT— A walking-. 

So,  he  stopped  the  unstamped  advertisement 
— an  animated  sandwich,  composed  of  a boy 
between  two  boards. 

Characters  (Sketches),  Chap.  9. 

ADVICE  OF  MRS.  RAGNET-On  conduct. 

“ Old  girl,”  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  “ give  him  my 
opinion.  You  know  it.  Tell  him  what  it  is.” 

“ It  is,  that  he  cannot  have  too  little  to  do  with 
people  who  are  too  deep  for  him,  and  cannot 
be  too  careful  of  interference  with  matters  he 
does  not  understand ; that  the  plain  rule  is,  to 


do  nothing  in  the  dark,  to  be  a party  to  nothing 
underhanded  or  mysterious,  and  never  to  put 
his  foot  where  he  cannot  see  the  ground.” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  27. 

ADVICE  OF  MR.  MICAWBEE-On  pro- 
crastination and  money. 

“ My  dear  young  friend,”  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
“ I am  older  than  you  ; a man  of  some  experi- 
ence in  life,  and — and  of  some  experience — in 
short,  in  difficulties,  generally  speaking.  At 
present,  and  until  something  turns  up  (which  I 
am,  I may  say,  hourly  expecting),  I have  nothing 
to  bestow  but  advice.  Still,  my  advice  is  so  far 
worth  taking  that — in  short,  that  I have  never 
taken  it  myself,  and  am  the  ” — here  Mr.  Mi- 
cawber, who  had  been  beaming  and  smiling,  all 
over  his  head  and  face,  up  to  the  present  mo- 
ment, checked  himself  and  frowned — “ the  mis- 
erable wretch  you  behold.” 

“ My  dear  Micawber  ! ” urged  his  wife. 

“ I say,”  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  quite  for- 
getting himself,  and  . smiling  again,  “ the  mis- 
erable wretch  you  behold.  My  advice  is,  never 
do  to-morrow  what  you  can  do  to-day.  Pro- 
crastination is  the  thief  of  time.  Collar  him.”. 

“ My  poor  papa’s  maxim,”  Mrs.  Micawber 
observed. 

“ My  dear,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  “ your  papa 
was  very  well  in  his  way,  and  heaven  forbid 
that  I should  disparage  him.  Take  him  for  all 
in  all,  we  ne’er  shall— in  short,  make  the  ac- 
quaintance, probably,  of  anybody  else  possessing, 
at  his  time  of  life,  the  same  legs  for  gaiters,  and 
able  to  read  the  same  description  of  print  with- 
out spectacles.  But  he  applied  that  maxim  to 
our  marriage,  my  dear ; and  that  was  so  far 
prematurely  entered  into,  in  consequence,  that 
I never  recovered  the  expense.” 

Mr.  Micawber  looked  aside  at  Mrs.  Micawber, 
and  added  : “ Not  that  I am  sorry  for  it.  Quite 
the  contrary,  my  love.”  After  which  he  was 
grave  for  a minute  or  so. 

“ My  other  piece  of  advice,  Copperfield,” 
said  Mr.  Micawber,  “ you  know.  Annual  in- 
come twenty  pounds,  annual  expenditure  nine- 
teen nineteen  six,  result,  happiness.  Annual 
income  twenty  pounds,  annual  expenditure 
twenty  pounds  ought  and  six,  result,  misery. 
The  blossom  is  blighted,  the  leaf  is  withered,  the 
god  of  day  goes  down  upon  the  dreary  scene 
and — and,  in  short,  you  are  for  ever  floored. 
As  I am  ! ” — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  12. 

AFFECTION— The  expression  of. 

“ Mature  affection,  homage,  devotion,  does 
not  easily  express  itself.  Its  voice  is  low.  It  is 
modest  and  retiring  ; it  lies  in  ambush,  waits 
and  waits.  Such  is  the  mature  fruit.  Some- 
times a life  glides  away,  and  finds  it  still  ripen- 
ing in  the  shade.” — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  4 1 . 

AFFECTION— The  subtlety  of. 

There  is  a subtlety  of  perception  in  real  at- 
tachment, even  when  it  is  borne  towards  man 
by  one  of  the  lower  animals,  which  leaves  the 
highest  intellect  behind.  To  this  mind  of  the 
heart,  if  I may  call  it  so,  in  Mr.  Dick,  some 
bright  ray  of  the  truth  shot  straight. 

****** 

When  I think  of  him,  with  his  impenetrably 
wise  face,  walking  up  and  down  with  the 
Doctor,  delighted  to  be  battered  by  the  hard 


AFFECTION 


10 


AFFLICTION 


words  in  the  Dictionary;  when  I think  of  him, 
carrying  huge  watering-pots  after  Annie  ; kneel- 
ing down,  in  very  paws  of  gloves,  at  patient 
microscopic  work  among  the-  little  leaves  ; ex- 
pressing as  no  philosopher  could  have  expressed, 
in  everything  he  did,  a delicate  desire  to  be  her 
friend  ; showering  sympathy,  trustfulness,  and 
affection,  out  of  every  hole  in  the  watering-pot ; 
when  I think  of  him,  never  wandering  in  that 
better  mind  of  his  to  which  unhappiness  ad- 
dressed itself,  never  bringing  the  unfortunate 
King  Charles  into  the  garden,  never  wavering 
in  his  grateful  service,  never  diverted  from  hi.-, 
knowledge  that  there  was  something  wrong,  or 
from  his  wish  to  set  it  right — I really  feel 
almost  ashamed  of  having  known  that  he  was 
not  quite  in  his  wits,  taking  account  of  the 
utmost  I have  done  with  mine. 

David  Coppcrjicld , Chap.  42. 

AFFECTION— Of  the  idiot  (Barnaby  Eudg-a). 

Heaven  alone  can  tell  with  what  vague 
thoughts  of  duty  and  affection  ; with  what 
strange  promptings  of  nature,  intelligible  to 
him  as  to  a man  of  radiant  mind  and  most  en- 
larged capacity  ; with  what  dim  memories  of 
children  he  had  played  with  when  a child  him- 
self, who  had  prattled  of  their  fathers,  and  of 
loving  them,  and  being  loved  ; with  how  many 
half-remembered,  dreamy  associations  of  his 
mother’s  grief  and  tears  and  widowhood,  he 
watched  and  tended  this  man.  But  that  a 
vague  and  shadowy  crowd  of  such  ideas  came 
slowly  on  him ; that  they  taught  him  to  be 
sorry  when  he  looked  upon  his  haggard  face, 
that  they  overflowed  his  eyes  when  he  stooped 
to  kiss  him,  that  they  kept  him  waking  in  a 
tearful  gladness,  shading  him  from  the  sun, 
fanning  him  with  leaves,  soothing  him  when  he 
started  in  his  sleep — ah  ! what  a troubled  sleep 
it  was — and  wondering  when  she  would  come  to 
join  them  and  be  happy,  is  the  truth.  He  sat 
beside  him  all  that  day  ; listening  for  her  foot- 
steps in  every  breath  of  air,  looking  for  her 
shadow  on  the  gently  waving  grass,  twining  the 
hedge-flowers  for  her  pleasure  when  she  came, 
and  his  when  he  awoke  ; and  stooping  down 
from  time  to  time  to  listen  to  his  mutterings, 
and  wonder  why  he  was  so  x'estless  in  that  quiet 
place.  The  sun  went  down,  and  night  came 
on,  and  he  was  still  quite  tranquil ; busied  with 
these  thoughts,  as  if  there  were  no  other  people 
in  the  world,  and  the  dull  cloud  of  smoke  hang- 
ing on  the  immense  city  in  the  distance,  hid  no 
vices,  no  crimes,  no  life  or  death,  or  causes  of 
disquiet — nothing  but  clear  air. 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  6S. 

AFFECTIONS- Wounded. 

Agitation  and  anxiety  of  mind  scatter  wrinkles 
and  grey  hairs  with  no  unsparing  hand  ; but 
deeper  traces  follow  on  the  silent  uprooting  of 
old  habits,  and  severing  of  dear,  familiar  lies. 
The  affections  may  not  be  so  easily  wounded  as 
the  passions,  but  their  hurts  are  deeper,  and 
more  lasting. — Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  81. 

AFFECT!  DNS  The  natural. 

“ Natural  .affections  and  instincts,  my  dear  sir, 
arc  the  mo  beautiful  of  the  Almighty’s  works, 
but  like  other  beautiful  works  of  1 1 is,  they 
mu  t be  reared  and  fostered,  or  it  is  as  natural 
that  they  should  be  wholly  obscured,  and  that 


new  feelings  should  usurp  their  place,  as  it  is 
that  the  sweetest  productions  of  the  earth,  left 
untended,  should  be  choked  with  weeds  and 
briars.” — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  46. 

AFFECTIONS— Of  childhood. 

“Shall  we  make  a man  of  him?”  repeated 
the  Doctor. 

“ I had  rather  be  a child,”  replied  Paul. 

“ Indeed  !”  said  the  Doctor.  “ Why?” 

The  child  sat  on  the  table  looking  at  him, 
with  a curious  expression  of  suppressed  emotion 
in  his  face,  and  beating  one  hand  proudly  on 
his  knee,  as  if  he  had  the  rising  tears  beneath 
it,  and  crushed  them.  But  his  other  hand 
strayed  a little  way  the  while,  a little  farther — 
farther  from  him  yet — until  it  lighted  on  the 
neck  of  Florence.  “ This  is  why,”  it  seemed  to 
say,  and  then  the  steady  look  was  broken  up 
and  gone  ; the  working  lip  was  loosened  ; and 
the  tears  came  streaming  forth. 

Do m bey  and  Son,  Chap.  it. 

AFF J ACTION— The  agony  of. 

' Tney  little  know,  who  coldly  talk  of  the 
poor  man’s  bereavements,  as  a happy  release 
from  pain  to  the  departed,  and  a merciful  rebel 
from- expense  to  the  survivor — they  little  know, 
I say,  what  the  agony  of  those  bereavements  is. 
A silent  look  of  affection  and  regard  when  all 
other  eyes  are  turned  coldly  away — the  con- 
sciousness that  we  possess  the  sympathy  and 
affection  of  one  being  when  all  others  have 
deserted  us — is  a hold,  a stay,  a comfort,  in  the 
deepest  affliction,  which  no  wealth  could  pur- 
chase, or  power  bestow.” — Pick.  Chap.  21. 

AFFLICTION— Assuaged  by  Memory. 

“If  anything  could  soothe  the  first  sharp  pain 
of  a heavy  loss,  it  would  be — with  me — the  re- 
flection that  those  I mourned,  by  being  inno- 
cently happy  here,  and  loving  all  about  them, 
had  prepared  themselves  for  a purer  and  hap- 
pier world.  The  sun  does  'not  shine  upon  this 
fair  earth  to  meet  frowning  eyes,  depend  upon 
it.” 

“ I believe  you  are  right,”  said  the  gentleman 
who  had  told  the  story. 

“ Believe  ! ” retorted  the  other,  “ can  anybody 
doubt  it  ? Take  any  subject  of  sorrowful  re- 
gret, and  s$e  with  how  much  pleasure  it  is  asso- 
ciated. Tile,  recollection  of  past  pleasure  may 
becom^'pam* ” 

“ It  does,”  interposed  the  other. 

“Well;  it  does.  To  remember  happiness 
which  cannot  be  restored,  is  pain,  but  of  a soft- 
ened kind.  Our  recollections  are  unfortunately 
mingled  with  much  that  we  deplore,  and  with 
many  actions  which  we  bitterly  repent ; still,  in 
the  most  chequered  life  I firmly  think  there  are 
so  many  little  rays  of  sunshine  to  look  back 
upon,  that  I do  not  believe  any  mortal  (unless 
he  had  put  himself  without  the  pale  of  hope) 
would  deliberately  drain  a goblet  of  the- waters 
of  Lethe,  if  he  had  it  in  his  power.” 

“ Possibly  you  are  correct  in  that  belief,”  said 
the  grey-haired  gentleman,  after  a short  reflec- 
tion. “ I am  inclined  to  think  you  are.” 

“ Why,  then,"  replied  the  other,  “ the  good  in 
this  state  of  existence  preponderates  over  the 
bad,  let  mis-callcd  philosophers  tell  us  what 
they  will.  If  our  affections  be  tiied,  our  affec- 
tions arc  our  consolation  and  comfort ; and 


AFFLICTION 


11 


ALPHABET 


memory,  however  sad,  is  the  best  and  purest 
link  between  this  world  and  a better.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  6. 

AFFLICTION— Comfort  in. 

In  the  exhaustless  catalogue  of  Heaven’s 
mercies  to  mankind,  the  power  we  have  of  find- 
ing some  germs  of  comfort  in  the  hardest  trials 
must  ever  occupy  the  foremost  place  ; not  only 
because  it  supports  and  upholds  us  when  we 
most  require  to  be  sustained,  but  because  in  this 
source  of  consolation  there  is  something,  we 
have  reason  to  believe,  of  the  divine  spirit  ; 
something  of  that  goodness  which  detects, 
amidst  our  own  evil  doings,  a redeeming  qual- 
ity ; something  which,  even  in  our  fallen  nature, 
we  possess  in  common  with  the  angels  ; which 
had  its  being  in  the  old  time  when  they  trod 
the  earth,  and  lingers  on  it  yet,  in  pity. 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  47. 

AFFHONT— Mr.  Pickwick’s. 

“Sir,”  said  Mr.  Tupman,  “you’re  a fellow  !” 

“ Sir,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  “ you’re  another  !” 

Mr.  Tupman  advanced  a step  or  two,  and 
glared  at  Mr.  Pickwick.  Mr.  Pickwick  re- 
turned the  glare,  concentrated  into  a focus  by 
means  of  his  spectacles,  and  breathed  a bold 
defiance.  Mr.  Snodgrass  and  Mr.  Winkle 
looked  on,  petrified  at  beholding  such  a scene 
between  two  such  men. 

“ Sir,”  said  Mr.  Tupman,  after  a short  pause, 
speaking  in  a low,  deep  voice,  “you  have  called 
me  old.” 

“ I have,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ And  fat.” 

“ I reiterate  the  charge.” 

“ And  a fellow.” 

“ So  you  are  ! ” 

There  was  a fearful  pause. 

“ My  attachment  to  your  person,  sir,”  said 
Mr.  Tupman,  speaking  in  a voice  tremulous 
with  emotion,  and  tucking  up  his  wristbands 
meanwhile,  “ is  great — very  great — but  upon 
that  person  I must  take  summary  vengeance.” 

“ Come  on,  sir  ! ” replied  Mr.  Pickwick.  Stim- 
ulated by  the  exciting  nature  of  the  dialogue, 
the  heroic  man  actually  threw  himself  into  a 
paralytic  attitude,  confidently  supposed  by  the 
two  bystanders  to  have  been  intended  as  a pos- 
ture of  defence. 

“What!”  exclaimed  Mr.  Snodgrass,  sud- 
denly recovering  the  power  of  speech,  of  which 
intense  astonishment  had  previously  bereft  him, 
and  rushing  between  the  two,  at  the  imminent 
hazard  of  receiving  an  application  on  the  tem- 
ple from  each,  “ What ! Mr.  Pickwick,  with  the 
eyes  of  the  world  upon  you!  Mr.  Tupman, 
who,  in  common  with  us  all,  derives  a lustre 
from  his  undying  name  ! For  shame,  gentle- 
men ; for  shame.” 

_ The  unwonted  lines  which  momentary  pas- 
sion had  ruled  in  Mr.  Pickwick’s  clear  and 
open  brow,  gradually  melted  away  as  his  young 
friend  spoke,  like  the  marks  of  a black-lead 
pencil  beneath  the  softening  influence  of  India 
rubber.  His  countenance  had  resumed  its 
usual  benign  expression  ere  he  concluded. 

Pickwick , Chap.  15. 

AGE— A youthful  old. 

“Brother  Ned,  my  dear  boy,”  returned  the 
other  old  fellow,  “I  believe  that  Tim  Linkin- 


water  was  born  a hundred-and-fifty  years  old, 
and  is  gradually  coming  down  to  five-and-twen- 
ty  ; for  he’s  younger  every  birthday  than  he 
was  the  year  before.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  37. 

AGE— The  duties  of  old. 

“ Dear  me  ! ” said  Mr.  Omer,  “ when  a man 
is  drawing  on  to  a lime  of  life  where  the  two 
ends  of  life  meet  ; when  he  finds  himself,  how- 
ever hearty  he  is,  being  wheeled  about  for  the 
second  time  in  a species  of  go-cart  ; he  should 
be  over-rejoiced  to  do  a kindness  if  he  can.  He 
wants  plenty.  And  I don’t  speak  of  myself, 
particular,”  said  Mr.  Omer,  “because,  sir,  the 
way  I look  at  it  is,  that  we  are  all  drawing  on 
to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  whatever  age  we  are, 
on  account  of  time  never  standing  still  for  a 
single  moment.  So  let  us  always  do  a kindness, 
and  be  over-rejoiced.  To  be  sure  ! ” 

David  Copperjield,  Chap.  51. 

AGE— Severed  by  the  poor. 

Age,  especially  when  it  strives  to  be  self-re- 
liant and  cheerful,  finds  much  consideration 
among  the  poor. 

Hard  Times,  Book  II.,  Chap.  6. 

ALIBI— The  Elder  Weller’s  idea  of  an. 

“ The  first  matter  relates  to  your  governor, 
Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller.  “He’s  a goin’  to  be 
tried  to-morrow,  ain’t  he  ? ” 

“ The  trial’s  a cornin’  on,”  replied  Sam. 

“Veil,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  “ Now  I s’pose  he’ll 
want  to  call  some  witnesses  to  speak  to  his 
character,  or  p’haps  to  prove  a alleybi.  I’ve 
been  a turnin’  the  bisness  over  in  my  mind,  and 
he  may  make  his-self  easy,  Sammy.  I’ve  got 
some  friends  as’ll  do  either  for  him,  but  my  ad- 
vice ’ud  be  this  here — never  mind  the  charac- 
ter, and  slick  to  the  alleybi.  Nothing  like  a 
alleybi,  Sammy,  nothing.”  Mr.  Weller  looked 
very  profound  as  he  delivered  this  legal  opinion  ; 
and  burying  his  nose  in  his  tumbler,  winked 
over  the  top  thereof  at  his  astonished  son. 

“ Why,  what  do  you  mean  ? ” said  Sam  ; “ you 
don’t  think  lie’s  a-goin’  to  be  tried  at  the  Old 
Bailey,  do  you  ? ” 

“ That  ain’t  no  part  of  the  present  con-sider- 
ation,  Sammy,”  replied  Mr.  Weller.  “Verever 
he’s  a-goin’  to  be  tried,  my  boy,  a alleybi’s  the 
thing  to  get  him  off.  Ve  got  Tom  Vildspark 
off  that  ’ere  manslaughter,  with  a alleybi,  ven 
all  the  big  vigs  to  a man  said  as  nothing 
couldn’t  save  him.  And  my  ’pinion  is,  Sammy, 
that  if  your  governor  don’t  prove  a alleybi, 
he’ll  be  what  the  Italians  call  reg’larly  flum- 
moxed, and  that’s  all  about  it.” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  33. 

* * * * * * 

Sam  had  put  up  the  steps,  and  was  preparing 
to  jump  upon  the  box,  when  he  felt  himself 
gently  touched  on  the  shoulder ; and  looking 
round,  his  father  stood  before  him.  The  old 
gentleman’s  countenance  wore  a mournful  ex- 
pression, as  he  shook  his  head  gravely,  and 
said,  in  warning  accents  : 

“ I know’d  what  ’ud  come  o’  this  here  mode 
o’  doing  bisness.  Oh,  Sammy,  Sammy,  vy 
worn’t  there  a alleybi ! ” — Pickwick,  Chap.  34. 

ALPHABET-  Learning:  the. 

To  this  day,  when  I look  upon  the  fat  black 


ALPHABET 


12 


AMERICANS 


letters  in  the  primer,  the  puzzling  novelty  of 
their  shapes,  and  the  easy  good  nature  of  O and 
Q and  S,  seem  to  present  themselves  again  be- 
fore me  as  they  used  to  do.  But  they  recall  no 
feeling  of  disgust  or  reluctance.  On  the  con- 
trary, I seem  to  have  walked  along  a path  of 
flowers  as  far  as  the  crocodile-book,  and  to  have 
been  cheered  by  the  gentleness  of  my  mother’s 
voice  and  manner  all  the  way. 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  4. 

ALPHABET— Reminiscences  of  its  study. 

We  never  see  any  very  large,  staring,  black, 
Roman  capitals,  in  a book,  or  shop-window,  or 
placarded  on  a wall,  without  their  immediately 
recalling  to  our  mind  an  indistinct  and  confused 
recollection  of  the  time  when  we  were  first  in- 
itiated in  the  mysteries  of  the  alphabet.  We 
almost  fancy  we  see  the  pin’s  point  following 
the  letter,  to  impress  its  form  more  strongly  on 
our  bewildered  imagination  ; and  wince  invol- 
untarily, as  we  remember  the  hard  knuckles 
with  which  the  reverend  old  lady  who  instilled 
into  our  mind  the  first  principles  of  education 
for  ninepence  per  week,  or  ten  and  sixpence 
per  quarter,  was  wont  to  poke  our  juvenile 
head  occasionally,  by  way  of  adjusting  the  con- 
fusion of  ideas  in  which  we  were  generally  in- 
volved.— Scenes,  Chap.  11. 

ALPS— Among-  the. 

* * * * We  began  rapidly  to  descend  ; 

passing  under  everlasting  glaciers,  by  means  of 
arched  galleries,  hung  with  clusters  of  dripping 
icicles ; under  and  over  foaming  waterfalls ; 
near  places  of  refuge,  and  galleries  of  shelter 
against  sudden  danger  ; through  caverns,  over 
whose  arched  roofs  the  avalanches  slide,  in 
spring,  and  bury  themselves  in  the  unknown 
gulf  beneath.  Down,  over  lofty  bridges,  and 
through  horrible  ravines  : a little  shifting  speck 
in  the  vast  desolation  of  ice  and  snow,  and 
monstrous  granite  rocks  : down  through  the 
deep  Gorge  of  the  Saltine,  and  deafened  by  the 
torrent  plunging  madly  down,  among  the  riven 
blocks  of  rock,  into  the  level  country,  far  below. 
Gradually  down,  by  zig-zag  roads,  lying  between 
an  upward  and  a downward  precipice,  into 
warmer  weather,  calmer  air,  and  softer  scenery, 
until  there  lay  before  us,  glittering  like  gold  or 
silver  in  the  thaw  and  sunshine,  the  metal-cov- 
ered, red,  green,  yellow,  domes  and  church- 
spires  of  a Swiss  town. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

AMERICANS— Their  Characteristics. 

They  are  by  nature  frank,  brave,  cordial, 
hospitable,  and  affectionate.  Cultivation  and 
refinement  seem  but  to  enhance  their  warmth 
of  heart  and  ardent  enthusiasm  ; and  it  is  the 
possession  of  these  latter  qualities  in  a most 
remarkable  degree  which  renders  an  educated 
American  one  of  the  most  endearing  and  most 
generbus  of  friends.  I never  was  so  won  upon 
as  by  this  class  ; never  yielded  up  my  full  con- 
fidence and  esteem  so  readily  and  pleasurably 
as  to  them  ; never  can  make  again  in  half  a 
year  so  many  friends  for  whom  I seem  to  enter- 
tain the  regard  of  half  a life. 

These  qualities  arc  natural,  I implicitly  be- 
lieve, to  the  whole  people.  That  they  are,  how- 
ever, sadly  sapped  and  blighted  in  their  growth 
among  the  mass,  and  that  there  arc  influences  at 
work  which  endanger  them  still  more,  and  give 


but  little  present  promise  of  their  healthy  restora- 
tion, is  a truth  that  ought  to  be  told. 

It  is  an  essential  part  of  every  national  char- 
acter to  pique  itself  mightily  upon  its  faults, 
and  to  deduce  tokens  of  its  virtue  or  its  wisdom 
from  their  very  exaggeration.  One  great  blem- 
ish in  the  popular  mind  of  America,  and  the 
prolific  parent  of  an  innumerable  brood  of 
evils,  is  Universal  Distrust.  Yet  the  Ameri- 
can citizen  plumes  himself  upon  this  spirit, 
even  when  he  is  sufficiently  dispassionate  to  per- 
ceive the  ruin  it  works,  and  will  often  adduce 
it,  in  spite  of  his  own  reason,  as  an  instance  of 
the  great  sagacity  and  acuteness  of  the  people, 
and  their  superior  .shrewdness  and  independ- 
ence. 

“You  carry,”  says  the  stranger,  “this  jeal- 
ousy and  distrust  into  every  transaction  of  pub- 
lic life.  By  repelling  worthy  men  from  your 
legislative  assemblies,  it  has  bred  up  a class  of 
candidates  for  the  suffrage,  who,  in  their  every 
act,  disgrace  your  Institutions  and  your  peo- 
ple’s choice.  It  has  rendered  you  so  fickle  and 
so  given  to  change  that  your  inconstancy  has 
passed  into  a proverb  ; for  you  no  sooner  set  up 
an  idol  firmly,  than  you  are  sure  to  pull  it  down 
and  dash  it  into  fragments  ; and  this  because 
directly  you  reward  a benefactor  or  a public 
servant  you  distrust  him,  merely  because  he  is 
rewarded  ; and  immediately  apply  yourself  to 
find  out,  either  that  you  have  been  too  bounti- 
ful in  your  acknowledgments,  or  he  remiss  in 
his  deserts.  Any  man  who  attains  a high 
place  among  you,  from  the  President  down- 
wards, may  date  his  downfall  from  that  moment  ; 
for  any  printed  lie  that  any  notorious  villain 
pens,  although  it  militate  directly  against  the 
character  and  conduct  of  a life,  appeals  at  once 
to  your  distrust,  and  is  believed.  You  will 
strain  at  a gnat  in  the  way  of  trustfulness  and 
confidence,  however  fairly  won  and  well  deserv- 
ed ; but  you  will  swallow  a whole  caravan  of 
camels,  if  they  be  laden  with  unworthy  doubts 
and  mean  suspicions.  Is  this  well,  think  you, 
or  likely  to  elevate  the  character  of  the  govern- 
ors or  the  governed  among  you  ? ” 

The  answer  is  invariably  the  same  : “ There’s 
freedom  of  opinion  here,  you  know.  Every 
man  thinks  for  himself,  and  we  are  not  to  be 
easily  overreached.  That’s  how  our  people 
come  to  be  suspicious.” 

Another  prominent  feature  is  the  love  of 
“smart”  dealing,  which  gilds  over  many  a 
swindle  and  gross  breach  of  trust,  many  a defal- 
cation, public  and  private,  and  enables  many 
a knave  to  hold  his  head  up  with  the  best,  who 
well  deserves  a halter  ; though  it  has  not 
been  without  its  retributive  operation,  for  this 
smartness  has  done  more,  in  a few  years, 
to  impair  the  public  credit,  and  to  cripple 
the  public  resources,  than  dull  honesty,  how- 
ever rash,  could  have  effected  in  a century. 
The  merits  of  a broken  speculation,  or  a bank- 
ruptcy, or  of  a successful  scoundrel,  are  not 
gauged  by  its  or  his  observance  of  the  golden 
rule,  “ Do  as  you  would  be  done  by,”  but  are 
considered  with  reference  to  their  smartness. 
I recollect,  on  both  occasions  of  our  passing 
that  ill-fated  Cairo  on  the  Mississippi,  remark- 
ing on  the  bad  effects  such  gross  deceits  must 
have  when  they  exploded,  in  generating  a want 
of  confidence  abroad,  and  discouraging  foreign 
investment ; but  I was  given  to  understand  that 


AMERICANS 


13 


AMERICANS 


this  was  a very  smart  scheme,  by  which  a deal 
of  money  had  been  made,  and  that  its  smartest 
feature  was  that  they  forgot  these  things  abroad 
in  a very  short  time,  and  speculated  again  as 
freely  as  ever.  The  following  dialogue  I have 
held  a hundred  times : “ Is  it  not  a very  dis- 
graceful circumstance  that  such  a man  as  So- 
and-so  should  be  acquiring  a large  property  by 
the  most  infamous  and  odious  means,  and,  not- 
withstanding all  the  crimes  of  which  he  has 
been  guilty,  should  be  tolerated  and  abetted  by 
your  citizens  ? He  is  a public  nuisance,  is  he 
not  ? ” “ Yes,  sir.”  “ A convicted  liar  ? ” “ Yes, 
sir.”  “ He  has  been  kicked,  and  cuffed,  and 
caned?”  “Yes,  sir.”  “And  he  is  utterly  dis- 
honorable, debased,  and  profligate?”  “Yes, 
sir.”  “ In  the  name  of  wonder,  then,  what  is  his 
merit  ? ” “ Well,  sir,  he  is  a smart  man.” 

Am.  Notes , Chap.  18. 

* * * * * * 

They  certainly  are  not  a humoi'ous  people, 
and  their  temperament  always  impressed  me  as 
being  of  a dull  and  gloomy  character.  In 
shrewdness  of  remark,  and  a certain  cast-iron 
quaintness,  the  Yankees,  or  people  of  New  Eng- 
land, unquestionably  take  the  lead,  as  they  do 
in  most  other  evidences  of  intelligence.  But 
in  travelling  about  out  of  the  large  cities — as  I 
have  remarked  in  former  parts  of  these  vol- 
umes— I was  quite  oppressed  by  the  prevailing 
seriousness  and  melancholy  air  of  business, 
which  was  so  general  and  unvarying,  that  at 
every  new  town  I came  to  I seemed  to  meet 
the  very  same  people  whom  I had  left  behind 
me  at  the  last.  Such  defects  as  are  perceptible 
in  the  national  manners  seem  to  me  to  be  refer- 
able, in  a great  degree,  to  this  cause  ; which  has 
generated  a dull,  sullen  persistence  in  coarse 
usages,  and  rejected  the  graces  of  life  as  unde- 
serving of  attention.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
Washington,  who  was  always  most  scrupulous 
and  exact  on  points  of  ceremony,  perceived 
the  tendency  towards  this  mistake,  even  in  his 
time,  and  did  his  utmost  to  correct  it. — Chap.  18. 

AMERICANS— Their  Devotion  to  Dollars. 

All  their  cares,  hopes,  joys,  affections,  virtues, 
and  associations,  seemed  to  be  melted  down 
into  dollars.  Whatever  the  chance  contribu- 
tions that  fell  into  the  slow  cauldron  of  then- 
talk,  they  made  the  gruel  thick  and  slab  with 
dollars.  Men  were  weighed  by  their  dollars, 
measures  gauged  by  their  dollars  ; life  was 
auctioneered,  appraised,  put  up,  and  knocked 
down  for  its  dollars.  The  next  respectable 
thing  to  dollars  was  any  venture  having  their 
attainment  for  its  end.  The  more  of  that 
worthless  ballast,  honor  and  fair-dealing,  which 
any  man  cast  overboard  from  the  ship  of  his 
Good  Name  and  Good  Intent,  the  more  ample 
stowage-room  he  had  for  dollars.  Make  com- 
merce one  huge  lie  and  mighty  theft.  Deface 
the  banner  of  the  nation  for  an  idle  rag  ; pol- 
lute it  star  by  star,  and  cut  out  stripe  by  stripe, 
as  from  the  arm  of  a degraded  soldier.  Do 
anything  for  dollars  ! What  is  a flag  to  them  / 

One  who  rides  at  all  hazards  of  limb  and 
life  in  the  chase  of  a fox,  will  prefer  to  ride 
recklessly  at  most  times.  So  it  was  with 
these  gentlemen.  He  was  the  greatest  patriot, 
in  their  eyes,  who  brawled  the  loudest,  and  who 
cared  the  least  for  decency.  He  was  then- 
champion,  who,  in  the  brutal  fury  of  his  own 


pursuit,  could  cast  no  stigma  upon  them,  for 
the  hot  knavery  of  theirs.  Thus,  Martin  learn- 
ed in  the  five  minutes’  straggling  talk  about 
the  stove,  that  to  carry  pistols  into  legislative 
assemblies,  and  swords  in  sticks,  and  other  such 
peaceful  toys ; to  seize  opponents  by  the 
throat,  as  dogs  or  rats  might  do  ; to  bluster, 
bully,  and  overbear  by  personal  assailment, 
were  glowing  deeds.  Not  thrusts  and  stabs  at 
Freedom,  striking  far  deeper  into  her  House 
of  Life  than  any  sultan’s  scimitar  could  reach  ; 
but  ijare  incense  on  her  altars,  having  a grateful 
scent  in  patriotic  nostrils,  and  curling  upward 
to  the  seventh  heaven  of  Fame. 

Martin  Chuzzleiuit , Chap.  16. 

AMERICAN  EAGKLE-The. 

<“  What  are  you  thinking  of  so  steadily?” 
said  Martin. 

“ VvTy,  I was  a thinking,  sir,”  returned  Mark, 
“ that  if  I was  a painter  and  was  called  upon 
to  paint  the  American  Eagle,  how  should  I do 
it  ? ” 

“ Paint  it  as  like  an  Eagle  as  you  could,  I 
suppose.” 

“ No,”  said  Mark,  “ that  wouldn’t  do  for 
me,  sir.  I should  want  to  draw  it  like  a Bat, 
for  its  short-sightedness  ; like  a Bantam,  for  its 
bragging  ; like  a Magpie,  for  its  honesty  ; like 
a Peacock,  for  its  vanity  ; like  an  Ostrich,  for 
its  putting  its  head  in  the  mud,  and  thinking 
nobody  sees  it — ” 

“And  like  a Phoenix,  for  its  power  of  spring- 
ing from  the  ashes  of  its  faults  and  vices,  and 
soaring  up  anew  into  the  sky  ! ” said  Martin. 
“Well,  Mark,  let  us  hope  so.” 

Martin  Chnzz/ezuit , Chap.  34. 

AMERICAN  HABITS  — Salivatory  Phe- 
nomena. 

The  journey  from  New  York  to  Philadel- 
phia is  made  by  railroad  and  two  ferries,  and 
usually  occupies  between  five  and  six  hours.  It 
was  a fine  evening  when  we  were  passengers  in 
the  train  ; and,  watching  the  bright  sunset  from 
a little  window  near  the  door  by  which  we  sat, 
my  attention  was  attracted  to  a remarkable  ap- 
pearance issuing  from  the  windows  of  the  gen- 
tlemen’s car  immediately  in  front  of  us,  which 
I supposed  for  some  time  was  occasioned  by  a 
number  of  industrious  persons  inside  ripping 
open  feather-beds,  and  giving  the  feather^  to 
the  wind.  At  length  it  occurred  to  rue  that 
they  were  only  spitting,  which  was  indeed  the 
case  ; though  how  any  number  of  passengers 
which  it  was  possible  for  that  car  to  contain 
could  have  maintained  such  a playful  and  in- 
cessant shower  of  expectoration,  I am  still  at  a 
loss  to  understand,  notwithstanding  the  experi- 
ence in  all  salivatory  phenomena  which  I after- 
wards acquired. 

I made  acquaintance,  on  this  journey,  with 
a mild  and  modest  young  Quaker,  who  opened 
the  discourse  by  informing  me,  in  a grave  whis- 
per. that  his  grandfather  was  the  inventor  of 
cold-drawn  castor-oil.  I mention  the  circum- 
stance here,  thinking  it  probable  that  this  is  the 
first  occasion  on  which  the  valuable  medicine  in 
question  was  ever  used  as  a conversational  ape- 
rient.— American  Notes,  Chap.  7. 

AMERICANS— In  ‘Washington. 

There  were  some  fifteen  or  twenty  persons 


AMERICAN  PUBLICISTS 


14 


AMERICANS 


in  the  room.  One,  a tall,  wiry,  muscular  old 
man,  from  the  West,  sunburnt  and  swarthy, 
with  a brown-white  hat  on  his  knees  and  a giant 
"umbrella  resting  between  his  legs,  who  sat  bolt 
upright  in  his  chair,  frowning  steadily  at  the 
carpet,  and  twitching  the  hard  lines  about  his 
mouth,  as  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  “ to  fix  ” 
the  President  on  what  he  had  to  say,  and 
wouldn’t  bate  him  a grain.  Another,  a Ken- 
tucky farmer,  six  feet  in  height,  with  his  hat  on, 
and  his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  who  leaned 
against  the  wall  and  kicked  the  floor  with  his 
heel,  as  though  he  had  Time’s  head  under  his 
shoe,  and  were  literally  “killing”  him.  A third, 
an  oval-faced,  bilious-looking  man,  with  sleek 
black  hair  cropped  close,  and  whiskers  and 
beard  shaved  down  to  blue  dots,  who  sucked 
the  head  of  a thick  stick,  and  from  time  to  time 
took  it  out  of  his  mouth  to  see  how  it  was  get- 
ting on.  A fourth  did  nothing  but  whistle.  A 
fifth  did  nothing  but  spit.  And  indeed  all  these 
gentlemen  were  so  very  persevering  and  ener- 
getic in  this  latter  particular,  and  bestowed  their 
favors  so  abundantly  upon  the  carpet,  that  I take 
it  for  granted  the  Presidential  housemaids  have 
high  wages,  or,  to  speak  more  genteelly,  an  am- 
ple amount  of  “ compensation.” 

American  Notes,  Chap.  8. 

AMERICAN  PUBLICISTS. 

It  is  no  great  matter  what  Mrs.  Hominy  said, 
save  that  she  had  learnt  it  from  the  cant  of  a 
class,  and  a large  class,  of  her  fellow-country- 
men, who,  in  their  every  word,  avow  themselves 
to  be  as  senseless  to  the  high  principles  on 
which  America  sprang,  a nation,  into  life,  as 
any  Orson  in  her  legislative  halls.  Who  are  no 
more  capable  of  feeling,  or  of  caring,  if  they 
did  feel,  that  by  reducing  their  own  country  to 
the  ebb  of  honest  men’s  contempt,  they  put  in 
hazard  the  rights  of  nations  yet  unborn,  and 
very  progress  of  the  human  race,  than  are  the 
swine  who  wallow  in  their  streets.  Who  think 
that  crying  out  to  other  nations,  old  in  then- 
iniquity,  “We  are  no  worse  than  you!”  (No 
worse  !)  is  high  defence,  and  ’vantage-ground 
enough  for  that  Republic,  but  yesterday  let 
loose  upon  her  noble  course,  and  but  to-day  so 
maimed  and  lame,  so  full  of  sores  and  ulcers, 
foul  to  the  eye,  and  almost  hopeless  to  the  sense, 
that  her  best  friends  turn  from  the  loathsome 
creature  with  disgust.  Who,  having  by  their 
ancestors  declared  and  won  their  Independence, 
because  they  would  not  bend  the  knee  to  cer- 
tain public  vi  -.es  and  corruptions,  and  would  not 
abrogate  the  truth,  run  riot  in  the  Bad,  and  turn 
their  backs  upon  the  Good  ; and  lying  down 
contented  with  the  wretched  boast  that  other 
Temples  also  are  of  glass,  and  stones  which 
batter  theirs  may  be  Hung  back  ; show  them- 
selves, in  that  alone,  as  immeasurably  behind 
the  import  of  the  trust  they  hold,  and  as  un- 
worthy to  possess  it,  as  if  the  sordid  huckster- 
ings  of  all  their  little:  governments — each  one  a 
kingdom  in  its  small  depravity — were  brought 
into  a heap  for  evidence  against  them. 

Martin  Chuzzleivit , Chap.  22. 

AMERICAN  WOMEN  Fashionable. 

In  order  that  their  talk  might  fall  again  into 
its  former  pleasant  channel,  Martin  addressed 
himself  to  the  young  ladies,  who  were  very  gor- 
geously attired  in  very  beautiful  colors,  and  had 


every  article  of  dress  on  the  same  extensive 
scale  as  the  little  shoes  and  the  thin  silk  stock- 
ings. This  suggested  to  him  that  they  were 
great  proficients  in  the  French  fashions,  which 
soon  turned  out  to  be  the  case,  for  though  their 
information  appeared  to  be  none  of  the  newest, 
it  was  very  extensive  : and  the  eldest  sister,  in 
particular,  who  was  distinguished  by  a talent 
lor  metaphysics,  the  laws  of  hydraulic  pressure, 
and  the  rights  of  human  kind,  had  a novel  way 
of  combining  these  acquirements  and  bringing 
them  to  bear  on  any  subject  from  Millinery  to 
the  Millennium,  both  inclusive,  which  was  at 
once  improving  and  remarkable  ; so  much  so, 
in  short,  that  it  was  usually  observed  to  reduce 
foreigners  to  a state  of  temporary  insanity  in 
five  minutes. 

Martin  felt  his  reason  going  ; and  as  a means 
of  saving  himself,  besought  the  other  sister  (see- 
ing a piano  in  the  room)  to  sing.  With  this  re- 
quest she  willingly  complied  ; and  a bravura 
concert,  solely  sustained  by  the  Misses  Norris, 
presently  began.  They  sang  in  all  languages — 
except  their  own.  German,  French,  Italian, 
Spanish,  Portuguese,  Swiss ; but  nothing  na- 
tive ; nothing  so  low  as  native.  For,  in  this 
respect,  languages  are  like  many  other  travel- 
lers : ordinary  and  commonplace  enough  at 
home,  but  ’specially  genteel  abroad. 

Martin  Chuzzlezvit , Chap.  17. 

AMERICANS -The  social  observances  o 1. 

The  Honorable  Elijah  Pogram  looked  at 
Martin  as  if  he  thought  “ You  don’t  mean  that, 
I know  ! ” and  he  was  soon  confirmed  in  this 
opinion. 

Sitting  opposite  to  them  was  a gentleman  in 
a high  state  of  tobacco,  who  wore  quite  a little 
beard,  composed  of  the  overflowings  of  that 
weed,  as  they  had  dried  about  his  mouth  and 
chin  : so  common  an  ornament  that  it  would 
scarcely  have  attracted  Martin’s  observation, 
but  that  this  good  citizen,  burning  to  assert  his 
equality  against  all  comers,  sucked  his  knife  for 
some  moments,  and  made  a cut  with  it  at  the 
butter  just  as  Martin  was  in  the  act  of  taking 
some.  There  was  a juiciness  about  the  deed 
that  might  have  sickened  a scavenger. 

When  Elijah  Pogram  (to  whom  this  was  an 
every-day  incident)  saw  that  Martin  put  the 
plate  away,  and  took  no  butter,  he  was  quite  de- 
lighted, and  said  : 

“ Well ! The  morbid  hatred  of  you  British  to 
the  institutions  of  our  country,  is  as-TON-ish- 

ing  ! ” 

“Upon  my  life!”  cried  Martin,  in  his  turn, 
“this  is  the  most  wonderful  community  that 
ever  existed.  A man  deliberately  makes  a hog 
of  himself,  zcad'thafs  an  institution  !” 

“We  have  no  time  to  ac-quire  forms,  sir,” 
sftid  Elijah  Pogram. 

“Acquire!”  cried  Martin.  “But  ids  not  a 
question  of  acquiring  anything.  It’s  a question 
of  losing  the  natural  politeness  of  a savage, 
and  that  instinctive  good  breeding  which  ad- 
monishes one  man  not  to  offend  and  disgust 
another.  Don’t  you  think  that  man  over  the 
way,  for  instance,  naturally  knows  better,  but 
considers  it  a very  fine  and  independent  thing 
to  be  a brute  in  small  matters?” 

“ lie  is  a na-tive  of  our  country,  and  is  nat’- 
rally  bright  and  spry,  of  course,”  said  Mr.  Po- 
gram. 


ANATOMICAL  SUBJECT 


15 


ANCESTRY 


“ Now,  observe  what  this  comes  to,  Mr.  Po- 
gram,”  pursued  Martin.  “ The  mass  of  your 
countrymen  begin  by  stubbornly  neglecting 
little  social  observances,  which  have  nothing  to 
do  with  gentility,  custom,  usage,  government, 
or  country,  but  are  acts  of  common,  decent, 
natural,  human  politeness.  You  abet  them  in 
this,  by  resenting  all  attacks  upon  their  social 
offences  as  if  they  were  a beautiful  national 
feature.  From  disregarding  small  obligations 
they  come  in  regular  course  to  disregard  great 
ones  ; and  so  refuse  to  pay  their  debts.  What 
they  may  do,  or  what  they  may  refuse  to  do 
next,  I don’t  know  ; but  any  man  may  see  if  he 
will,  that  it  will  be  something  following  in  nat- 
ural succession,  and  a part  of  one  great  growth, 
which  is  rotten  at  the  root.” 

The  mind  of  Mr.  Pogram  was  too  philosoph- 
ical to  see  this  ; so  they  went  on  deck  again, 
where,  resuming  his  former  post,  he  chewed 
until  he  was  in  a lethargic  state,  amounting  to 
insensibility. — Mai  tin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  34. 

AMERICANS— Mark  Tapley’s  opinion  of. 

“ Take  notice  of  my  words,  sir.  If  ever  the 
defaulting  part  of  this  here  country  pays  its 
debts — along  of  finding  that  not  paying  ’em 
won’t  do  in  a commercial  point  of  view,  you 
see,  and  is  inconvenient  in  its  consequences — 
they’il  take  such  a shine  out  of  it,  and  make 
such  bragging  speeches,  that  a man  might  sup- 
pose no  borrowed  money  had  ever  been  paid 
afore,  since  the  world  was  first  begun.  That’s 
the  way  they  gammon  each  other,  sir.  Bless 
you,  I know  ’em.  Take  notice  of  my  words, 
now!" — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  23. 

ANATOMICAL  SUBJECT- Wegg-  as  an. 

“ Now,  look  here,  what  did  you  give  for 
me  ? ” 

“ Well,”  replies  Venus,  blowing  his  tea,  his 
head  and  face  peering  out  of  the  darkness,  over 
the  smoke  of  it,  as  if  he  were  modernizing  the 
old  original  rise  in  his  family : “ you  were  one 
of  a warious  lot,  and  I don’t  know.” 

Silas  puts  his  point  in  the  improved  form  of 
“ What  will  you  take  for  me  ? ” 

“Well,”  replies  Venus,  sjtill  blowing  his  tea, 
“ I’m  not  prepared,  at  a moment’s  notice,  to 
tell  you,  Mr.  Wegg.” 

“ Come  ! According  to  your  own  account, 
I’m  not  worth  much,”  Wegg  reasons  persua- 
sively. 

“Not  for  miscellaneous  working  in,  I grant 
you,  Mr.  Wegg;  but  you  might  turn  out  valu- 
able yet,  as  a ,”  here  Mr.  Venus  takes  a gulp 

of  tea,  so  hot  that  it  makes  him  choke,  and  sets 
his  weak  eyes  watering  ; “as  a Monstrosity,  if 
you’ll  excuse  me.” 

* * * * * * 

“I'hrve  a prospect  of  getting  on  in  life  and 
elevating  myself  by  my  own  independent  exer- 
tions,” says  Wegg,  feelingly,  “ and  I shouldn’t 
like — I tell  you  openly  I should  not  like — un- 
der such  circumstances,  to  be  what  I may  call 
dispersed,  a part  of  me  here  and  a part  of  me 
there,  but  should  wish  to  collect  myself  like  a 
genteel  person.” 

* Hs  * Hs  # s): 

“ Mr.  Wegg,  not  to  name  myself  as  a work- 
man without  an  equal,  I’ve  gone  on  improving 
myself  in  my  knowledge  of  anatomy,  till  both 
by  sight  and  by  name  I’m  perfect.  Mr.  W egg, 


if  you  was  brought  here  loose  in  a bag  to  be 
articulated,  I’d  name  your  smallest  bones  blind- 
fold equally  with  your  largest,  as  fast  as  I could 
pick  ’em  out,  and  I’d  sort  ’em  all,  and  sort  your 
wertebrse  in  a manner  that  would  equally  sur- 
prise and  charm  you.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  7. 

ANCESTRY— A satire  cn  the  pride  of. 

As  no  lady  or  gentleman,  with  any  claims  to 
polite  breeding,  can  possibly  sympathize  with 
the  Chuzzlewit  family  without  being  first  as- 
sured of  the  extreme  antiquity  of  the  race,  it  is 
a great  satisfaction  to  know  that  it  undoubtedly 
descended  in  a direct  line  from  Adam  and  Eve  ; 
and  was,  in  the  very  earliest  times,  closely  con- 
nected with  the  agricultural  interest.  If  it 
should  ever  be  urged  by  grudging  and  malicious 
persons  that  a Chuzzlewit,  in  any  period  of  the 
family  history,  displayed  an  overweening 
amount  of  family  pride,  surely  the  weakness 
will  be  considered  not  only  pardonable  but 
laudable,  when  the  immense  superiority  of  the 
house  to  the  rest  of  mankind,  in  respect  of  this, 
its  ancient  origin,  is  taken  into  account. 

It  is  remarkable  that  as  there  was,  in  the 
oldest  family  of  which  we  have  any  record,  a 
murderer  and  a vagabond,  so  we  never  fail  to 
meet,  in  the  records  of  all  old  families,  with  in- 
numerable repetitions  of  the  same  phase  of 
character.  Indeed,  it  may  be  laid  down  as  a 
general  principle,  that  the  more  extended  the 
ancestry,  the  greater  the  amount  of  violence 
and  vagabondism  ; for  in  ancient  days,  those 
two  amusements,  combining  a wholesome  ex- 
citement with  a promising  means  of  repairing 
shattered  fortunes,  were  at  once  the  ennobling 
pursuit  and  the  healthful  recreation  of  the 
Quality  of  this  land. 

Consequently,  it  is  a source  of  inexpressible 
comfort  and  happiness  to  find,  that  in  various 
periods  of  our  history,  the'  Chuzzlewits  were 
actively  connected  with  divers  slaughterous  con- 
spiracies and  bloody  frays.  It  is  further  re- 
corded of  them,  that  being  clad  from  head  to 
heel  in  steel  of  proof,  they  did  on  many  occa- 
sions lead  their  leather- jerkined  soldiers  to  the 
death,  with  invincible  courage,  and  afterwards 
return  home  gracefully  to  their  relations  and 
friends. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  at  least  one 
Chuzzlewit  came  over  with  William  the  Con- 
queror. It  does  not  appear  that  this  illustrious 
ancestor  “ came  over  ” that  monarch,  to  employ 
the  vulgar  phrase,  at  any  subsequent  period  : 
inasmuch  as  the  Family  do  not  seem  to  have 
been  ever  greatly  distinguished  by  the  posses- 
sion of  landed  estate.  And  it  is  well  known 
that  for  the  bestowal  of  that  kind  of  property 
upon  his  favorites,  the  liberality  and  gratitude 
of  the  Norman  were  as  remarkable  as  those 
virtues  are  usually  found  to  be  in  great  men 
when  they  give  away  what  belongs  to  other 
people. 

Perhaps  in  this  place  the  history  may  pause 
to  congratulate  itself  upon  the  enormous  amount 
of  bravery,  wisdom,  eloquence,  virtue,  gentle 
birth,  and  true  nobility,  that  appears  to  have 
come  into  England  with  the  Norman  Invasion; 
an  amount  which  the  genealogy  of  every  an- 
cient family  lends  its  aid  to  swell,  and  which 
would,  beyond  all  question,  have  been  found  to 
be  just  as  great,  and  to  the  full  as  prolific  in 


ANCESTRY 


18 


ANIMALS 


giving  birth  to  long  lines  of  chivalrous  de- 
scendants, boastful  of  their  origin,  even  though 
William  the  Conqueror  had  been  William  the 
Conquered  : a change  of  circumstances  which, 
it  is  quite  certain,  would  have  made  no  man- 
ner of  difference  in  this  respect. 

* * * * * * 

It  is  also  clearly  proved  by  the  oral  tradi- 
tions of  the  Family,  that  there  existed,  at  some 
one  period  of  its  history  which  is  not  distinctly 
stated,  a matron  of  such  destructive  principles, 
and  so  familiarized  to  the  use  and  composition 
of  inflammatory  and  combustible  engines,  that 
she  was  called  “ The  Match  Maker:”  by  which 
nickname  and  byword  she  is  recognized  in  the 
Family  legends  to  this  day.  Surely  there  can 
be  no  reasonable  doubt  that  this  was  the 
Spanish  lady,  the  mother  of  Chuzzlewit  Fawkes. 

* * * * * -li- 

lt has  been  rumored,  and  it  is  needless  to 
say  the  rumor  originated  in  the  same  base  quar- 
ters, that  a certain  male  Chuzzlewit,  whose 
birth  must  be  admitted  to  be  involved  in  some 
obscurity,  was  of  very  mean  and  low  descent. 
How  stands  the  proof?  When  the  son  of  that 
individual,  to  whom  the  secret  of  his  father’s 
birth  was  supposed  to  have  been  communicated 
by  his  father  in  his  lifetime,  lay  upon  his  death- 
bed, this  question  was  put  to  him  in  a distinct, 
solemn,  and  formal  way:  “Toby  Chuzzlewit, 
who  was  your  grandfather?”  To  which  he, 
with  his  last  breath,  no  less  distinctly,  solemnly, 
and  formally  replied  : and  his  words  were  taken 
down  at  the  time,  and  signed  by  six  witnesses, 
each  with  his  name  and  address  in  full : “The 
Lord  No  Zoo.”  It  may  be  said — it  has  been 
said,  for  human  wickedness  has  no  limits — that 
there  is  no  Lord  of  that  name,  and  that  among 
the  titles  which  have  become  extinct,  none  at 
all  resembling  this,  in  sound  even,  is  to  be  dis- 
covered. But  what  is  the  irresistible  inference? 
— Rejecting  a theory  broached  by  some  well- 
meaning  but  mistaken  persons,  that  this  Mr. 
Toby  Cnuzzlewit’s  grandfather,  to  judge  from 
his  name,  must  surely  have  been  a Mandarin 
(which  is  wholly  insupportable,  for  there  is  no 
pretence  of  his  grandmother  ever  having  been 
out  of  this  country,  or  of  any  Mandarin  having 
been  in  it  within  some  years  of  his  father’s 
birth  ; except  those  in  the  tea-shops,  which  can- 
not for  a moment  be  regarded  as  having  any 
bearing  on  the  question,  one  way  or  other), 
rejecting  this  hypothesis,  is  it  not  manifest  that 
Mr.  Toby  Chuzzlewit  had  either  received  the 
name  imperfectly  from  his  father,  or  that  he 
had  forgotten  it,  or  that  he  had  mispronounced 
it?  and  that  even  at  the  recent  period  in  ques- 
tion, the  Chuzzlewits  were  connected  by  a bend 
sinister,  or  kind  of  heraldic  over-the-left,  with 
some  unknown  noble  and  illustrious  House? 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  i. 

ANCESTRY  Its  Personal  Importance. 

It  is  needless  to  multiply  instances  of  the 
high  and  lofty  station,  and  the  vast  importance 
of  the  Chuzzlewits,  at  different  periods.  If  it 
came  within  the  scope  of  reasonable  probabil- 
ity that  further  proofs  were  required,  they  might 
be  heaped  upon  each  other  until  they  formed 
an  Alps  of  testimony,  beneath  which  the  bold- 
est scepticism  should  be  crushed  and  beaten 
flat.  As  a goodly  tumulus  is  already  collected,  I 


and  decently  battened  up  above  the  Family 
grave,  the  present  chapter  is  content  to  leav?  it 
as  it  is ; merely  adding,  by  way  of  a final  spade- 
ful, that  many  Chuzzlewits,  both  male  and 
female,  are  proved  to  demonstration,  on  the 
faith  of  letters  written  by  their  own  mothers,  to 
have  had  chiselled  noses,  undeniable  chins,  forms 
that  might  have  served  the  sculptor  for  a model, 
exquisitely-turned  limbs,  and  polished  fore- 
heads of  so  transparent  a texture  that  the  blue 
veins  might  be  seen  branching  off  in  various 
directions,  like  so  many  roads  on  an  ethereal 
map.  This  fact  in  itself,  though  it  had  been  a 
solitary  one,  would  have  utterly  settled  and 
clenched  the  business  in  hand  ; for  it  is  well 
known,  on  the  authority  of  all  the  books  which 
treat  of  such  matters,  that  every  one  of  these 
phenomena,  but  especially  that  of  the  chiselling, 
are  invariably  peculiar  to,  and  only  make  them- 
selves apparent  in,  persons  of  the  very  best  con- 
dition. 

This  history,  having,  to  its  own  perfect  satis- 
faction (and,  consequently,  to  the  full  content- 
ment of  all  its  readers),  proved  the  Chuzzlewits 
to  have  had  an  origin,  and  to  have  been  at  one 
time  or  other  of  an  importance  which  cannot 
fail  to  render  them  highly  improving  and  accept- 
able acquaintance  to  all  right-minded  individu- 
als, may  now  proceed  in  earnest  with  its  task. 
And  having  shown  that  they  must  have  had,  by 
reason  of  their  ancient  birth,  a pretty  large 
share  in  the  foundation  and  increase  of  the  hu- 
man family,  it  will  one  day  become  its  province 
to  submit,  that  such  of  its  members  as  shall  be 
introduced  in  these  pages,  have  still  many 
counterparts  and  prototypes  in  the  Great  World 
about  us.  At  present  it  contents  itself  with  re- 
marking, in  a general  way,  on  this  head  : 
Firstly,  that  it  may  be  safely  asserted,  and  yet 
without  implying  any  direct  participation  in  the 
Monboddo  doctrine  touching  the  probability  of 
the  human  race  having  once  been  monkeys, 
that  men  do  play  very  strange  and  extraordi- 
nary tricks.  Secondly,  and  yet  without  trench- 
ing on  the  Blumenbach  theory  as  to  the  de- 
scendants of  Adam  having  a vast  number  of 
qualities  which  belong  more  particularly  to 
swine  than  to  any  other  class  of  animals  in  the 
creation,  that  some  men  certainly  are  remark- 
able for  taking  uncommonly  good  care  of  them- 
selves.— Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  i. 

ANCESTORS-Remote  and  Doubtful. 

The  better  class  of  minds  did  not  need  to  be 
informed  that  the  Powlers  were  an  ancient 
stock,  who  could  trace  themselves  so  exceed- 
ingly far  back  that  it  was  not  surprising  if  they 
sometimes  lost  themselves — which  they  had 
rather  frequently  done,  as  respected  horse-flesh, 
blind-hookey,  Hebrew  monetary  transactions, 
and  the  Insolvent  Debtors’  Court. 

Hard  Times , Chap.  7. 

ANIMALS— Their  Weather  Instincts. 

There  may  be  some  motions  of  fancy  among 
the  lower  animals  at  Chesney  Wold.  The 
horses  in  the  stables — the  long  stables  in  a bar- 
ren, red  brick  court-yard,  where  there  is  a great 
bell  in  a turret,  and  a clock  with  a large 
face,  which  the  pigeons  who  live  near  it,  and 
who  love  to  perch  upon  its  shoulders, 'seem  to  be 
always  consulting — they  may  contemplate  some 
mental  pictures  of  fine  weather  on  occasions, 


ANIMALS 


17 


APARTMENT 


and  may  be  better  artists  at  them  than  the 
grooms.  The  old  roan,  so  famous  for  cross- 
country work,  turning  his  large  eyeball  to  the 
grated  window  near  his  rack,  may  remember  the 
fresh  leaves  that  glisten  there  at  other  times, 
and  the  scents  that  stream  in  ; and  may  have  a 
fine  run  with  the  hounds,  while  the  human 
helper,  clearing  out  the  next  stall,  never  stirs 
beyond  his  pitchfork  and  birch-broom.  The 
grey,  whose  place  is  opposite  the  door,  and  who, 
with  an  impatient  rattle  of  his  halter,  pricks 
his  ears  and  turns  his  head  so  wistfully  when  it 
is  opened,  and  to  whom  the  opener  says,  “ Woa 
grey,  then,  steady ! Nobody  wants  you  to- 
day ! ” may  know  it  quite  as  well  as  the  man. 
The  whole  seemingly  monotonous  and  uncom- 
panionable half-dozen,  stabled  together,  may 
pass  the  long  wet  hours,  when  the  door  is  shut, 
in  livelier  communication  than  is  held  in  the 
servants’  hall,  or  at  the  Dedlock  Arms — or  may 
even  beguile  the  time  by  improving  (perhaps 
corrupting)  the  pony  in  the  loose-box  in  the 
corner. 

So  the  mastiff,  dozing  in  his  kennel,  in  the 
courtyard,  with  his  large  head  on  his  paws,  may 
think  of  the  hot  sunshine,  when  the  shadows  of 
the  stable  buildings  tire  his  patience  out  by 
changing,  and  leave  him,  at  one  time  of  the  day, 
no  broader  refuge  than  the  shadow  of  his  own 
house,  where  he  sits  on  end,  panting  and  growl- 
ing short,  and  very  much  wanting  something 
to  worry,  besides  himself  and  his  chain.  So,  now, 
half-waking,  and  all- winking,  he  may  recall  the 
house  full  of  company,  the  coach-houses  full  of 
vehicles,  the  stables  full  of  horses,  and  the  out- 
buildings full  of  attendants  upon  horses,  until 
he  is  undecided  about  the  present,  and  comes 
forth  to  see  how  it  is.  Then,  with  that  impa- 
tient shake  of  himself,  he  may  growl  in  the 
spirit,  “ Rain,  rain,  rain  ! Nothing  but  rain — 
and  no  family  here  ! ” as  he  goes  in- again,  and 
lies  down  with  a gloomy  yawn. 

So  with  the  dogs  in  the  kennel-buildings 
across  the  park,  who  have  their  restless  fits,  and 
whose  doleful  voices,  when  the  wind  has  been 
very  obstinate,  have  even  made  it  known  in  the 
house  itself : up-stairs,  down-stairs,  and  in  my 
lady’s  chamber.  They  may  hunt  the  whole 
country-side,  while  the  raindrops  are  pattering 
round,  their  inactivity.  So  the  rabbits,  with 
their  self-betraying  tails,  frisking  in  and  out  of 
holes  at  roots  of  trees,  may  be  lively  with 
ideas  of  the  breezy  days  when  their  ears  are 
blown  about,  or  of  those  seasons  of  interest 
when  there  are  sweet  young  plants  to  gnaw. 
The  turkey  in  the  poultry-yard,  always  troub- 
led with  a class-grievance  (probably  Christmas), 
may  be  reminiscent  of  that  summer  morning 
wrongfully  taken  from  him,  when  he  got  into 
the  lane  among  the  felled  trees,  where  there 
was  a barn  and  barley.  The  discontented 
goose,  who  stoops  to  pa§s  under  the  old  gateway, 
twenty  feet  high,  may  gabble  out,  if  we  only 
knew  it,  a waddling  preference  for  weather 
when  the  gateway  casts  its  shadow  on  the 
ground. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  there  is  not  much  fancy 
otherwise  stirring  at  Chesney  Wold.  If  there 
be  a little  at  any  odd  moment,  it  goes,  like  a lit- 
tle noise  in  that  old,  echoing  place,  a long  way, 
and  usually  leads  off  to  ghosts  and  mystery. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  7. 


ANNO  DOMINI. 

Mr.  Cruncher  always  spoke  of  the  year  of 
our  Lord  as  Anna  Dominoes  : apparently  under 
the  impression  that  the  Christian  era  dated  from 
the  invention  of  a popular  game,  by  a lady  who 
had  bestowed  her  name  upon  it. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  //.,  Chap.  1. 

APARTMENTS-Of  Mr.  Tartar. 

Mr.  Tartar’s  chambers  were  the  neatest,  the 
cleanest,  and  the  best-ordered  chambers  ever 
seen  under  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars.  The  floors 
were  scrubbed  to  that  extent  that  you  might 
have  supposed  the  London  blacks  emancipated 
forever  and  gone  out  of  the  land  for  good. 
Every  inch  of  brass  work  in  Mr.  Tartar’s  pos- 
session was  polished  and  burnished  till  it  shone 
like  a brazen  mirror.  No  speck,  nor  spot,  nor 
spatter  soiled  the  purity  of  any  of  Mr.  Tartar’s 
household  gods,  large,  small,  or  middle-sized. 
His  sitting-room  was  like  the  admiral’s  cabin  ; 
his  bath-room  was  like  a dairy,  his  sleeping- 
chamber,  fitted  all  about  with  lockers  and 
drawers,  was  like  a seedsman’s  shop  ; and  his 
nicely-balanced  cot  just  stirred  in  the  midst  as 
if  it  breathed.  Everything  belonging  to  Mr. 
Tartar  had  quarters  of  its  own  assigned  to  it ; 
his  maps  and  charts  had  their  quarters  ; his 
books  had  theirs  ; his  brushes  had  theirs ; his 
boots  had  theirs  ; his  clothes  had  theirs  ; his 
case-bottles  had  theirs  ; his  telescopes  and  other 
instruments  had  theirs.  Everything  was  readily 
accessible.  Shelf,  bracket,  locker,  hook,  and 
drawer  were  equally  within  reach,  and  were 
equally  contrived  with  a view  to  avoiding  waste 
of  room,  and  providing  some  snug  inches  of 
stowage  for  something  that  would  have  exactly 
fitted  nowhere  else.  His  gleaming  little  service 
of  plate  was  so  arranged  upon  his  sideboard  as 
that  a slack  salt-spoon  would  have  instantly  be- 
trayed itself ; his  toilet  implements  were  so 
arranged  upon  his  dressing-table  as  that  a tooth- 
pick of  slovenly  deportment  could  have  been 
reported  at  a glance.  So  with  the  curiosities  he 
had  brought  home  from  various  voyages.  Stuffed, 
dried,  re-polished,  or  otherwise  preserved,  ac- 
cording to  their  kind ; birds,  fishes,  reptiles, 
arms,  articles  of  dress,  shells,  sea  weeds,  grasses, 
or  memorials  of  coral  reef ; each  was  displayed 
in  its  especial  place,  and  each  could  have  been 
displayed  in  no  better  place.  Paint  and  var- 
nish seemed  to  be  kept  somewhere  out  of  sight, 
in  constant  readiness  to  obliterate  stray  finger- 
marks wherever  any  might  become  perceptible 
in  Mr.  Tartar’s  chambers.  No  man-of-war  was 
ever  kept  more  spick  and  span  from  careless 
touch.  On  this  bright  summer  day  a neat  awn- 
ing was  rigged  over  Mr.  Tartar’s  flower-garden 
as  only  a sailor  could  rig  it ; and  there  was  a 
sea-going  air  upon  the  whole  effect,  so  delight- 
fully complete  that  the  flower-garden  might 
have  appertained  to  stern-windows  afloat,  and 
the  whole  concern  might  have  bowled  away 
gallantly  with  all  on  board,  if  Mr.  Tartar  had 
only  clapped  to  his  lips  the  speaking-trumpet 
that  was  slung  in  a -corner,  and'  given  hoarse  or- 
ders to  have  the  anchor  up,  look  alive  there, 
men,  and  get  all  sail  upon  her! 

Edwin  Drood , Chap.  22. 

APARTMENT— A grim. 

They  mounted  up  and  up,  through  the  musty 
smell  of  an  old,  close  house,  little  used,  to  a 


APARTMENT 


18 


APARTMENT 


large  garret  bed-room.  Meagre  and  spare,  like 
all  the  other  rooms,  it  was  even  uglier  and  grim- 
mer than  the  rest,  by  being  the  place  of  banish- 
ment for  the  worn-out  furniture.  Its  movables 
were  ugly  old  chairs  with  worn-out  seats,  and 
ugly  old  chairs  without  any  seats  ; a thread- 
bare, patternless  carpet,  a maimed  table,  a crip- 
pled wardrobe,  a lean  set  of  fire-irons,  like  the 
skeleton  of  a set  deceased,  a washing-stand 
that  looked  as  if  it  had  stood  for  ages  in  a hail 
of  dirty  soap-suds,  and  a bedstead  with  four 
bare  atomies  of  posts,  each  terminating  in  a 
spike,  as  if  for  the  dismal  accommodation  of 
lodgers  who  might  prefer  to  impale  them- 
selves.— Little  Dorr  it,  Chap.  3. 

APARTMENTS— Old  and  abandoned. 

The  gaunt  rooms,  deserted  for  years  upon 
years,  seemed  to  have  settled  down  into  a 
gloomy  lethargy  from  which  nothing  could 
rouse  them  again.  The  furniture,  at  once  spare 
and  lumbering,  hid  in  the  rooms  rather  than 
furnished  them,  and  there  was  no  color  in  all 
the  house;  such  color  as  had  ever  been  there, 
had  long  ago  started  away  on  lost  sunbeams  — 
got  itself  absorbed,  perhaps,  into  flowers,  but- 
terflies, plumage  of  birds,  precious  stones,  what 
not.  There  was  not  one  straight  floor,  from 
the  foundation  to  the  roof ; the  ceilings  were 
so  fantastically  clouded  by  smoke  and  dust, 
that  old  women  might  have  told  fortunes  in 
them,  better  than  in  grouts  of  tea;  the  dead- 
cold  hearths  showed  no  traces  of  having  ever 
been  warmed,  but  in  heaps  of  soot  that  had 
tumbled  down  the  chimneys,  and  eddied  about 
in  little  dusky  whirlwinds  when  the  doors  were 
opened.  In  what  had  once  been  a drawing- 
room, there  were  a pair  of  meagre  mirrors,  with 
dismal  processions  of  black  figures  carrying 
black  garlands,  walking  round  the  frames  ; but 
even  these  were  short  of  heads  and  legs,  and 
one  undertaker-like  Cupid  had  swung  round  on 
his  own  axis  and  got  upside  down,  and  another 
had  fallen  off  altogether. 

Little  Dorrit , Chap.  5. 

APARTMENT— A spacious. 

With  these  words,  the  stranger  put  a thick 
square  card  into  Kate’s  hand,  and,  turning  to 
his  friend,  remarked,  with  an  easy  air,  “ that 
the  rooms  was  a good  high  pitch  ; ” to  which 
the  friend  assented,  adding,  by  way  of  illustra- 
tion, “ that  there  was  lots  of  room  for  a little 
boy  to  grow  up  a man  in  either  on  ’em,  vithout 
much  fear  of  his  ever  bringing  his  head  into 
contract  vith  the  ceiling.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  21. 

APARTMENT- A small. 

Mrs.  Crupp  had  indignantly  assured  him  that 
there  wasn’t  room  to  swing  a cat  there  ; but,  as 
Mr.  Dick  justly  observed  to  me,  sitting  down 
on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  nursing  his  leg,  “You 
know,  Trotwood,  I don’t  want  to  swing  a cat. 
1 never  do  swing  a cat.  Therefore,  what  docs 
that  signify  to  me l” 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  35. 

APARTMENT  of  Dick  Swiveller. 

“ Fred,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  “remember  the 
nice  popular  melody  of  1 begone,  dull  care:’ 
fan  1 lie  sinking  flame  of  hilarity  with  the  wing 
A friendship  ; and  pass  the  rosy  wine  !” 


Mr.  Richard  Swiveller’s  apartments  were  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Drury  Lane,  and,  in  addi- 
tion to  this  conveniency  of  situation,  had  the 
advantage  of  being  over  a tobacconist's  shop, 
so  that  he  was  enabled  to  procure  a refreshing 
sneeze  at  any  time  by  merely  stepping  out  on 
the  staircase,  and  was  saved  the  trouble  and 
expense  of  maintaining  a snuff-box.  It  was  in 
these  apartments  that  Mr.  Swiveller  made  use 
of  the  expressions  above  recorded,  for  the  con- 
solation and  encouragement  of  his  desponding 
friend  ; and  it  may  not  be  uninteresting  or  im- 
proper to  remark  that  even  these  brief  observa- 
tions partook  in  a double  sense  of  the  figurative 
and  poetical  character  of  Mr.  Swiveller’s  mind, 
as  the  rosy  wine  was  in  fact  represented  by  one 
glass  of  cold  gin-and-water,  which  was  replen- 
ished, as  occasion  required,  from  a bottle  and 
jug  upon  the  table,  and  was  passed  from  one 
to  another,  in  a scarcity  of  tumblers  which,  as 
Mr.  Swiveller’s  was  a bachelor’s  establishment, 
may  be  acknowledged  without  a blush.  By  a 
like  pleasant  fiction  his  single  chamber  was 
always  mentioned  in  the  plural  number.  In 
its  disengaged  times,  the  tobacconist  had  an- 
nounced as  “ apartments  ” for  a single  gentle- 
man, and  Mr.  Swiveller,  following  up  the  hint, 
never  failed  to  speak  of  it  as  his  rooms,  his 
lodgings,  or  his  chambers:  conveying  to  his 
hearers  a notion  of  indefinite  space,  and  leav- 
ing their  imaginations  to  wander  through  long 
suites  of  lofty  halls,  at  pleasure. 

In  this  flight  of  fancy,  Mr.  Swiveller  was  as- 
sisted by  a deceptive  piece  of  furniture,  in 
reality  a bedstead,  but  in  semblance  a book- 
case, which  occupied  a prominent  situation  in 
his  chamber,  and  seemed  to  defy  suspicion  and 
challenge  inquiry.  There  is  no  doubt  that,  by 
day,  Mr.  Swiveller  firmly  believed  this  secret 
convenience  to  be  a bookcase  and  nothing 
more  ; that  he  closed  his  eyes  to  the  bed,  re- 
solutely denied  the  existence  of  the  blankets, 
and  spurned  the  bolster  from  his  thoughts.  No 
word  of  its  real  use,  no  hint  of  its  nightly  ser- 
vice, no  allusion  to  its  peculiar  properties,  had 
ever  passed  between  him  and  his  most  intimate 
friends.  Implicit  faith  in  the  deception  was 
the  fii'st  article  of  his  creed.  To  be  the  friend 
of  Swiveller  you  must  reject  all  circumstantial 
evidence,  all  reason,  observation,  and  experi- 
ence, and  repose  a blind  belief  in  the  book- 
case. It  was  his  pet  weakness,  and  he  cherish- 
ed it. — Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  7. 

APARTMENT— An  ancient. 

The  room  into  which  they  entered  was  a 
vaulted  chamber,  once  nobly  ornamented  by 
cunning  architects,  and  still  retaining,  in  its 
beautiful  groined  roof  and  rich  stone  tracery, 
choice  remnants  of  its  ancient  splendor.  Foli- 
age carved  in  the  stone,  and  emulating  the 
mastery  of  Nature’s  hand,  yet  remained  to  tell 
how  many  times  the  leaves  outside  had  come 
and  gone,  while  it  lived  on  unchanged.  The 
broken  figures  supporting  the  burden  of  the 
chimney-piece,  though  mutilated,  were  still  dis- 
tinguishable for  what  they  had  been — far  differ- 
ent from  the  dust  without — and  showed  sadly  by 
the  empty  hearth,  like  creatures  who  had  out- 
lived their  kind,  and  mourned  their  own  too 
slow  decay. 

An  open  door  leading  to  a small  room  or  cell 
dim  with  the  light  that  came  through  leaves  of 


APARTMENTS 


19 


APARTMENT 


ivy,  completed  the  interior  of  this  portion  of 
the  ruin.  It  was  not  quite  destitute  of  furni- 
ture. A few  strange  chairs,  whose  arms  and 
legs  looked  as  though  they  had  dwindled  away 
with  age  ; a table,  the  very  spectre  of  its  race  ; 
a great  old  chest  that  had  once  held  records  in 
the  church,  with  other  quaintly-fashioned  do- 
mestic necessaries,  and  store  of  fire  wood  for 
the  winter,  were  scattered  around,  and  gave  evi- 
dent tokens  of  its  occupation  as  a dwelling- 
place  at  no  very  distant  time. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  52. 

APARTMENTS— Dirty. 

This,  however,  was  not  the  most  curious  fea- 
ture of  those  chambers  ; that  consisted  in  the 
profound  conviction  entertained  by  my  esteemed 
friend  Parkle  (their  tenant)  that  they  were  clean. 
Whether  it  was  an  inborn  hallucination,  or 
whether  it  was  imparted  to  him  by  Mrs.  Miggot, 
the  laundress,  I never  could  ascertain.  But  I 
believe  he  would  have  gone  to  the  stake  upon 
the  question.  Now  they  were  so  dirty  that  I 
could  take  off  the  distinctest  impression  of  my 
figure  on  any  article  of  furniture  by  merely 
lounging  upon  it  for  a few  moments  ; and  it 
used  to  be  a private  amusement  of  mine  to 
print  myself  off — if  I may  use  the  expression — 
all  over  the  rooms.  It  was  the  first  large  circu- 
lation I had.  At  other  times  I have  accident- 
ally shaken  a window  curtain  while  in  animated 
conversation  with  Parkle,  and  struggling  insects, 
which  were  certainly  red,  and  were  certainly 
not  ladybirds,  have  dropped  on  the  back  of  my 
hand.  Yet  Parkle  lived  in  that  top  set  years, 
bound  body  and  soul  to  the  superstition  that 
they  were  clean. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  14. 

APARTMENTS-Dusty. 

There  was  so  much  dust  in  his  own  faded 
chambers,  certainly,  that  they  reminded  me  of 
a sepulchre,  furnished  in  prophetic  anticipation 
of  the  present  time,  which  had  newly  been 
brought  to  light,  after  having  remained  buried 
a few  thousand  years. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  14. 

APARTMENT— Mark  Tapley’s  idea  of  a 

jolly. 

“ Jolly  sort  of  lodgings,”  said  Mark,  rubbing 
his  nose  with  the  knob  at  the  end  of  the  fire- 
shovel,  and  looking  round  the  poor  chamber : 
“ that’s  a comfort.  The  rain’s  come  through 
the  roof  too.  That  ain’t  bad.  A lively  old 
bedstead,  I’ll  be  bound  ; popilated  by  lots  of 
wampires,  no  doubt.  Come  ! my  spirits  is  a 
getting  up  again.  An  uncommon  ragged  night- 
cap this.  A very  good  sign.  We  shall  do  yet  ! ” 

• Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  13. 

APARTMENT— And  gloomy  furniture. 

It  was  a large,  dark  room,  finished  in  a fu- 
nereal manner  with  black  horsehair,  and  loaded 
with  heavy  dark  tables.  These  had  been  oiled 
and  oiled,  until  the  two  tall  candles  on  the  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  were  gloomily  re- 
flected on  every  leaf ; as  if  they  were  buried  in 
deep  graves  of  black  mahogany,  and  no  light  to 
speak  of  could  be  expected  from  them  until  they 
were  dug  out. 

****** 

As  his  eyes  rested  on  these  things,  a sudden 


vivid  likeness  passed  before  him,  of  a child 
whom  he  had  held  in  his  arms  on  the  passage 
across  that  very  Channel,  one  cold  time,  when 
the  hail  drifted  heavily  and  the  sea  ran  high 
The  likeness  passed  away,  say,  like  a breath 
along  the  surface  of  the  gaunt  pier-glass  behind 
her,  on  the  frame  of  which  a hospital  procession 
of  negro  Cupids,  several  headless,  and  all  crip- 
ples, were  offering  black  baskets  of  Dead  Sea 
fruit  to  black  divinities  of  the  feminine  gender 
— and  he  made  his  formal  bow  to  Miss  Ma- 
nette. — Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Chap.  4. 

APARTMENT— A cozy. 

It  was  a prettily  furnished  room,  with  a piano, 
and  some  lively  furniture  in  red  and  green,  and 
some  flowers.  It  seemed  to  be  all  old  nooks 
and  corners ; and  in  every  nook  and  corner 
there  was  some  queer  little  table,  or  cupboard, 
or  book-case,  or  seat,  or  something  or  other, 
that  made  me  think  there  was  not  such  another 
good  corner  in  the  room ; until  I looked  at  the 
next  one,  and  found  it  equal  to  it,  if  not  better. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  15. 

APARTMENT— Its  grandeur  in  decay. 

It  was  spacious  enough  in  all  conscience, 
occupying  the  whole'  depth  of  the  house,  and 
having  at  either  end  a great  bay-window,  as 
large  as  many  modern  rooms  ; in  which  some 
few  panes  of  stained  glass,  emblazoned  with 
fragments  of  armorial  bearings,  though  cracked, 
and  patched,  and  shattered,  yet  remained  • 
attesting,  by  their  presence,  that  the  former 
owner  had  made  the  very  light  subservient  to 
his  state,  and  pressed  the  sun  itself  into  his 
list  of  flatterers  ; bidding  it,  when  it  shone  into 
his  chamber,  reflect  the  badges  of  his  ancient 
family,  and  take  new  hues  and  colors  from 
their  pride. 

But  those  wrere  old  days,  and  now  every  little 
ray  came  and  went  as  it  would  ; telling  the 
plain,  bare,  searching  truth.  Although  the  best 
room  of  the  inn,  it  had  the  melancholy  aspect 
of  grandeur  in  decay,  and  was  much  too  vast 
for  comfort.  Rich,  rustling  hangings,  waving 
on  the  walls  ; and,  better  far,  the  rustling  of 
youth  and  beauty’s  dress  ; the  light  of  women’s 
eyes,  outshining  the  tapers  and  their  own  rich 
jewels  ; the  sound  of  gentle  tongues,  and  music, 
and  the  tread  of  maiden  feet,  had  once  been 
there,  and  filled  it  with  delight.  But  they 
were  gone,  and  with  them  all  its  gladness.  It 
was  no  longer  a home  ; children  were  never 
born  and  bred  there  ; the  fireside  had  become 
mercenary — a something  to  be  bought  and  sold 
— a very  courtezan  : let  who  would  die,  or  sit 
beside,  or  leave  it,  it  was  still  the  same — it 
missed  nobody,  cared  for  nobody,  had  equal 
warmth  and  smiles  for  all.  God  help  the  man 
whose  heart  ever  changes  with  the  world,  as  an 
old  mansion  when  it  becomes  an  inn. 

No  effort  had  been  made  to  furnish  this 
chilly  waste,  but  before  the  broad  chimney  a 
colony  of  chairs  and  tables  had  been  planted 
on  a square  of  carpet,  flanked  by  a ghostly 
screen,  enriched  with  figures,  grinning  and  gro- 
tesque.— Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  10. 

APARTMENT— And  furniture. 

I thought  I had  never  seen  such  a large 
room  as  that  into  which  they  showed  me.  It 
had  five  windows,  with  dark-red  curtains  that 


APARTMENT 


20 


APARTMEN' 


would  have  absorbed  the  light  of  a general 
illumination  ; and  there  were  complications  of 
drapery  at  the  top  of  the  curtains,  that  went 
wandering  about  the  wall  in  a most  extraordi- 
nary manner.  I asked  for  a smaller  room,  and 
they  told  me  there  was  no  smaller  room.  They 
could  screen  me  in,  however,  the  landlord  said. 
They  brought  a great  old  japanned  screen, 
with  natives  (Japanese,  I suppose),  engaged  in 
a variety  of  idiotic  pursuits,  all  over  it  ; and 
left  me  roasting  whole  before  an  immense  fire. 

My  bedroom  was  some  quarter  of  a mile  off, 
up  a great  staircase,  at  the  end  of  a long  gal- 
lery ; and  nobody  knows  what  a misery  this  is 
to  a bashful  man  who  would  rather  not  meet 
people  on  the  stairs.  It  was  the  grimmest 
room  I have  ever  had  the  nightmare  in ; and 
all  the  furniture,  from  the  four  posts  of  the  bed 
to  the  two  old  silver  candlesticks,  was  tall, 
high-shouldered,  and  spindle-waisted.  Below, 
in  my  sitting-room,  if  I looked  round  my  screen, 
the  wind  rushed  at  me  like  a mad  bull ; if  I 
stuck  to  my  arm-chair,  the  fire  scorched  me  to 
the  color  of  a new  brick.  The  chimney-piece 
was  very  high,  and  there  was  a bad  glass — what 
I may  call  a wavy  glass — above  it,  which,  when 
I stood  up,  just  showed  me  my  anterior  phre- 
nological developments — and  these  never  look 
well,  in  any  subject,  cut  short  off  at  the  eye- 
brow. If  I stood  with  my  back  to  the  fire,  a 
gloomy  vault  of  darkness  above  and  beyond  the 
screen  insisted  on  being  looked  at ; and,  in  its 
dim  remoteness,  the  drapery  of  the  ten  cur- 
tains of  the  five  windows  went  twisting  and 
creeping  about,  like  a nest  of  gigantic  worms. 

I suppose  that  what  I observe  in  myself 
must  be  observed  by  some  other  men  of  simi- 
lar character  in  themselves  ; therefore  I am  em- 
boldened to  mention,  that,  when  I travel,  I 
never  arrive  at  a place  but  I immediately  want 
to  go  away’ from  it. — The  Holly  Tree. 

APARTMENT— The  hanging's  of  an. 

A mouldering  reception-room,  where  the  fad- 
ed hangings,  of  a sad  sea-green,  had  worn  and 
withered  until  they  looked  as  if  they  might 
have  claimed  kindred  with  the  waifs  of  sea- 
weed drifting  under  the  windows,  or  clinging 
to  the  walls,  and  weeping  for  their  imprisoned 
relations. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  6. 

APARTMENT. 

The  lady  whom  they  had  come  to  see,  if  she 
were  the  present  occupant  of  the  house,  appear- 
ed to  have  taken  up  her  quarters  there,  as  she 
might  have  established  herself  in  an  Eastern 
caravanserai.  A small  sq\  are  of  carpet  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  a few  articles  of  furniture 
that  evidently  did  not  belong  to  the  room,  and 
a disorder  of  trunks  and  travelling  articles, 
formed  the  whole  of  her  surroundings.  Under 
some  former  regular  inhabitant,  the  stifling  lit- 
tle apartment  had  broken  out  into  a pier-glass 
and  a gilt  table  ; but  the  gilding  was  as  faded 
as  last  year’s  flowers,  and  the  glass  was  so 
clouded  that  it  seemed  to  hold  in  magic  pres- 
ervation all  the  fogs  and  bad  weather  it  had 
ever  reflected. 

little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  27. 

APARTMENTS- The  ghostly  air  of. 

There  was  a ghostly  air  about  these  uninhab- 
ited chambers  in  the  Temple,  and  attending 


every  circumstance  of  Tom's  employment  there, 
which  had  a strange  charm  in  it.  Every  morn- 
ing, when  he  shut  his  door  at  Islington,  he  turned 
his  face  towards  an  atmosphere  of  unaccounta- 
ble fascination,  as  surely  as  he  turned  it  to  the 
London  smoke ; and  from  that  moment,  it 
thickened  round  and  round  him  all  day  long, 
until  the  time  arrived  for  going  home  again, 
and  leaving  it,  like  a motionless  cloud,  behind. 

It  seemed  to  Tom,  every  morning,  that  he  ap- 
proached this  ghostly  mist,  and  became  envelop- 
ed in  it,  by  the  easiest  succession  of  degrees 
imaginable.  Passing  from  the  roar  and  rat- 
tle of  the  streets  into  the  quiet  court-yards  of 
the  Temple,  was  the  first  preparation.  Every 
echo  of  his  footsteps  sounded  to  him  like  a 
sound  from  the  old  walls  and  pavements,  want- 
ing language  to  relate  the  histories  of  the  dim, 
dismal  rooms  ; to  tell  him  what  lost  documents 
were  decaying  in  forgotten  corners  of  the  shut- 
up  cellars,  from  whose  lattices  such  mouldy 
sighs  came  breathing  forth  as  he  went  past  ; to 
whisper  of  dark  bins  of  rare  old  wine,  bricked 
up  in  vaults  among  the  old  foundations  of  the 
Halls  ; or  mutter  in  a lower  tone  yet  darker  le 
gends  of  the  cross-legged  knights,  whose  mar- 
ble effigies  were  in  the  church.  With  the  first 
planting  of  his  foot  upon  the  staircase  of  his 
dusty  office,  all  these  mysteries  increased  ; un- 
til, ascending  step  by  step,  as  Tom  ascended, 
they  attained  their  full  growth  in  the  solitary 
labors  of  the  day. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  40. 

APARTMENT— A mouldy. 

Certain  wintry  branches  of  candles  on  the 
high  chimney-piece  faintly  lighted  the  chamber; 
or,  it  would  be  more  expressive  to  say,  faintly 
troubled  its  darkness.  It  -was  spacious,  and  I 
dare  say  had  once  been  handsome,  but  every  dis- 
cernible thing  in  it  was  covered  with  dust  and 
mould,  and  dropping  to  pieces.  The  most 
prominent  object  was’a  long  table  with  a table- 
cloth spread  on  it,  as  if  a feast  had  been  in 
preparation  when  the  house  and  the  clocks 
all  stopped  together.  An  epergne  or  centre- 
piece of  some  kind  was  in  the  middle  of  this 
cloth  ; it  was  so  heavily  overhung  with  cobwebs 
that  its  form  was  quite  undistinguishable  ; and, 
as  I looked  along  the  yellow  expanse  out  of 
which  I remember  its  seeming  to  grow,  like 
a black  fungus,  I saw  speckled-legged  spiders 
with  blotchy  bodies  running  home  to  it,  and 
running  out  from  it,  as  if  some  circumstance  of 
the  greatest  public  importance  had  just  trans- 
pired in  the  spider  community. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  11. 

APARTMENT— To  let ; its  advantages. 

“ I believe,  sir,”  said  Richard  Swiveller,  tak- 
ing his  pen  out  of  his  mouth,  “ that  you  desire 
to  look  at  these  apartments.  They  are  very 
charming  apar#nents,  sir.  They  command  an 
uninterrupted  view  of— of  over  the  way,  and 
they  are  within  one  minute’s  walk  of — of  the 
corner  of  the  street.  There  ft  exceedingly  mild 
porter,  sir,  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  and  the 
contingent  advantages  are  extraordinary.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  34. 

APARTMENT  A snug. 

“ An  uncommon  snug  little  box,  this,”  said 
Mr.  Lenville,  stepping  into  the  front  room,  and 


APARTMENT 


21 


APARTMENT 


taking  his  hat  off  before  he  could  get  in  at  all. 
“ Pernicious  snug.” 

“ For  a man  at  all  particular  in  such  matters, 
it  might  be  a trifle  too  snug,”  said  Nicholas  ; 
“ for,  although  it  is,  undoubtedly,  a great  con- 
venience to  be  able  to  reach  anything  you  want 
from  the  ceiling  or  the  floor,  or  either  side  of 
the  room,  without  having  to  move  from  your 
chair,  still  these  advantages  can  only  be  had  in 
an  apartment  of  the  most  limited  size.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  24. 

APARTMENT— Of  a Suicide. 

The  air  of  the  room  is  almost  bad  enough  to 
have  extinguished  it,  if  he  had  not.  It  is  a 
small  room,  nearly  black  with  soot,  and  grease, 
and  dirt.  In  the  rusty  skeleton  of  a grate, 
pinched  at  the  middle  as  if  Poverty  had  grip- 
ped it,  a red  coke  fire  burns  low.  In  the  cor- 
ner by  the  chimney,  stand  a deal  table  and  a 
broken  desk  ; a wilderness  marked  with  a rain 
of  ink.  In  another  corner,  a ragged  old  port- 
manteau on  one  of  the  two  chairs,  serves  for 
cabinet  or  wardrobe  ; no  larger  one  is  needed, 
for  it  collapses  like  the  cheeks  of  a starved  man. 
The  floor  is  bare  ; except  that  one  old  mat, 
trodden  to  shreds  of  rope-yarn,  lies  perishing 
upon  the  hearth.  No  curtain  veils  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  but  the  discolored  shutters  are 
drawn  together : and  through  the  two  gaunt 
holes  pierced  in  them,  famine  might  be  staring 
in — the  Banshee  of  the  man  upon  the  bed. 

For,  on  a low  bed  opposite  the  fire — a confu- 
sion of  dirty  patch-work,  lean-ribbed  ticking, 
and  coarse  sacking — the  lawyer,  hesitating  just 
within  the  doorway,  sees  a man.  He  lies  there, 
dressed  in  shirt  and  trousers,  with  bare  feet.  He 
has  a yellow  look  in  the  spectral  darkness  of  a 
candle  that  has  guttered  down,  until  the  whole 
length  of  its  wick  (still  burning)  has  doubled 
over,  and  left  a tower  of  winding-sheet  above 
it.  His  hair  is  ragged,  mingling  with  his  whis- 
kers and  his  beard — the  latter,  ragged  too,  and 
grown,  like  the  scum  and  mist  around  him,  in 
neglect.  Foul  and  filthy  as  the  room  is,  foul 
and  filthy  as  the  air  is,  it  is  not  easy  to  perceive 
what  fumes  those  are  which  most  oppress  the 
senses  in  it  ; but  through  the  general  sickliness 
and  faintness,  and  the  odor  of  stale  tobacco, 
there  comes  into  the  lawyer’s  mouth  the  bitter, 
vapid  taste  of  opium. 

“ Hallo,  my  friend  ! ” he  cries,  and  strikes  his 
iron  candlestick  against  the  door. 

He  thinks  he  has  awakened  his  friend.  He 
lies  a little  turned  away,  but  his  eyes  are  surely 

open. 

“ Hallo,  my  friend  ! ” he  cries  again.  “ Hallo  ! 
Hallo  ! ” 

As  he  rattles  on  the  door,  the  candle  which 
has  drooped  so  long,  goes  out,  and  leaves  him 
in  the  dark  ; with  the  gaunt  eyes  in  the  shutters 
staring  down  upon  the  bed. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  10. 

APARTMENTS  — The  associations  of 
empty. 


a familiar  presence,  mournfully  whisper  what 
your  room  and  what  mine  must  one  day  be.  My 
Lady’s  state  has  a hollow  look,  thus  gloomy  and 
abandoned  ; and  in  the  inner  apartment,  where 
Mr.  Bucket  last  night  made  his  secret  perquisi- 
tion, the  traces  of  her  dresses  and  her  orna- 
ments, even  the  mirrors  accustomed  to  reflect 
them  when  they  were  a portion  of  herself,  have 
a desolate  and  vacant  air. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  58. 

APARTMENT— The  Growlery  of  Jarndyce. 

“Sit  down,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Jarndyce. 
“ This,  you  must  know,  is  the  Growlery.  When 
I am  out  of  humor,  I come  and  growl  here.” 

“You  must  be  here  very  seldom,  sir,”  said  I. 

“ O,  you  don’t  know  me ! ” he  returned. 
“ When  I am  deceived  or  disappointed  in — the 
wind,  and  it’s  Easterly,  I take  refuge  here.  The 
Growlery  is  the  best-used  room  in  the  house  ! ” 
Bleak  House , Chap.  8. 

APARTMENT— in  a cosy  tavern. 

It  was  one  of  those  unaccountable  little 
rooms  which  are  never  seen  anywhere  but  in  a 
tavern,  and  are  supposed  to  have  got  into  tav- 
erns by  reason  of  the  facilities  afforded  to  the 
architect  for  getting  drunk  while  engaged  in 
their  construction.  It  had  more  corners  in  it 
than  the  brain  of  an  obstinate  man  ; was  full 
of  mad  closets,  into  which  nothing  could  be  put 
that  was  not  specially  invented  and  made  for 
that  purpose  ; had  mysterious  shelvings  and 
bulk-heads,  and  indications  of  staircases  in  the 
ceiling  ; and  was  elaborately  provided  with  a 
bell  that  rung  in  the  room  itself,  about  two  feet 
from  the  handle,  and  had  no  connection  what- 
ever with  any  other  part  of  the  establishment. 
It  was  a little  below  the  pavement,  and  abutted 
close  upon  it ; so  that  passengers  grated  against 
the  window-panes  with  their  buttons,  and 
scraped  it  with  their  baskets  ; and  fearful  boys 
suddenly  coming  between  a thoughtful  guest 
and  the  light,  derided  him  ; or  put  out  their 
tongues  as  if  he  were  a physician  ; or  made 
white  knobs  on  the  ends  of  their  noses  by  flat- 
tening the  same  against  the  glass,  and  vanished 
awfully,  like  spectres. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  35. 

APARTMENT— Mr.  Fips’  office. 

In  a very  dark  passage  on  the  first  floor, 
oddly  situated  at  the  back  of  a house,  they 
found  a little  blear-eyed  glass  door  up  in  one 
corner,  with  Mr.  Fips  painted  on  it  in  charac- 
ters which  were  meant  to  be  transparent.  There 
was  also  a wicked  old  sideboard  hiding  in  the 
gloom  hard  by,  meditating  designs  upon  the 
ribs'  of  visitors  ; and  an  old  mat  worn  into  lat- 
tice work,  which,  being  useless  as  a mat  (even 
if  anybody  could  have  seen  it,  which  was  im- 
possible), had  for  many  years  directed  its  in- 
dustry into  another  channel,  and  regularly 
tripped  up  every  one  of  Mr.  Fips’  clients. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  39. 


“ Rooms  get  an  awful  look  about  them  when 
they  are  fitted  up,  like  these,  for  one  person  you 
are  used  to  see  in  them,  and  that  person  is  away 
under  any  shadow  ; let  alone  being  God  knows 

where.” 

He  is  not  far  out.  As  all  partings  foreshadow 
the  great  final  one — so  empty  rooms,  bereft  of 


APARTMENT— A model  bedroom. 

It  was  none  of  your  frivolous  and  preposter- 
ously bright  bedrooms,  where  nobody  can  close 
an  eye  with  any  kind  of  propriety  or  decent  re- 
gard to  the  associations  of  ideas  ; but  it  was  a 
good,  dull,  leaden,  drowsy  place,  where  every 
article  of  furniture  reminded  you  that  you  came 


APARTMENT 


22 


ARGUMENT 


there  to  sleep,  and  that  you  were  expected  to 
go  to  sleep.  There  was  no  wakeful  reflection 
of  the  fire  there,  as  in  your  modern  chambers, 
which  upon  the  darkest  nights  have  a watchful 
consciousness  of  French  polish  ; the  old  Span- 
ish mahogany  winked  at  it  now  and  then,  as  a 
dozing  cat  or  dog  might,  nothing  more.  The 
very  size,  and  shape,  and  hopeless  immovability 
of  the  bedstead  and  wardrobe,  and,  in  a minor 
degree,  of  even  the  chairs  and  tables,  provoked 
sleep  ; they  were  plainly  apoplectic,  and  dis- 
posed to  snore. 

There  were  no  staring  portraits  to  remon- 
strate with  you  for  being  lazy  ; no  round-eyed 
birds  upon  the  curtains,  disgustingly  wide- 
awake, and  insufferably  prying.  The  thick 
neutral  hangings,  and  the  dark  blinds,  and  the 
heavy  heap  of  bed-clothes,  were  all  designed  to 
hold  in  sleep,  and  act  as  non-conductors  to  the 
day  and  getting  up.  Even  the  old  stuffed  fox 
upon  the  top  of  the  wardrobe  was  devoid  of 
any  spark  of  vigilance,  for  his  glass  eye  had 
fallen  out,  and  he  slumbered  as  he  stood. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  3. 

APARTMENT— A solitary. 

An  air  of  retreat  and  solitude  hung  about  the 
rooms,  and  about  their  inhabitant.  Fie  was 
much  worn,  and  so  were  they.  Their  sloping 
ceilings,  cumbrous  rusty  locks  and  gi-ates,  and 
heavy  wooden  bins  and  beams,  slowly  moulder- 
ing withal,  had  a prisonous  look,  and  he  had 
the  haggard  face  of  a prisoner.  Yet  the  sun- 
light shone  in  at  the  ugly  garret  window,  which 
had  a penthouse  to  itself  thrust  out  among  the 
tiles ; and  on  the  cracked  and  smoke-black- 
ened parapet  beyond,  some  of  the  deluded 
sparrows  of  the  place  rheumatically  hopped, 
like  little  feathered  cripples  who  had  left  their 
crutches  in  their  nests  ; and  there  was  a play 
of  living  leaves  at  hand  that  changed  the  air, 
and  made  an  imperfect  sort  of  music  in  it  that 
would  have  been  melody  in  the  country. 

Edwin  Drood.  Chap.  17. 

APARTMENTS  — The  loneliness  of  Law 
Inns. 

■ It  is  to  be  remarked  of  chambers  in  general, 
that  they  must  have  been  built  for  chambers,  to 
have  the  right  kind  of  loneliness.  You  may 
make  a great  dwelling-house  very  lonely,  by  iso- 
lating  suites  of  rooms,  and  calling  them  cham- 
bers, but  you  cannot  make  the  true  kind  of  lone- 
liness. In  dwelling-houses  there  have  been 
family  festivals  ; children  have  grown  in  them, 
girls  have  bloomed  into  women  in  them,  court- 
ships and  marriages  have  taken  place  in  them. 
True  chambers  never  were  young,  childish, 
maidenly  ; never  had  dolls  in  them,  or  rocking- 
horses,  or  christenings,  or  betrothals,  or  little 
coffins.  Let  Gray’s  Inn  identify  the  child  who 
first  touched  hands  and  hearts  with  Robinson 
Crusoe  in  any  one  of  its  many  “ sets,”  and 
that  child's  little  statue,  in  white  marble  with  a 
golden  inscription,  shall  be  at  its  service,  at  my 
co  and  charge,  as  a <111111.111:',  fountain  for  the 
spirit,  to  freshen  its  thirsty  square.  Let  Lin- 
coln’s produce  from  all  its  houses  a twentieth 
of  the  procession  derivable  from  any  dwelling- 
house,  one-twentieth  of  its  age,  of  fair  young 
brides  who  married  for  love  and  hope,  not  set- 
tlements, and  all  the  Vice-Chancellors  shall 


thenceforward  be  kept  in  nosegays  for  nothing, 
on  application  to  the  writer  hereof. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  14. 

APPETITES— The  advice  of  Squeers. 

“ That’s  right,”  said  Squeers,  calmly  getting 
on  with  his  breakfast  ; “ keep  ready  till  I tell 
you  to  begin.  Subdue  your  appetites,  my  dears, 
and  you’ve  conquered  human  natur.  This  is 
the  way  we  inculcate  strength  of  mind,  Mr. 
Nickleby,”  said  the  schoolmaster,  turning  to 
Nicholas,  and  speaking  with  his  mouth  very 
full  of  beef  and  toast. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  5. 

APPRENTICESHIP-of  Oliver  Twist. 

Oliver  roused  himself,  and  made  his  best  obei- 
sance. lie  had  been  wondering,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  magistrates’  powder,  whether 
all  boards  were  born  with  that  white  stuff  on 
their  heads,  and  were  boards  from  thenceforth 
on  that  account. 

“ Well,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  “ I suppose 
he’s  fond  of  chimney-sweeping?”  m 

“ Fie  doats  on  it,  your  worship,”  replied 
Bumble,  giving  Oliver  a sly  pinch,  to  intimate 
that  he  had  better  not  say  he  didn’t. 

“And  he  will  be  a sweep,  will  he?”  inquired 
the  old  gentleman. 

“If  we  was  to  bind  him  to  any  other  trade 
to-morrow,  he’d  run  away  simultaneous,  your 
worship,”  replied  Bumble. 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  3. 

ARCHITECT- His  desig-ns. 

Mr.  Pecksniff  was  surrounded  by  open  books, 
and  was  glancing  from  volume  to  volume,  with 
a black-lead  pencil  in  his  mouth,  and  a pair  of 
compasses  in  his  hand,  at  a vast  number  of 
mathematical  diagrams,  of  such  extraordinary 
shapes  that  they  looked  like  designs  for  fire- 
works.— Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  5. 

ARGUMENT-A  gift  of  Nature. 

“ — If,”  said  John  Willet,  turning  his  eyes 
from  the  ceiling  to  the  face  of  his  interrupter, 
and  uttering  the  monosyllable  in  capitals,  to  ap- 
prise him  that  he  had  put  in  his  oar.  as  the  vul- 
gar say,  with  unbecoming  and  irreverent  haste  : 
“If,  sir,  Natur  has  fixed  upon  me  the  gift  of 
argeyment,  why  should  I not  own  to  it,  and  rath- 
er glory  in  the  same?  Yes,  sir,  I am  a tough 
customer  that  way.  You  are  right,  sir.  My 
toughness  has  been  proved,  sir,  in  this  room 
many  and  many  a time,  as  I think  you  know  : 
and  if  you  don’t  know,”  added  John,  putting 
his  pipe  in  his  mouth  again,  “ so  much  the  bet- 
ter, for  I an’t  proud,  and  am  not  going  to  tell  you.” 

“For  the  matter  o’  that,  Phil!”  observed 
Mr.  Willet,  blowing  a lgng,  thin,  spiral  cloud  of 
smoke  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  and 
staring  at  it  abstractedly  as  it  floated  away;  “for 
the  matter  o’  that,  Phil,  argeyment  is  a gift  of 
Natur.  If  Natur  has  gifted  a man  with  pow- 
ers of  argeyment,  a man  has  the  right  to  make 
the  best  of  ’em,  and  has  not  a right  to  stand 
on  false  delicacy,  and  deny  that  he  is  so  gifted  ; 
for  that  is  a turning  of  his  back  on  Natur,  a 
flouting  of  her,  a slighting  of  her  precious 
caskets,  and  a proving  of  one’s  self  to  be  a 
swine  that  isn’t  worth  her  scattering  pearls  be- 
fore.”— Bamaby  Budge,  Chap.  1. 


ARISTOCRACY 


23 


ART  AND  NATURE 


ARISTOCRACY— A Sign  of. 

“ There’s  something  in  his  appearance  quite 
— dear,  dear,  what’s  that  word  again  ? ” 

“What  word?”  inquired  Mr.  Lillyvick. 

“Why — dear  me,  how  stupid  I am,”  replied 
Miss  Petowker,  hesitating.  “ What  do  you  call 
it  when  Lords  break  off  door-knockers,  and 
beat  policemen,  and  play  at  coaches  with  other 
people’s  money,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing?” 

“ Aristocratic  ? ” suggested  the  collector. 

“ Ah  ! aristocratic,”  replied  Miss  Petowker  ; 
“ something  very  aristocratic  about  him,  isn’t 
there  ? ” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  15. 

ARITHMETIC. 

As  figures  are  catching,  a kind  of  cyphering 
measles . broke  out  in  that  locality,  under  the 
influence  of  which  the  whole  Yard  was  light- 
headed.— Little  Dorrit,  Book  //.,  Chap.  32. 

AROMA. 

“ A young  Simoon  of  ham.” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  27. 

AROMA— Of  a punch.. 

The  latter  perfume,  with  the  fostering  aid  of 
boiling  water  and  lemon-peel,  diffused  itself 
throughout  the  room,  and  became  s.o  highly 
concentrated  around  the  warm  fireside,  that  the 
wind  passing  over  the  house-roof  must  have 
rushed  off  charged  with  a delicious  whiff  of  it, 
after  buzzing  like  a great  bee  at  that  particular 
chimney-pot. — Our  Mutual  Friend , Chap.  4. 

AROMA— Of  wine. 

“ Now,  Mrs.  Gamp,  what’s  your  news?” 

The  lady  in  question  was  by  this  time  in  the 
doorway,  curtseying  to  Mrs.  Mould.  At  the 
same  moment  a peculiar  fragrance  was  borne 
upon  the  breeze,  as  if  a passing  fairy  had  hic- 
coughed, and  had  previously  been  to  a wine- 
vault. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  25. 

ART— Miss  La  Creevy’s  difficulties  of. 

“ Ah  ! The  difficulties  of  Art,  my  dear,  are 
great.” 

“ They  must  be,  I have  no  doubt,”  said  Kate, 
humoring  her  good-natured  little  friend. 

“ They  are  beyond  anything  you  can  form 
the  faintest  conception  of,”  replied  Miss  La 
Creevy.  “What  with  bringing  out  eyes  with 
all  one’s  power,  and  keeping  down  noses  with 
all  one’s  force,  and  adding  to  heads,  and  taking 
away  teeth  altogether,  you  have  no  idea  of  the 
trouble  one  little  miniature  is.” 

“ The  remuneration  can  scarcely  repay  you,” 
said  Kate. 

“ Why,  it  does  not,  and  that’s  the  truth,”  an- 
swered Miss  La  Creevy  ; “ and  then  people  are 
so  dissatisfied  and  unreasonable,  that,  nine 
times  out  of  ten,  there’s  no  pleasure  in  painting 
them.  Sometimes  they  say,  ‘ Oh,  how  very 
serious  you  have  made  me  look,  Miss  La 
Creevy ! ’ and  at  others,  ‘ La,  Miss  La  Creevy, 
how  very  smirking  !’  when  the  very  essence  of 
a good  portrait  is,  that  it  must  be  either  seri- 
ous or  smirking,  or  it’s  no  portrait  at  all.” 

“ Indeed  ! ” said  Kate,  laughing. 

“ Certainly,  my  dear ; because  the  sitters  are 
always  either  the  one  or  the  other,”  replied  Miss 
La  Creevy.  “ Look  at  the  Royal  Academy  ! 
All  those  beautiful  shiny  portraits  of  gentlemen 
in  black  velvet  waistcoats,  with  their  fists 


doubled  up  on  round  tables,  or  marble  slabs, 
are  serious,  you  know  ; and  all  the  ladies  who 
are  playing  with  little  parasols,  or  little  dogs, 
or  little  children — it’s  the  same  rule  in  art,  only 
varying  the  objects — are  smirking.  In  fact,” 
said  Miss  La  Creevy,  sinking  her  voice  to  a 
confidential  whisper,  “ there  are  only  two  styles 
of  portrait  painting,  the  serious  and  the  smirk  ; 
and  we  always  use  the  serious  for  professional 
people  (except  actors  sometimes),  and  the  smirk 
for  private  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  don’t 
care  so  much  about  looking  clever.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  10. 

ART— Family  Pictures. 

“ If  you  have  seen  the  picture-gallery  of  any 
one  old  family,  you  will  remember  how  the 
same  face  and  figure — often  the  fairest  and 
slightest  of  them  all — come  upon  you  in  differ- 
ent generations  ; and  how  you  trace  the  same 
sweet  girl  through  a long  line  of  portraits — 
never  growing  old  or  changing  — the  Good 
Angel  of  the  race — abiding  by  them  in  all  re- 
verses— redeeming  all  their  sins.” 

Old  Cm  iosity  Shop , Chap.  69. 

ART— A top-heavy  portrait. 

Little  Dorrit  glanced  at  the  portrait  again. 
The  artist  had  given  it  a head  that  would  have 
been,  in  an  intellectual  point  of  \iew,  top-heavy 
for  Shakespeare. — Little  Dorrit , Chap.  24. 

ART  AND  NATURE— A criticism. 

At  the  head  of  the  collections  in  the  palaces 
of  Rome,  the  Vatican,  of  course,  with  its  treas- 
ures of  art,  its  enormous  galleries,  and  stair- 
cases, and  suites  upon  suites  of  immense  cham- 
bers, ranks  highest  and  stands  foremost.  Many 
most  noble  statues,  and  wonderful  pictures,  are 
there  ; nor  is  it  heresy  to  say  that  there  is  a 
considerable  amount  of  rubbish  there,  too.. 
When  any  old  piece  of  sculpture  dug  out  of  the 
ground,  finds  a place  in  a gallery  because  it  is 
old,  and  without  any  reference  to  its  intrinsic 
merits  ; and  finds  admirers  by  the  hundred,  be- 
cause it  is  there,  and  for  no  other  reason  on 
earth — there  will  be  no  lack  of  objects,  very  in- 
different in  the  plain  eyesight  of  any  one  who 
employs  so  vulgar  a property,  when  he  may 
wear  the  spectacles  of  Cant  for  less  than  noth- 
ing, and  establish  himself  as  a man  of  taste  for 
the  mere  trouble  of  putting  them  on. 

I unreservedly  confess,  for  myself,  that  I can- 
not leave  my  natural  perception  of  what  is  nat- 
ural and  true  at  a palace-door,  in  Italy  or  else- 
where, as  I should  leave  my  shoes  if  I were 
travelling  in  the  East.  I cannot  forget  that 
there  are  certain  expressions  of  face,  natural  to 
certain  passions,  and  as  unchangeable  in  their 
nature  as  the  gait  of  a lion,  or  the  flight  of  an 
eagle.  I cannot  dismiss  from  my  certain  know- 
ledge such  common-place  facts  as  the  ordinary 
proportions  of  men’s  arms,  and  legs,  and  heads  ; 
and  when  I meet  with  performances  that  do 
violence  to  these  experiences  and  recollections, 
no  matter  where  they  maybe,  I cannot  honestly 
admire  them,  and  think  it  best  to  say  so  ; in 
spite  of  high  critical  advice  that  we  should 
sometimes  feign  an  admiration,  though  we  have 
it  not. 

Therefore,  I freely  acknowledge  that  when  1 
see  a Jolly  Young  Waterman  representing  a 
cherubim,  or  a Barclay  and  Perkins’s  Drayman 


ART 


24 


ARTIST 


depicted  as  an  Evangelist,  I see  nothing  to  com- 
mend or  admire  in  the  performance,  however 
great  its  reputed  Painter.  Neither  am  I partial 
to  libellous  Angels,  who  play  on  fiddles  and 
bassoons,  for  the  edification  of  sprawling  monks, 
apparently  in  liquor.  Nor  to  those  Monsieur 
Tonsons  of  galleries,  Saint  Francis  and  Saint 
Sebastian  ; both  of  whom  I submit  should  have 
very  uncommon  and  rare  merits,  as  works  of 
art,  to  justify  their  compound  multiplication  by 
Italian  Painters. 

****** 

When  I observe  heads  inferior  to  the  subject, 
in  pictures  of  merit,  in  Italian  galleries,  I do 
not  attach  that  reproach  to  the  Painter,  for  I 
have  a suspicion  that  these  great  men,  who 
were,  of  necessity,  very  much  in  the  hands  of 
monks  and  priests,  painted  monks  and  priests  a 
great  deal  too  often.  I frequently  see,  in  pic- 
tures of  real  power,  heads  quite  below  the  story 
and  the  painter  : and  I invariably  observe  that 
those  heads  are  of  the  Convent  stamp,  and  have 
their  counterparts  among  the  Convent  inmates 
of  this  hour ; so,  I have  settled  with  myself 
that,  in  such  cases,  the  lameness  was  not  with 
the  painter,  but  with  the  vanity  and  ignorance 
of  certain  of  his  employers,  who  would  be  apos- 
tles— on  canvas,  at  all  events. 

The  exquisite  grace  and  beauty  of  Canova’s 
statues  ; the  wonderful  gravity  and  repose  of 
many  of  the  ancient  works  in  sculpture,  both 
in  the  Capitol  and  the  Vatican  ; and  the  strength 
and  fire  of  many  others,  are,  in  their  different 
ways,  beyond  all  reach  of  words.  They  are 
especially  impressive  and  delightful,  after  the 
works  of  Bernini  and  his  disciples,  in  which 
the  churches  of  Rome,  from  St.  Peter’s  down- 
ward, abound  ; and  which  are,  I verily  believe, 
the  most  detestable  class  of  productions  in  the 
wide  world.  I would  infinitely  rather  (as  mere 
works  of  art)  look  upon  the  three  deities  of  the 
Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future,  in  the  Chi- 
nese Collection,  than  upon  the  best  of  these 
breezy  maniacs  ; whose  every  fold  of  drapery 
is  blown  inside  out  ; whose  smallest  vein,  or 
artery,  is  as  big  as  an  ordinary  forefinger  ; 
whose  hair  is  like  a nest  of  lively  snakes  ; and 
whose  attitudes  put  all  other  extravagance  to 
shame.  Insomuch  that  I do  honestly  believe, 
there  can  be  no  place  in  the  world  where  such 
intolerable  abortions,  begotten  of  the  sculptor’s 
chisel,  are  to  be  found  in  such  profusion  as  in 
Rome. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

ART-  Italian  pictures  ; Beatrice  di  Cenci. 

In  the  private  palaces,  pictures  are  seen  to 
the  best  advantage.  There  are  seldom  so  many 
in  one  place  that  the  attention  need  become 
distracted,  or  the  eye  confused.  You  see  them 
very  leisurely ; and  are  rarely  interrupted  by  a 
crowd  of  people.  There  are  portraits  innumer- 
able, by  Titian,  and  Rembrandt,  and  Vandyke: 
heads  by  Guido,  and  Domenichino,  and  Carlo 
I)olci : various  subjects  by  Correggio,  and  Mu- 
rillo, and  Raphael,  and  Salvator  Rosa,  and 
Spagnoletto — many  of  which  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult, indeed,  to  praise  too  highly,  or  to  praise 
enough  ; such  is  their  tenderness  and  grace, 
their  noble  elevation,  purity,  and  beauty. 

The  portrait  of  Beatrice  di  Cenci,  in  the  Pa- 
lazzo Berberini,  is  a picture  almost  impossible 
to  be  forgotten.  Through  the  transcendent 
sweetness  and  beauty  of  the  face,  there  is  a J 


something  shining  out,  that  haunts  me.  I see 
ic  now,  as  I see  this  paper,  or  my  pen.  The 
head  is  loosely  draped  in  white  ; the  light  hair 
falling  down  below  the  linen  folds.  She  has 
turned  suddenly  towards  you  ; and  there  is  an 
expression  in  the  eyes— although  they  are  very 
tender  and  gentle — as  if  the  wildness  of  a mo- 
mentary terror,  or  distraction,  had  been  strug- 
gled with  and  overcome  that  instant : and 
nothing  but  a celestial  hope,  and  a beautiful 
sorrow,  and  a desolate  earthly  helplessness  re- 
mained. Some  stories  say  that  Guido  painted 
it  the  night  before  her  execution  ; some  other 
stories,  that  he  painted  it  from  memory,  after 
having  seen  her  on  her  way  to  the  scaffold.  I 
am  willing  to  believe  that,  as  you  see  her  on  his 
canvas,  so  she  turned  towards  him,  in  the 
crowd,  from  the  first  sight  of  the  axe,  and 
stamped  upon  his  mind  a look  which  he  has 
stamped  on  mine  as  though  I had  stood  beside 
him  in  the  concourse.  The  guilty  palace  of 
the  Cenci — blighting  a whole  quarter  of  the 
town,  as  it  stands  withering  away  by  grains — 
had  that  face,  to  my  fancy,  in  its  dismal  porch, 
and  at  its  black,  blind  windows,  and  flitting  up 
and  down  its  dreary  stairs,  and  growing  out  of 
the  darkness  of  its  ghostly  galleries.  The  His- 
tory is  written  in  the  Painting  ; written  in  the 
dying  girl's  face,  by  Nature’s  own  hand.  And 
oh  ! how  in  that  one  touch  she  puts  to  flight 
(instead  of  making  kin)  the  puny  world  that 
claim  to  be  related  to  her,  in  right  of  poor  con- 
ventional forgeries  ! — Pictures  from  Italy. 

ART— Family  pictures— Skimpole’s  descrip- 
tion of. 

There  was  a Sir  Somebody  Dedlock,  with  a 
battle,  a sprung-mine,  volumes  of  smoke,  flashes 
of  lightning,  a town  on  fire,  and  a stormed 
fort,  all  in  full  action  between  his  horse’s  two 
hind  legs;  showing,  he  supposed,  how  little  a 
Dedlock  made  of  such  trifles.  The  whole  race 
he  represented  as  having  evidently  been,  in  life, 
what  he  called  “stuffed  people,” — a large  col- 
lection, glassy  eyed,  set  up  in  the  most  ap- 
proved manner  on  their  various  twigs  and 
perches,  very  correct,  perfectly  free  from  ani- 
mation, and  always  in  glass  cases. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  37. 

ART— Pictures  in  Italian  churches. 

It  is  miserable  to  see  great  works  of  art — 
something  of  the  Souls  of  Painters — perishing 
and  fading  away,  like  human  forms.  This  Ca- 
thedral is  odorous  with  the  rotting  of  Correg- 
gio’s frescoes  in  the  Cupola.  Heaven  knows 
how  beautiful  they  may  have  been  at  one  time. 
Connoisseurs  fall  into  raptures  with  them  now  ; 
but  such  a labyrinth  of  arms  and  legs:  such 
heaps  of  fore-shortened  limbs,  entangled  and 
involved  and  jumbled  together,  no  operative 
surgeon,  gone  mad,  could  imagine  in  his  wild- 
est delirium. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

ARTIST  -An  amateur  (Gowan). 

He  appeared  to  be  an  artist  by  profession, 
and  to  havq  been  at  Rome  some  time  ; yet  he 
had  a slight,  careless,  amateur  way  with  him — 
a perceptible  limp,  both  in  his  devotion  to  art 
and  his  attainments. 

-x-  -x-  * * * * 

II  is  genius,  during  his  earlier  manhood,  was 
of  that  exclusively  agricultural  character  which 


ASHES 


25 


AUCTION  SALE 


applies  itself  to  the  cultivation  of  wild  oats. 
At  last  he  had  declared  that  he  would  become  a 
Painter ; partly  because  he  had  always  had  an 
idle  knack  that  way,  and  partly  to  grieve  the 
souls  of  the  Barnacles-in-chief  who  had  not  pro- 
vided for  him.  So  it  had  come  to  pass  succes- 
sively, first,  that  several  distinguished  ladies 
had  been  frightfully  shocked  : then,  that  port- 
folios of  his  performances  had  been  handed 
about  o’  nights,  and  declared  with  ecstacy  to  be 
perfect  Claudes,  perfect  Cuyps,  perfect  pheno- 
mena ; then,  that  Lord  Decimus  had  bought  his 
picture,  and  had  asked  the  President  and  Coun- 
cil to  dinner  at  a blow,  and  had  said,  with  his 
own  magnificent  gravity,  “ Do  you  know,  there 
appears  to  me  to  be  really  immense  merit  in  that 
work?”  and,  in  short,  that  people  of  condition 
had  absolutely  taken  pains  to  bring  him  into 
fashion.  But,  somehow,  it  had  all  failed.  The 
prejudiced  public  had  stood  out  against  it  ob- 
stinately. They  had  determined  not  to  admire 
Lord  Decimus’s  picture.  They  had  determined 
to  believe  that  in  every  service,  except  their 
own,  a man  must  qualify  himself,  by  striving, 
early  and  late,  and  by  working  heart  and  soul, 
might  and  main.  So  now  Mr.  Gowan,  like  that 
worn-out  old  coffin  which  never  was  Mahomet’s 
nor  anybody  else’s,  hung  midway  between  two 
points  ; jaundiced  and  jealous  as  to  the  one  he 
had  left ; jaundiced  and  jealous  as  to  the  other 
he  couldn’t  reach. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  17. 

ASHES— of  a home. 

The  ashes  of  the  commonest  fire  are  melan- 
choly things,  for  in  them  there  is  an  image  of 
death  and  ruin — of  something  that  has  been 
bright,  and  is  but  dull,  cold,  dreary  dust — with 
which  our  nature  forces  us  to  sympathise.  How 
much  more  sad  the  crumbled  embers  of  a home  ; 
the  casting  down  of  that  great  altar,  where  the 
worst  among  us  sometimes  perform  the  worship 
of  the  heart  ; and  where  the  best  have  offered  up 
such  sacrifices,  and  done  such  deeds  of  heroism, 
as,  chronicled,  would  put  the  proudest  temples 
of  old  Time,  with  all  their  vaunting  annals,  to 
the  blush. — Barnaby  Rudge , Chap . 81. 

ASPERITY— The  expression  of. 

In  a hard  way,  and  in  an  uncertain  way  that 
fluctuated  between  patronage  and  putting  down, 
the  sprinkling  from  a watering-pot  and  hy- 
draulic pressure,  Mrs.  Clennam  showed  an  in- 
terest in  this  dependant.  As  there  are  degrees 
of  hardness  in  the  hardest  metal,  and  shades  of 
color  in  black  itself,  so,  even  in  the  asperity  of 
Mrs.  Clennam’s  demeanor  towards  all  the  rest  of 
humanity  and  towards  little  Dorrit,  there  was  a 
fine  gradation. — Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  5. 

ASSOCIATION— The  influence  of. 

Whether  people,  by  dint  of  sitting  together 
in  the  same  place  and  the  same  relative  posi- 
tions, and  doing  exactly  the  same  things  for  a 
great  many  years,  acquire  a sixth  sense,  or  some 
unknown  power  of  influencing  each  other  which 
serves  them  in  its  stead,  is  a question  for  philos- 
ophy to  settle.  But  certain  it  is  that  old  John 
Willet,  Mr.  Parkes,  and  Mr.  Cobb,  were  one 
and  all  firmly  of  opinion  that  they  were  very 
jolly  companions — rather  choice  spirits  than 
otherwise  ; that  they  looked  at  each  other  every 
now  and  then  as  if  there  were  a perpetual  in- 


terchange of  ideas  going  on  among  them  ; that 
no  man  considered  himself  or  his  neighbor  by 
any  means  silent ; and  that  each  of  them  nod- 
ded occasionally  when  he  caught  the  eye  of  an- 
other, as  if  he  would  say,  “ You  have  expressed 
yourself  extremely  well,  sir,  in  relation  to  that 
sentiment,  and  I quite  agree  with  you.” 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  33. 

ASTHMA— The  want  of  breath. 

“ I smoke  on  srub  and  water  myself,”  said 
Mr.  Omer,  taking  up  his  glass,  “because  it’s 
considered  softening  to  the  passages,  by  which 
this  troublesome  breath  of  mine  gets  into  ac- 
tion. But,  Lord  bless  you,”  .said  Mr.  Omer, 
huskily,  “ it  ain’t  the  passages  that’s  out  of  or- 
der ! ‘ Give  me  breath  enough,’  says'  I to  my 

daughter  Minnie,  ‘and  /’ll  find  passages,  my 
dear  ! ’ ” — David  Copper  field.  Chap.  30. 

AUCTION  SALE— of  Dombey’s  furniture. 

After  a few  days,  strange  people  began  to 
call  at  the  house,  and  to  make  appointments 
with  one  another  in  the  dining-room,  as  if  they 
lived  there.  Especially,  there  is  a gentleman, 
of  a Mosaic  Arabian  cast  of  countenance,  with 
a very  massive  watch-guard,  who  whistles  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  while  he  is  waiting  for  the 
other  gentleman,  who  always  has  pen  and  ink 
in  his  pocket,  asks  Mr.  Towlinson  (by  the  easy 
name  of  “Old  Cock,”)  if  he  happens  to  know 
what  the  figure  of  them  crimson  and  gold 
hangings  might  have  been,  when  new  bought. 
The  callers  and  appointments  in  the  dining- 
room become  more  numerous  every  day,  and 
every  gentleman  seems  to  have  pen  and  ink  in 
his  pocket,  and  to  have  some  occasion  to  use  it. 
At  last  it  is  said  that  there  is  going  to  be  a 
Sale  ; and  then  more  people  arrive,  with  pen 
and  ink  in  their  pockets,  commanding  a de- 
tachment of  men  with  carpet-caps,  who  imme- 
diately begin  to  pull  up  the  carpets,  and  knock 
the  furniture  about,  and  to  print  off  thousands 
of  impressions  of  their  shoes  upon  the  hall  and 
staircase. 

* * * * * * 

The  men  in  the  carpet-caps  go  on  tumbling 
the  furniture  about ; and  the  gentlemen  with 
the  pens  and  ink  make  out  inventories  of  it, 
and  sit  upon  pieces  of  furniture  never  made  to 
be  sat  upon,  and  eat  bread  and  cheese  from  the 
public-house  on  other  pieces  of  furniture  never 
made  to  be  eaten  on,  and  seem  to  have  a de- 
light in  appropriating  precious  articles  to  strange 
uses.  Chaotic  combinations  of  furniture  also 
take  place.  Mattresses  and  bedding  appear 
in  the  dining-room  ; the  glass  and  china  get 
into  the  conservatory  ; the  great  dinner  service 
is  set  out  in  heaps  on  the  long  divan  in  the 
large  drawing-room  ; and  the  stair-wires,  made 
into  fasces,  decorate  the  marble  chimney- 
pieces.  Finally,  a.  rug,  with  a printed  bill  upon 
it,  is  hung  out  from  the  balcony : and  a simi- 
lar appendage  graces  either  side  of  the  hall 
door. 

Then,  all  day  long,  there  is  a retinue  of  moul- 
dy gigs  and  chaise-carts  in  the  street  ; and 
herds  of  shabby  vampires,  Jew  and  Christian, 
over-run  the  house,  sounding  the  plate-glass 
mirrors  with  their  knuckles,  striking  discordant 
octaves  on  the  Grand  Piano,  drawing  wet  fore- 
fingers over  the  pictures,  breathing  on  the  blades 
of  the  best  dinner-knives,  punching  the  squabs 


AUGUST 


26 


AUSTERITY 


of  chairs  and  sofas  with  their  dirty  fists,  touz- 
ling  the  feather  beds,  opening  and  shutting  all  the 
drawers,  balancing  the  silver  spoons  and  forks, 
looking  into  the  very  threads  of  the  drapery 
and  linen,  and  disparaging  everything.  There 
is  not  a secret  place  in  the  whole  house.  Fluffy 
and  snuffy  strangers  stare  into  the  kitchen- 
range  as  curiously  as  into  the  attic  clothes- 
press.  Stout  men  with  napless  hats  on,  look 
out  of  the  bedroom  windows,  and  cut  jokes 
with  friends  in  the  street.  Quiet,  calculating 
spirits  withdraw  into  the  dressing-rooms,  with 
catalogues,  and  make  marginal  notes  thereon, 
with  stumps  of  pencils.  Two  brokers  invade 
the  very  fire-escape,  and  take  a panoramic  sur- 
vey of  the  neighborhood  from  the  top  of  the 
house.  The  swarm,  and  buzz,  and  going  up 
and  down,  endure  for  days.  The  Capital 
Modern  Household  Furniture,  etc.,  is  on  view. 

Then  there  is  a palisade  of  tables  made  in 
the  best  drawing-room  ; and  on  the  capital, 
french-polished,  extending,  telescopic  range  of 
Spanish  mahogany  dining-tables  with  turned 
legs,  the  pulpit  of  the  Auctioneer  is  erected  ; 
and  the  herds  of  shabby  vampires,  Jew  and 
Christian,  the  strangers  fluffy  and  snuffy,  and 
the  stout  men  with  the  napless  hats,  congre- 
gate about  it  and  sit  upon  everything  within 
reach,  mantel-pieces  included,  and  begin  to  bid. 
Hot,  humming,  and  dusty  are  the  rooms  all  day  ; 
and — high  above  the  heat,  hum,  and  dust — the 
head  and  shoulders,  voice  and  hammer,  of  the 
Auctioneer,  are  ever  at  work.  The  men  in  the 
carpet-caps  get  flustered  and  vicious  with  tum- 
bling the  Lots  about,  and  still  the  Lots  are 
going,  going,  gone  ; still  coming  on.  Some- 
times there  is  joking  and  a general  roar.  This 
lasts  • all  day  and  three  days  following.  The 
Capital  Modern  Household  Furniture,  etc.,  is 
on  sale. 

Then  the  mouldy  gigs  and  chaise-carts  re- 
appear ; and  with  them  come  spring-vans  and 
wagons,  and  an  army  of  porters  with  knots. 
All  day  long,  the  men  writh  carpet-caps  are 
screwing  at  screw-drivers  and  bed-winches,  or 
staggering  by  the  dozen  together  on  the  stair- 
case under  heavy  burdens,  or  upheaving  perfect 
rocks  of  Spanish  mahogany,  best  rosewood,  or 
plate-glass,  into  the  gigs  and  chaise-carts,  vans 
and  wagons.  All  sorts  of  vehicles  of  burden 
are  in  attendance,  from  a tilted  wagon  to  a 
wheelbarrow.  Poor  Paul’s  little  bedstead  is 
carried  off  in  a donkey-tandem.  For  nearly  a 
whole  week,  the  Capital  Modern  Household 
Furniture,  etc.,  is  in  course  of  removal. 

At  last  it  is  all  gone.  Nothing  is  left  about 
the  house  but  scattered  leaves  of  catalogues, 
littered  scraps  of  straw  and  hay,  and  a battery  of 
pewter  pots  behind  the  hall-door.  The  men 
with  the  carpet-caps  gather  up  their  screw- 
drivers and  bed-winches  into  bags,  shoulder 
them,  and  walk  off.  One  of  the  pen  and  ink' 
gentlemen  goes  over  the  house  as  a last  atten- 
tion ; sticking  up  bills  in  the  windows  respecting 
the  lease  of  this  desirable  family  mansion,  and 
shutting  the  shutters.  At  length  he  follows  the 
men  with  the  carpet-caps.  None  of  the  invad- 
ers remain.  The  house  is  a ruin,  and  the  rats 
fly  from  it .—Dombcy  dr9  Son,  Chap.  59. 

AUGUST-  Nature  in. 

There  is  no  month  in  the  whole  year,  in 
which  nature  wears  a more  beautiful  appearance 


than  in  the  month  of  August.  Spring  has  many 
beauties,  and  May  is  a fresh  and  blooming 
month,  but  the  charms  of  this  time  of  year  are 
enhanced  by  their  contrast  with  the  winter  sea- 
son. August  has  no  such  advantage.  It  comes 
when  we  remember  nothing  but  clear  skies, 
green  fields,  and  sweet-smelling  flowers — when 
the  recollection  of  snow,  and  ice,  and  bleak  winds 
has  faded  from  our  minds  as  completely  as  they 
have  disappeared  from  the  earth — and  yet  what  a 
pleasant  time  it  is  ! Orchards  and  corn-fields 
ring  with  the  hum  of  labor  ; trees  bend  beneath 
the  thick  clusters  of  rich  fruit  which  bow  their 
branches  to  the  ground  ; and  the  corn,  piled  in 
graceful  sheaves,  or  waving  in  every  light 
breath  that  sweeps  above  it,  as  if  it  w'ooed  the 
sickle,  tinges  the  landscape  with  a golden  hue. 
A mellow  softness  appears  to  hang  over  the 
whole  earth. — Pickwick  Papers , Chap.  16. 

AUSTERITY— Its  chilling1  influence. 

The  dignified  old  gentleman  turned  out  to 
be  Lord  Lancaster  Stiltstalking,  who  had  been 
maintained  by  the  Circumlocution  Office  for 
many  years  as  a representative  of  the  Britannic 
Majesty  abroad.  This  noble  Refrigerator  had 
iced  several  European  courts  in  his  time,  and 
had  done  it  with  such  complete  success  that 
the  very  name  of  Englishman  yet  struck  cold  to 
the  stomachs  of  foreigners  who  had  the  distin- 
guished honor  of  remembering  him,  at  a dis- 
tance of  a quarter  of  a century. 

He  was  now  in  retirement,  and  hence  (in  a 
ponderous  white  cravat,  like  a stiff  snow-drift) 
was  so  obliging  as  to  shade  the  dinner.  There 
was  a whisper  of  the  pervading  Bohemian  char- 
acter in  the  nomadic  nature  of  the  service,  and 
its  curious  races  of  plates  and  dishes : but  the 
noble  Refrigerator,  infinitely  better  than  plate 
or  porcelain,  made  it  superb.  He  shaded  the 
dinner,  cooled  the  wines,  chilled  the  gravy,  and 
blighted  the  vegetables. 

There  was  only  one  other  person  in  the 
room : a microscopically  small  footboy,  who 
waited  on  the  malevolent  man  who  hadn’t  got 
into  the  Post-Office.  Even  this  youth,  if  his 
jacket  could  have  been  unbuttoned  and  his 
heart  laid  bare,  would  have  been  seen,  as  a dis- 
tant adherent  of  the  Barnacle  family,  already  to 
aspire  to  a situation  under  government. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  26. 

*****  -34- 

In  the  course  of  a couple  of  hours  the  noble 
Refrigerator,  at  no  time  less  than  a hundred 
years  behind  the  period,  got  about  five  cen- 
turies in  arrear,  and  delivered  solemn  political 
oracles  appropriate  to  that  epoch.  He  finished 
by  freezing  a cup  of  tea  for  nis  own  drinking, 
and  retiring  at  his  lowest  temperature. 

Chap.  26. 

****** 

The  dinner  and  dessert  being  three  hours’ 
long,  the  bashful  member  cooled  in  the  shadow 
of  Lord  Decimus  faster  than  he  warmed  with 
food  and  drink,  and  had  but  a chilly  time  of  it. 
Lord  Decimus,  like  a tall  tower  in  a flat  coun- 
try, seemed  to  project  himself  across  the  table- 
cloth, hide  the  light  from  the  honorable  mem- 
ber, cool  the  honorable  member’s  marrow,  and 
give  him  a woful  idea  of  distance.  When  he 
asked  this  unfortunate  travellei  to  take  wine, 
lie  encompassed  his  faltering  steps  with  the 
gloomiest  of  shades  ; and  when  he  said,  “ Your 


AUSTERITY 


27 


AUTHOR 


health,  sir  ! ” all  around  him  was  barrenness 
and  desolation. 

At  length  Lord  Decimus,  with  a coffee-cup 
in  his  hand,  began  to  hover  about  among  the 
pictures,  and  to  cause  an  interesting  speculation 
to  arise  in  all  minds  as  to  the  probabilities  of 
his  ceasing  to  hover,  and  enabling  the  smaller 
bir.ds  to  flutter  up-stairs  ; which  could  not  be 
done  until  he  had  urged  his  noble  pinions  in 
that  direction.  After  some  delay,  and  several 
stretches  of  his  wings,  which  came  to  nothing, 
he  soared  to  the  drawing-rooms. 

Book  II,  Chap.  12. 

AUSTERITY— of  Mr.  Dombey. 

It  happened  to  be  an  iron-gray  autumnal  day, 
with  a shrewd  east  wind  blowing — a day  in 
keeping  with  the  proceedings.  Mr.  Dombey 
represented  in  himself  the  wind,  the  shade,  and 
the  autumn  of  the  christening.  He  stood  in  his 
library  to  receive  the  company,  as  hard  and 
cold  as  the  weather  ; and  when  he  looked  out 
through  the  glass  room,  at  the  trees  in  the  little 
garden,  their  brown,  and  yellow  leaves  came 
fluttering  down,  as  if  he  blighted  them. 

Dombey  and  Son , Chap.  5. 

AUSTERITY— in  politeness. 

“ How  do  you  do,  sir  ? ” said  Chick. 

He  gave  Mr.  Dombey  his  hand,  as  if  he  fear- 
ed it  might  electrify  him.  Mr.  Dombey  took 
it  as  if  it  were  a fish,  or  seaweed,  or  some  such 
clammy  substance,  and  immediately  returned 
it  to  him  with  exalted  politeness. 

Dombey  and  Son , Chap.  5. 

AUSTERITY— The  selfishness  of. 

In  all  his  life,  he  had  never  made  a friend. 
His  cold  and  distant  nature  had  neither  sought 
one,  nor  found  one.  And  now,  when  that  na- 
ture concentrated  its  whole  force  so  strongly  on 
a partial  scheme  of  parental  interest  and  ambi- 
tion, it  seemed  as  if  its  icy  current,  instead  of 
being  released  by  this  influence,  and  running 
clear  and  free,  had  thawed  for  but  an  instant  to 
admit  its  burden,  and  then  frozen  with  it  into 
one  unyielding  block. 

Dombey  and  Son , Chap.  5. 

AUSTERITY— Its  influence  on  youth. 

“ I have  no  will.  That  is  to  say,”  he  colored 
a little,  “ next  to  none  that  I can  put  in  action 
now.  Trained  by  main  force  ; broken,  not 
bent ; heavily  ironed  with  an  object  on  which 
I was  never  consulted  and  which  was  never 
mine  ; shipped  away  to  the  other  end  of  the 
world  before  I was  of  age,  and  exiled  there  un- 
til my  father’s  death  there,  a year  ago  ; always 
grinding  in  a mill  I always  hated  ; what  is  to 
be  expected  from  me  in  middle  life?  Will, 
purpose,  hope?  All  those  lights  were  extin- 
guished before  I could  sound  the  words.” 

“ Light  ’em  up  again  !”  said  Mr.  Meagles. 

“ Ah ! Easily  said.  I am  the  son,  Mr. 
Meagles,  of  a hard  father  and  mother.  I am 
the  only  child  of  parents  who  weighed,  meas- 
ured, and  priced  everything  ; for  whom  what 
could  not  be  weighed,  measured,  and  priced, 
had  no  existence.  Strict  people,  as  the  phrase 
is,  professors  of  a stern  religion,  their  very  re- 
ligion was  a gloomy  sacrifice  of  tastes  and  sym- 
pathies that  were  never  their  own,  offered  up 
as  a part  of  a bargain  for  the  security  of  their 


possessions.  Austere  faces,  inexorable  disci- 
pline, penance  in  this  world  and  terror  in  the 
next — nothing  graceful  or  gentle  anywhere,  and 
the  void  in  my  cowed  heart  everywhere — this 
was  my  childhood,  if  I may  so  misuse  the  word 
as  to  apply  it  to  such  a beginning  of  life.” 

Little  Doirit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

AUSTERITY  IN  RELIGION— Mrs.  Clen- 

nam’s. 

Woe  to  the  suppliant,  if  such  a one  there 
were  or  ever  had  been,  who  had  any  concession 
to  look  for  in  the  inexorable  face  at  the  cabinet ! 
Woe  to  the  defaulter  whose  appeal  lay  to  the 
tribunal  where  those  severe  eyes  presided ! 
Great  need  had  the  rigid  woman  of  her  mysti- 
cal religion,  veiled  in  gloom  and  darkness,  with 
lightnings  of  cursing,  vengeance,  and  destruc- 
tion, flashing  through  the  sable  clouds.  For- 
give us  our  debts  as  we  forgive  our  debtors,  was 
a prayer  too  poor  in  spirit  for  her.  Smite  thou 
my  debtors,  Lord,  wither  them,  crush  them  ; do 
Thou  as  I would  do,  and  thou  shalt  have  my 
worship  : this  was  the  impious  tower  of  stone 
she  built  up  to  scale  Heaven. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  5. 

AUTHOR— His  loss  of  imaginary  friends. 

It  is  the  fate  of  most  men  who  mingle  with 
the  woi*ld,  and  attain  even  the  prime  of  life,  to 
make  many  real  friends,  and  lose  them  in  the 
course  of  nature.  It  is  the  fate  of  all  authors 
or  chroniclers  to  create  imaginary  friends,  and 
lose  them  in  the  course  of  art.  Nor  is  this  the 
full  extent  of  their  misfortunes  ; for  they  are 
required  to  furnish  an  account  of  them  besides. 

Pickwick , Chap.  57. 

AUTHOR-Mr.  Dick,  the  mad. 

“ I wish  you’d  go  up  stairs,”  said  my  aunt,  as 
she  threaded  her  needle,  “ and  give  my  compli- 
ments to  Mr.  Dick,  and  I’ll  be  glad  to  know 
how  he  gets  on  with  his  Memorial.” 

I went  up  stairs  with  my  message  ; thinking, 
as  I went,  that  if  Mr.  Dick  had  been  working 
at  his  Memorial  long,  at  the  same  rate  as  I had 
seen  him  working  at  it,  through  the  open  door, 
when  I came  down,  he  was  probably  getting  on 
very  well  indeed.  I found  him  still  driving  at 
it  with  a long  pen,  and  his  head  almost  laid 
upon  the  paper.  He  was  so  intent  upon  it, 
that  I had  ample  leisure  to  observe  the  large 
paper  kite  in  a corner,  the  confusion  of  bundles 
of  manuscript,  the  number  of  pens,  and,  above 
all,  the  quantity  of  ink  (which  he  seemed  to 
have  in,  in  half-gallon  jars,  by  the  dozen),  before 
he  observed  my  being  present. 

“ Ha  ! Phoebus  !”  said  Mr.  Dick,  laying  down 
his  pen.  “ How  does  the  world  go  ? I’ll  tell 
you  what,”  he  added  in  a lower  tone,  “ I 
shouldn’t  wish  it  to  be  mentioned,  but  it’s  a — ” 
here  he  beckoned  to  me,  and  put  his  lips  close 
to  my  ear — “ It’s  a mad  world.  Mad  as  Bed- 
lam, boy  !”  said  Mr.  Dick,  taking  snuff  from  a 
round  box  on  the  table,  and  laughing  heartily. 

Without  presuming  to  give  my  opinion  on 
this  question,  I delivered  my  message. 

“Well,”  said  Mr.  Dick,  in  answer,  “my  com- 
pliments to  her,  and  I — I believe  I have  made 
a start.  I think  I have  made  a start,”  said  Mi. 
Dick,  passing  his  hand  among  his  grey  hair,  and 
casting  anything  but  a confident  look  at  his 
manuscript.  “You  have  been  to  school?” 


AUTHOR,  MAD 


28 


AUTUMN  SCENERY 


“ Yes,  sir,”  I answered  ; “ for  a short  time.” 

“ Do  you  recollect  the  date,”  said  Mr.  Dick, 
looking  earnestly  at  me,  and  taking  up  his  pen 
to  note  it  down,  “ when  King  Charles  the  First 
had  his  head  cut  off?” 

I said  I believed  it  happened  in  the  year  six- 
teen hundred  and  forty-nine. 

“Well,”  returned  Mr.  Dick,  scratching  his 
ear  with  his  pen,  and  looking  dubiously  at  me, 
“ so  the  books  say  ; but  I dop’t  see  how  that 
can  be.  Because,  if  it  was  so  long  ago,  how 
could  the  people  about  him  have  made  that  mis- 
take of  putting  some  of  the  trouble  out  of  his 
head,  after  it  was  taken  off,  into  mine?" 
****** 

In  fact,  I found  out  afterwards  that  Mr.  Dick 
had  been  for  upwards  of  ten  years  endeavoring 
to  keep  King  Charles  the  First  out  of  the  Me- 
morial ; but  he  had  been  constantly  getting  into 
it,  and  was  there  now. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  14. 

AUTHOR,  MAD-Mr.  Dick’s  diffusion  of 
facts. 

I was  going  away,  when  he  directed  my  atten- 
tion to  the  kite. 

“ What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a kite  ?”  he 
said. 

I answered  that  it  was  a beautiful  one.  I 
snould  think  it  must  have  been  as  much  as  seven 
feet  high. 

“ I made  it.  We’ll  go  and  fly  it,  you  and  I,” 
said  Mr.  Dick.  ' “ Do  you  see  this?” 

He  showed  me  that  it  was  covered  with  man- 
uscript, very  closely  and  laboriously  written  ; 
but  so  plainly,  that  as  I looked  along  the  lines, 
I thought  I saw  some  allusion  to  King  Charles 
the  First’s  head  again,  in  one  or  two  places. 

“ There’s  plenty  of  string,”  said  Mr.  Dick, 
“ and  when  it  flies  high,  it  takes  the  facts  a long 
way.  That’s  my  manner  of  diffusing  ’em.  I 
don’t  know  where  they  may  come  down.  It’s 
according  to  circumstances,  and  the  wind,  and 
so  forth  ; but  I take  my  chances  of  that.” 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  14. 

AUTHORESS— Mi's.  Hominy,  an  American. 

Mrs.  Hominy  was  a philosopher  and  an  au- 
thoress, and  consequently  had  a pretty  strong 
digestion  ; but  this  coarse,  this  indecorous 
phrase,  was  almost  too  much  for  her.  For  a 
gentleman  sitting  alone  with  a lady — although 
the  door  was  open — to  talk  about  a naked  eye  ! 

A long  interval  elapsed  before  even  she, 
woman  of  masculine  and  towering  intellect 
though  she  was,  could  call  up  fortitude  enough 
to  resume  the  conversation.  But  Mrs.  Hominy 
was  a traveller.  Mrs.  Hominy  was  a writer  of 
reviews  and  analytical  disquisitions.  Mrs.  Hom- 
iny had  had  her  letters  from  abroad,  beginning 
“ My  ever  dearest  blank,”  and  signed  “ The 
Mother  of  the  Modern  Gracchi”  (meaning  the 
married  Miss  Hominy),  regularly  printed  in  a 
public  journal,  with  all  the  indignation  in  capi- 
tals, and  all  the  sarcasm  in  italics.  Mrs.  Homi- 
ny had  looked  on  foreign  countries  with  the  eye 
(if  a perfect  republican  hot  from  the  model 
oven;  and  Mrs.  Hominy  could  talk  for  write) 
about  them  by  the  hour  together.  So  Mrs.  Hom- 
ing at  last  came  down  on  Martin'heavily,  and  ns 
he  was  fast  asleep,  she  had  it  all  her  own  way, 
ami  bruised  him  to  her  heart’s  content. 

******* 


Martin  by  degrees  became  so  far  awake,  that 
he  had  a sense  of  a terrible  oppression  on  his 
mind  ; an  imperfect  dream  that  he  had  murder- 
ed a particular  friend,  and  couldn’t  get  rid  of 
the  body.  When  his  eyes  opened  it  was  staring 
him  full  in  the  face.  There  was  the  horrible  Hom- 
iny, talking  deep  truths  in  a melodious  snuffle, 
and  pouring  forth  her  mental  endowments  to 
such  an  extent  that  the  Major’s  bitterest  ene- 
my, hearing  her,  would  have  forgiven  him 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  Martin  might 
have  done  something  desperate  if  the  gong  had 
not  sounded  for  supper  ; but  sound  it  did  most 
opportunely  ; and  having  stationed  Mrs.  Hom- 
iny at  the  upper  end  of  the  table,  he  took  refuge 
at  the  lower  end  himself ; whence,  after  a hasty 
meal,  he  stole  away,  while  the  lady  was  yet 
busied  with  dried  beef  and  a saucer-full  of 
pickled  fixings. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  give  an  adequate  idea 
of  Mrs.  Hominy’s  freshness  next  day,  or  of  the 
avidity  with  which  she  went  headlong  into  mor- 
al philosophy,  at  breakfast.  Some  little  addi- 
tional degree  of  asperity,  perhaps,  was  visible 
in  her  features,  but  not  more  than  the  pickles 
would  have  naturally  produced.  All  that  day 
she  clung  to  Martin.  .She  sat  beside  him  while 
he  received  his  friends  (for  there  was  another 
Reception  yet  more  numerous  than  the  former), 
propounded  theories  and  answered  imaginary  ob- 
jections, so  that  Martin  really  began  to  think 
he  must  be  dreaming,  and  speaking  for  two  ; 
she  quoted  interminable  passages  from  cer- 
tain essays  on  government,  written  by  herself ; 
used  the  Major’s  pocket-handkerchief  as  if  the 
snuffle  were  a temporary  malady,  of  which  she 
was  determined  to  rid  herself  by  some  means  or 
other  ; and,  in  short,  was  such  a remarkable 
companion,  that  Martin  quite  settled  it  between 
himself  and  his  conscience,  that  in  any  new  set- 
tlement it  would  be  absolutely  necessary  to 
have  such  a person  knocked  on  the  head  for  the 
general  peace  of  society. 

Martin  Chilzzlewit , Chap.  22. 

AUTUMN  SCENERY. 

It  was  a warm  autumn  afternoon,  and  there 
had  been  heavy  rain.  The  sun  burst  suddenly 
from  among  the  clouds  ; and  the  old  battle-’ 
ground,  sparkling  brilliantly  and  cheerfully  at 
sight  of  it  in  one  green  place,  flashed  a respon- 
sive welcome  there,  which  spread  along  the 
country  side  as  if  a joyful  beacon  had  been 
lighted  up,  and  answered  from  a thousand  sta- 
tions. 

How  beautiful  the  landscape  kindling  in  the 
light,  and  that  luxuriant  influence  passing  on 
like  a celestial  presence,  brightening  everything  ! 
The  wood,  a sombre  mass  before,  revealed  its 
varied  tints  of  yellow,  green,  brown,  red  ; its 
different  forms  of  trees,  with  raindrops  glitter- 
ing on  their  leaves  and  twinkling  as  they  fell. 
The  verdant  meadow-land,  bright  and  glowing, 
seemed  as  if  it  had  been  blind,  a minute  since, 
and  now  had  found  a sense  of  sight  wherewith 
to  look  up  at  the  shining  sky.  Cornfields,  hedge- 
rows, fences,  homesteads,  the  clustered  roofs, 
the  steeple  of  the  church,  the  stream,  the  water- 
mill, all  sprang  out  of  the  gloomy  darkness 
smiling.  Birds  sang  sweetly,  flowers  raised 
their  drooping  heads,  fresh  scents  arose  from 
the  invigorated  ground  ; the  blue  expanse  above 
extended  and  diffused  itself;  already  the  sun’s 


AUTUMN 


29 


AVARICE 


slanting  rays  pierced  mortally  the  sullen  bank 
of  cloud  that  lingered  in  its  flight  ; and  a rain- 
bow, spirit  of  all  the  colors  that  adorned  the 
earth  and  sky,  spanned  the  whole  arch  with  its 
triumphant  glory. — Battle  of  Life , Chap.  3. 

AUTUMN- Wind  at  twilight. 

Not  only  is  the  day  waning,  but  the  year. 
The  low  sun  is  fiery  and  yet  cold  behind  the 
monastery  ruin,  and  the  Virginia  creeper  on  the 
Cathedral  wall  has  showered  half  its  deep-red 
leaves  down  on  the  pavement.  There  has  been 
rain  this  afternoon,  and  a wintry  shudder  goes 
among  the  little  pools  on  the  cracked,  uneven 
flag-stones,  and  through  the  giant  elm-trees  as 
they  shed  a gust  of  tears.  Their  fallen  1(^1  ves 
lie  strewn  thickly  about.  Some  of  these  leaves, 
in  a timid  rush,  seek  sanctuary  within  the  low- 
arched  Cathedral  door. 

Edwin  Droed,  Chap.  2. 

AUTUMN-Nature  in. 

It  was  pretty  late  in  the  autumn  of  the  year, 
when  the  declining  sun,  struggling  through  the 
mist  which  had  obscured  it  all  day,  looked 
brightly  down  upon  a little  Wiltshire  village, 
within  an  easy  journey  of  the  fair  old  town  of 
Salisbury. 

Like  a sudden  flash  of  memory  or  spirit  kin- 
dling up  the  mind  of  an  old  man,  it  shed  a 
glory  upon  the  scene,  in  which  its  departed 
youth  and  freshness  seemed  to  live  again.  The 
wet  grass  sparkled  in  the  light ; the  scanty 
patches  of  verdure  in  the  hedges — where  a few 
green  twigs  yet  stood  together  bravely,  resisting 
to  the  last  the  tyranny  of  nipping  winds  and 
early  frosts — took  heart  and  brightened  up  ; the 
stream  which  had  been  dull  and  sullen  all  day 
long,  broke  out  into  a cheerful  smile  ; the  birds 
began  to  chirp  and  twitter  on  the  naked  boughs, 
as  though  the  hopeful  creatures  half  believed 
that  winter  had  gone  by,  and  spring  had  come 
already.  The  vane  upon  the  tapering  spire  of 
the  old  church  glistened  from  its  lofty  station  in 
sympathy  with  the  general  gladness  ; and  from 
the  ivy-shaded  windows  such  gleams  of  light 
shone  back  upon  the  glowing  sky,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  the  quiet  buildings  were  the  hoarding- 
place  of  twenty  summers,  and  all  their  ruddi- 
ness and  warmth  were  stored  within. 

Even  those  tokens  of  the  season  which  em- 
phatically whispered  of  the  coming  winter, 
graced  the  landscape,  and,  for  the  moment, 
tinged  its  livelier  features  with  no  oppressive  air 
of  sadness.  The  fallen  leaves,  with  which  the 
ground  was  strewn,  gave  forth  a pleasant  fra- 
grance, and  subduing  all  harsh  sounds  of  dis- 
tant feet  and  wheels,  created  a repose  in  gentle 
unison  with  the  light  scattering  of  seed  hither 
and  thither  by  the  distant  husbandman,  and 
with  the  noiseless  passage  of  the  plough  as  it 
turned  up  the  rich  brown  earth,  and  wrought  a 
graceful  pattern  in  the  stubbled  fields.  On  the 
motionless  branches  of  some  trees,  autumn  ber- 
ries hung  like  clusters  of  coral  beads,  as  in 
those  fabled  orchards  where  the  fruits  were  jew- 
els ; others,  stripped  of  all  their  garniture, 
stood,  each  the  centre  of  its  little  heap  of  bright 
red  leaves,  watching  their  slow  decay ; others 
again,  still  wearing  theirs,  had  them  all  crunched 
and  crackled  up,  as  though  they  had  been  burnt  ; 
about  the  stems  of  some  were  piled,  in  ruddy 
mounds,  the  apples  they  had  borne  that  year  ; 


while  others  (hardy  evergreens  this  class) 
showed  somewhat  stern  and  gloomy  in  their 
vigor,  as  charged  by  nature  with  the  admonition 
that  it  is  not  to  her  more  sensitive  and  joyous 
favorites  she  grants  the  longest  term  of  life. 
Still,  athwart  their  darker  boughs,  the  sunbeams 
struck  out  paths  of  deeper  gold  ; and  the  red 
light,  mantling  in  among  their  swarthy  branches, 
used  them  as  foils  to  set  its  brightness  off,  and 
aid  the  lustre  of  the  dying  day. 

Martin  Chazzlewit,  Chap.  2. 

AUTUMN— The  voices  of  nature. 

On  a healthy  autumn  day,  the  Marshalsea 
prisoner,  weak,  but  otherwise  restored,  sat 
listening  to  a voice  that  read  to  him.  On  a 
healthy  autumn  day ; when  the  golden  fields 
had  been  reaped  and  ploughed  again,  when  the 
summer  fruits  had  ripened  and  waned,  when 
the  green  perspectives  of  hops  had  been  laid 
low  by  the  busy  pickers,  when  the  apples  clus- 
tering in  the  orchards  were  russet,  and  the  ber- 
ries of  the  mountain  ash  were  crimson  among 
the  yellowing  foliage.  Already,  in  the  woods, 
glimpses  of  the  hardy  winter  that  was  coming, 
were  to  be  caught  through  unaccustomed  open- 
ings among  the  boughs,  where  the  prospect 
shone  defined  and  clear,  free  from  the  bloom 
of  the  drowsy  summer  weather,  which  had  rest- 
ed on  it  as  the  bloom  lies  on  the  plum.  So,  from 
the  sea-shore  the  ocean  was  no  longer  to  be 
seen  lying  asleep  in  the  heat,  but  its  thousand 
sparkling  eyes  were  open,  and  its- whole  breadth 
was  in  joyful  animation,  from  the  cool  sand  on 
the  beach  to  the  little  sails  on  the  horizon, 
drifting  away  like  autumn-tinted  leaves  that 
had  drifted  from  the  trees. 

Changeless  and  barren,  looking  ignorantly  at 
all  the  seasons  with  its  fixed,  pinched  face  of 
poverty  and  care,  the  prison  had  not  a touch 
of  any  of  these  beauties  on  it.  Blossom  what 
would,  its  bricks  and  bars  bore  uniformly  the 
same  dead  crop.  Yet  Clennam,  listening  to  the 
voice  as  it  read  to  him,  heard  in  it  all  that  great 
Nature  was  doing,  heard  in  it  all  the  soothing 
songs  she  sings  to  man.  At  no  Mother’s  knee 
but  hers  had  he  ever  dwelt  in  his  youth  on 
hopeful  promises,  on  playful  fancies,  on  the 
harvests  of  tenderness  and  humility  that  lie 
hidden  in  the  early-fostered  seeds  of  the  im- 
agination ; on  the  oaks  of  retreat  from  blight- 
ing winds,  that  have  the  germs  of  their  strong 
roots  in  nursery  acorns.  But,  in  the  tones  of 
the  voice  that  read  to  him,  there  were  memo- 
ries of  an  old  feeling  of  such  things,  and  echoes 
of  every  merciful  and  loving  whisper  that  had 
ever  stolen  to  him  in  his  life. 

Little  Dorrit,  Chap.  34. 

AVARICE— The  miser. 

A little  further  on,  a hard-featured  old  man 
with  a deeply  wrinkled  face,  was  intently  pe- 
rusing a lengthy  will,  with  the  aid  of  a pair  of 
horn  spectacles  ; occasionally  pausing  from  his 
task,  and  slily  noting  down  some  brief  memo- 
randum of  the  bequests  contained  in  it.  Every 
wrinkle  about  his  toothless  mouth,  and  sharp 
keen  eyes,  told  of  avarice  and  cunning.  His 
clothes  were  nearly  threadbare,  but  it  was  easy 
to  see  that  he  wore  them  from  choice  and  not 
from  necessity ; all  his  looks  and  gestures, 
down  to  the  very  small  pinches  of  snuff  which 
he  every  now  and  then  took  from  a little  tin 


AVARICE 


30 


BABY 


canister,  told  of  wealth,  and  penury,  and 
Avarice. — Scenes , Chap . 8. 

AVARICE— Fledg-eby,  the  young-  miser. 

Whether  this  young  gentleman  (for  he  was 
but  three-and-twenty)  combined  with  the  miserly 
vice  of  an  old  man  any  of  the  open-handed 
vices  of  a young  one,  was  a moot  point ; so 
very  honorably  did  he  keep  his  own  counsel. 
He  was  sensible  of  the  value  of  appearances  as 
an  investment,  and  liked  to  dress  well ; but  he 
drove  a bargain  for  every  moveable  about  him, 
from  the  coat  on  his  back  to  the  china  on  his 
breakfast-table  ; and  every  bargain,  by  repre- 
senting somebody’s  ruin  or  somebody’s  loss, 
acquired  a peculiar  charm  for  him.  It  was  a 
part  of  his  avarice  to  take,  within  narrow 
bounds,  long  odds  at  races  ; if  he  won,  he 
drove  harder  bargains ; if  he  lost,  he  half 
starved  himself  until  next  time.  Why  money 
should  be  so  precious  to  an  Ass  too  dull  and 
mean  to  exchange  it  for  any  other  satisfaction, 
is  strange : but  there  is  no  animal  so  sure  to 
get  laden  with  it  as  the  Ass  who  sees  nothing 
written  on  the  face  of  the  earth  and  sky  but  the 
three  letters  L.  S.  D. — not  Luxury,  Sensuality, 
Dissoluteness,  which  they  often  stand  for,  but 
the  three  dry  letters.  Your  concentrated  Fox  is 
seldom  comparable  to  your  concentrated  Ass  in 
money-breeding. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  //.,  Chap.  5. 

AVARICE  AND  CUNNING. 

There  is  a simplicity  of  cunning  no  less  than 
a simplicity  of  innocence  ; and  in  all  matters 
where  a lively  faith  in  knavery  and  meanness 
was  required  as  the  ground-work  of  belief,  Mr. 
Jonas  was  one  of  the  most  credulous  of  men. 
His  ignorance,  which  was  stupendous,  may  be 
taken  into  account,  if  the  reader  pleases,  sep- 
arately. 

This  fine  young  man  had  all  the  inclination 
to  be  a profligate  of  the  first  water,  and  only 
lacked  the  one  good  trait  in  the  common  cata- 
logue of  debauched  vices — open-handedness — 
to  be  a notable  vagabond.  But  there  his  grip- 
ing and  penurious  habits  stepped  in  ; and  as 
one  poison  will  sometimes  neutralize  another, 
vhen  wholesome  remedies  would  not  avail,  so 
he  was  restrained  by  a bad  passion  from  quaf- 
fing his  full  measure  of  evil,  when  virtue  might 
have  sought  to  hold  him  back  in  vain. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  11. 

AVARICE— And  heartlessness. 

The  education  of  Mr.  Jonas  had  been  con- 
ducted from  his  cradle  on  the  strictest  princi- 
ples of  the  main  chance.  The  very  first  word 
he  learnt  to  spell  was  “gain,”  and  the  second 
(when  he  got  into  two  syllables),  “money.” 
But  for  two  results,  which  were  not  clearly 
foreseen  perhaps  by  his  watchful  parent  in  the 
beginning,  his  training  may  be  said  to  have 
been  unexceptionable.  One  of  these  flaws  was, 
that  having  been  long  taught  by  his  father  to 
overreach  everybody,  he  had  imperceptibly 
acquired  a love  of  overreaching  that  venerable 
monitor  himself.  The  other,  that  from  his  early 
habits  of  considering  everything  as  a question 
of  property,  he  had  gradually  come  to  look 
with  impatience  on  his  parent,  as  a certain 
amount  of  personal  estate,  which  had  no  right 
whatever  to  be  going  at  large,  but  ought  to  be 


secured  in  that  particular  description  of  iron 
safe  which  is  commonly  called  a coffin,  and 
banked  in  the  grave. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  8. 

AW  AKE— Lying-. 

“My  uncle  lay  with  his  eyes  half  closed,  and  his 
nightcap  drawn  almost  down  to  his  nose.  Ilis 
fancy  was  already  wandering,  and  began  to 
mingle  up  the  present  scene  with  the  crater  of 
Vesuvius,  the  French  Opera,  the  Coliseum  at 
Rome,  Dolly’s  Chop-house  in  London,  and  all 
the  farrago  of  noted  places  with  which  the 
brain  of  a traveller  is  crammed  ; in  a word, 
he  was  just  falling  asleep.” 

Thus,  that  delightful  writer,  Washington 
Irving,  in  his  Tales  of  a Traveller.  But,  it 
happened  to  me  the  other  night  to  be  lying, 
not  with  my  eyes  half  closed,  but  with  my  eyes 
wide  open  ; not  with  my  nightcap  drawn  almost 
down  to  my  nose,  for  on  sanitary  principles  I 
never  wear  a nightcap : but  with  my  hair 
pitchforked  and  touzled  all  over  the  pillow  ; 
not  just  falling  asleep  by  any  means,  but  glar- 
ingly,  persistently,  and  obstinately  broad 
awake.  Perhaps,  with  no  scientific  intention  or 
invention,  I was  illustrating  the  theory  of  the 
Duality  of  the  Brain  ; perhaps  one  part  of  my 
brain,  being  wakeful,  sat  up  to  watch  the  other 
part,  which  was  sleepy.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
something  in  me  was  as  desirous  to  go  to  sleep 
as  it  possibly  could  be,  but  something  else  in 
me  would  not  go  to  sleep,  and  was  as  obstinate 
as  George  the  Third. 

Lying  Awake.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

AWE. 

That  solemn  feeling  with  which  we  contem- 
plate the  work  of  ages  that  have  become  but 
drops  of  water  in  the  great  ocean  of  eternity. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  52. 


B 

BABY— Its  martyrdom— Mr.  Meeks’s  pro- 
test. 

The  voice  of  Nature  cries  aloud  in  behalf  of 
Augustus  George,  my  infant  son.  It  is  for  him 
that  I wish  to  utter  a few  plaintive  household 
words.  I am  not  at  all  angry  ; I am  mild — but 
miserable. 

I wish  to  know  why,  when  my  child,  Augus- 
tus George,  was  expected  in  our  circle,  a provi- 
sion of  pins  was  made,  as  if  the  little  stranger 
was  a criminal  who  was  to  be  put  to  the  torture 
immediately  on  his  arrival,  instead  of  a holy 
babe  ? I wish  to  know  why  haste  was  made  to 
stick  those  pins  all  over  his  innocent  form,  in 
every  direction  ? I wish  to  be  informed  why 
light  and  air  are  excluded  from  Augustus  George, 
like  poisons?  Why,  1 ask,  is  my  unoffending 
infant  so  hedged  into  a basket-bedstead,  with 
dimity  and  calico,  with  miniature  sheets  and 
blankets,  that  I can  only  hear  him  snuffle  (and 
no  wonder  !)  deep  dowri  under  the  pink  hood 
of  a little  bathing-machine,  and  can  never  pe- 
ruse even  so  much  of  his  lineaments  as  his  nose. 

Was  I expected  to  be  the  father  of  a French 
Roll,  that  the  brushes  of  All  Nations  were  laid 


BABY 


31 


BABY 


in,  to  rasp  Augustus  George?  Am  I to  be  told 
that  his  sensitive  skin  was  ever  intended  by  Na- 
ture to  have  rashes  brought  out  upon  it,  by  the 
premature  and  incessant  use  of  those  formida- 
ble little  instruments  ? 

Is  my  son  a Nutmeg,  that  he  is  to  be  grated 
on  the  stiff  edges  of  sharp  frills?  Am  I the 
parent  of  a Muslin  boy,  that  his  yielding  sur- 
face is  to  be  crimped  and  small-plaited  ? Or  is 
my  child  composed  of  Paper  or  of  Linen,  that 
impressions  of  the  finer  getting-up  art,  prac- 
tised by  the  laundress,  are  to  be  printed  off,  all 
over  his  soft  arms  and  legs,  as  I constantly  ob- 
serve them  ? The  starch  enters  his  soul  ; who 
can  wonder  that  he  cries  ? 

Was  Augustus  George  intended  to  have 
limbs,  or  to  be  born  a Torso?  I presume  that 
limbs  were  the  intention,  as  they  are  the  usual 
practice.  Then,  why  are  my  poor  child’s  limbs 
fettered  and  tied  up?  Am  I to  be  told  that 
there  is  any  analogy  between  Augustus  George 
Meek  and  Jack  Sheppard? 

Analyse  Castor  Oil  at  any  Institution  of 
Chemistry  that  may  be  agreed  upon,  and  inform 
me  what  resemblance,  in  taste,  it  bears  to  that 
natural  provision  which  it  is  at  once  the  pride 
and  duty  of  Maria  Jane  to  administer  to  Au- 
gustus George ! Yet  I charge  Mrs.  Prodgit 
(aided  and  abetted  by  Mrs.  Bigby)  with  system- 
atically forcing  Castor  Oil  on  my  innocent  son, 
from  the  first  hour  of  his  birth.  When  that 
medicine,  in  its  efficient  action,  causes  internal 
disturbance  to  Augustus  George,  I charge  Mrs. 
Prodgit  (aided  and  abetted  by  Mrs.  Bigby)  with 
insanely  and  inconsistently  administering  opium 
to  allay  the  storm  she  has  raised  ! What  is  the 
meaning  of  this? 

If  the  days  of  Egyptian  Mummies  are  past, 
how  dare  Mrs.  Prodgit  require,  for  the  use  of 
my  son,  an  amount  of  flannel  and  linen  that 
would  carpet  my  humble  roof?  Do  I wonder 
that  she  requires  it?  No!  This  morning, 
within  an  hour,  I beheld  this  agonising  sight. 
I beheld  my  son — Augustus  George — in  Mrs. 
Prodgit’s  hands,  and  on  Mrs.  Prodgit’s  knee, 
being  dressed.  He  was  at  the  moment,  com- 
paratively speaking,  in  a state-of  nature  : hav- 
ing nothing  on  but  an  extremely  short  shirt, 
remarkably  disproportionate  to  the  length  of 
his  usual  outer  garments.  Trailing  from  Mrs. 
Prodgit’s  lap,  on  the  floor,  was  a long  narrow 
roller  or  bandage — I should  say  of  several  yards 
in  extent.  In  this,  I SAW  Mrs.  Prodgit  tightly 
roll  the  body  of  my  unoffending  infant,  turning 
him  over  and  over,  now  presenting  his  uncon- 
scious face  upwards,  now  the  back  of  his  bald 
head,  until  the  unnatural  feat  was  accomplished, 
and  the  bandage  secured  by  a pin,  which  I have 
every  reason  to  believe  entered  the  body  of  my 
only  child.  In  this  tourniquet  he  passes  the 
present  phase  of  his  existence.  Can  I know  it 
and  smile  ? 

1 fear  I have  been  betrayed  into  expressing 
myself  warmly,  but  I feel  deeply.  Not  for  my- 
self; for  Augustus  George.  I dare  not  inter- 
fere. Will  any  one?  Will  any  publication? 
Any  doctor  ? Any  parent  ? Any  body  ? I do 
not  complain  that  Mrs.  Prodgit  (aided  and  abet- 
ted by  Mrs.  Bigby)  entirely  alienates  Maria 
Jane’s  affections  from  me,  and  interposes  an 
impassable  barrier  between  us.  1 do  not  com- 
plain of  being  made  of  no  account.  I do  not 
w,ant  to  be  of  anv  account.  But,  Augustus 


George  is  a production  of  Nature  (I  cannot 
think  otherwise),  and  I claim  that  he  should  be 
treated  with  some  remote  reference  to  Nature. 
In  my  opinion,  Mrs.  Prodgit  is,  from  first  to 
last,  a convention  and  a superstition. 

Births — Mrs.  Meek. — Repainted  Pieces. 

BABY— Description  of  a. 

One  of  those  little  carved  representations 
that  one  sometimes  sees  blowing  a trumpet  on 
a tombstone  ! — Tales , Bloomsbury  Christening. 

A weazen  little  baby,  with  a heavy  head  that 
it  couldn’t  hold  up,  and  two  weak,  staring  eyes, 
with  which  it  seemed  to  be  always  wondering 
why  it  had  ever  been  born. 

David  Co pp erf. eld.  Chap.  22. 

BABY— His  welcome  of  pins. 

The  fatherless  little  stranger  was  welcomed  by 
some  grosses  of  prophetic  pins  in  a drawer  up- 
stairs, to  a world  not  at  all  excited  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  arrival. — David  Copper  field,  Chap.  i. 

BABY  TALK. 

A mechanical  power  of  reproducing  scraps 
of  current  conversation  for  the  delectation  of 
the  baby,  with  all  the  sense  struck  out  of  them, 
and  all  the  nouns  changed  into  the  plural  num- 
ber.— Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  i. 

BABY— The  birth  of  a. 

There  are  certain  polite  forms  and  ceremo- 
nies which  must  be  observed  in  civilized  life,  or 
mankind  relapse  into  their  original  barbarism. 
No  genteel  lady  was  ever  yet  confined — indeed, 
no  genteel  confinement  can  possibly  take  place 
— without  the  accompanying  symbol  of  a muf- 
fled knocker.  Mrs.  Kenwigs  was  a lady  of 
some  pretensions  to  gentility  ; Mrs.  Kenwigs 
was  confined.  And,  thei'efore,  Mr.  Kenwigs 
tied  up  the  silent  knocker  on  the  premises  in  a 
white  kid  glove. 

“ I’m  not  quite  certain,  neither,”  said  Mr. 
Kenwigs,  arranging  his  shirt-collar,  and  walk- 
ing slowly  up-stairs,  “ whether,  as  it’s  a boy,  I 
won’t  have  it  in  the  papers.” 

Pondering  upon  the  advisability  of  this  step, 
and  the  sensation  it  was  likely  to  create  in  the 
neighborhood,  Mr.  Kenwigs  betook  himself  to 
the  sitting-room,  where  various  extremely 
diminutive  articles  of  clothing  were  airing  on 
a horse  before  the  fire,  and  Mr.  Lumbey,  the 
doctor,  was  dandling  the  baby — that  is,  the  old 
baby — not  the  new  one. 

“ It’s  a fine  boy,  Mr.  Kenwigs,”  said  Mr.  Lum- 
bey, the  doctor. 

You  consider  him  a fine  boy,  do  you,  sir?” 
returned  Mr.  Kenwigs. 

“ It’s  the  finest  boy  I ever  saw  in  all  my  life,” 
said  the  doctor.  “ I never  saw  such  a baby.” 

It  is  a pleasant  thing  to  reflect  upon,  and  fur- 
nishes a complete  answer  to  those  who  contend 
for  the  gradual  degeneration  of  the  human 
species,  that  every  baby  born  into  the  world  i° 
a finer  one  than  the  last. 

Hie  ho  las  Nickleby,  Chap.  36. 

B ABY— Cutting-  teeth. 

It  was  a peculiarity  of  this  baby  to  be 
always  cutting  teeth.  Whether  they  never  came, 
or  whether  they  came  and  went  away  again,  is 
not  in  evidence  ; but  it  had  certainly  cut 


BABY 


32 


BABY 


enough,  on  the  showing  of  Mrs.  Tetterby,  to 
make  a handsome  dental  provision  for  the  sign 
of  the  Bull  and  Mouth.  All  sorts  of  objects 
were  impressed  for  the  rubbing  of  its  gums, 
notwithstanding  that  it  always  carried,  dang- 
ling at  its  waist  (which  was  immediately  under 
its  chin),  a bone  ring,  large  enough  to  have  rep- 
resented the  rosary  of  a young  nun.  Knife- 
handles,  umbrella-tops,  the  heads  of  walking- 
sticks  selected  from  the  stock,  the  fingers  of 
the  family  in  general,  but  especially  of  John- 
ny, nutmeg-graters,  crusts,  the  handles  of  doors, 
and  the  cool  knobs  on  the  tops  of  pokers,  were 
among  the  commonest  instruments  indiscrimi- 
nately applied  for  this  baby’s  relief.  The 
amount  of  electricity  that  must  have  been 
rubbed  out  of  it  in  a week,  is  not  to  be  calcu- 
lated. Still  Mrs.  Tetterby  always  said  “ it  was 
coming  through,  and  then  the  child  would  be 
herself ; ” and  still  it  never  did  come  through, 
and  the  child  continued  to  be  somebody  else. 

Christmas  Stories , The  Haunted  Man , Chap.  3. 

BABY— A patient. 

A poor  little  baby — such  a tiny  old-faced 
mite,  with  a countenance  that  seemed  to  be 
scarcely  anything  but  cap-border,  and  a little 
lean,  long-fingered  hand,  always  clenched  under 
its  chin.  It  would  lie  in  this  attitude  all  day, 
with  its  bright  specks  of  eyes  open,  wondering 
(as  I used  to  imagine)  how  it  came  to  be  so 
small  and  weak.  Whenever  it  was  moved  it 
cried.;  but  at  all  other  times  it  was.  so  patient, 
that  the  sole  desire  of  its  life  appeared  to  be, 
to  lie  quiet,  and  think.  It  had  curious  little 
dark  veins  in  its  face,  and  curious  little 
dark  marks  under  its  eyes,  like  faint  remem- 
brances of  poor  Caddy’s  inky  days  ; and  al- 
together, to  those  who  were  not  used  to  it,  it 
w'as  quite  a piteous  little  sight. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  50. 

BABY— Announcement  of  a. 

As  he  bent  his  face  to  hers,  she  raised  hers  to 
meet  it,  and  laid  her  little  right  hand  on  his 
eyes,  and  kept  it  there. 

“ Do  you  remember,  John,  on  the  day  we 
were  married,  Pa’s  speaking  of  the  ships  that 
might  be  sailing  towards  us.  from  the  unknown 
seas  ? ” 

“ Perfectly,  my  darling  !” 

“ I think among  them there  is 

a ship  upon  the  ocean bringing to 

you  and  me a little  baby,  John.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  IV.,  Chap.  5. 

BABY— “ Dot’s.” 

“ I wish  you  wouldn’t  call  me  Dot,  John.  I 
don’t  like  it,”  said  Mrs.  Peerybingle,  pouting  in 
a way  that  clearly  showed  she  did  like  it,  very 
much. 

“ Why,  what  else  arc  you!”  returned  John, 
looking  down  upon  her  with  a smile,  and  giving 
hei  waist  as  light  a queeze  as  his  huge  hand  and 
arm  could  give.  “ A dot  and  ” — here  he  glanc- 
ed at  the  baby — “ a dot  and  carry — I won’t  say 
it,  for  fear  I should  spoil  it ; but  I was  very 
near  a joke.  I don’t  know  as  ever  I was  nearer.” 

lie  was  often  near  to  something  or  other  very 
h 1 1 1 own  account : this  lumbering, 
slow,  honest  John  ; this  John,  so  heavy,  but  so 
light  of  spirit  ; so  rough  upon  the  surface,  but 
so  gentle  at  the  core  ; so  dull  without,  so  quick 


within  ; so  stolid,  but  so  good  ! Oh,  Mother  Na- 
ture, give  thy  children  the  true  poetry  of  heart 
that  hid  itself  in  this  poor  Carrier’s  breast — he 
was  but  a Carrier,  by  the  way — and  we  can 
bear  to  have  them  talking  prose,  and  leading 
lives  of  prose  ; and  bear  to  bless  thee  for  their 
company. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  Dot,  with  her  little 
figure,  and  her  baby  in  her  arms — a very  doll  of 
a baby — glancing  with  a coquettish  thoughtful- 
ness at  the  fire,  and  inclining  her  delicate  little 
head  just  enough  on  one  side  to  let  it  rest  in  an 
odd,  half-natural,  half-affected,  wholly  nestling 
and  agreeable  manner,  on  the  great  rugged 
figure  of  the  Carrier.  It  was  pleasant  to  see 
him,  with  his  tender  awkwardness,  endeavoring 
to  adapt  his  rude  support  to  her  slight  need, 
and  make  his  burly  middle-age  a leaning-staff 
not  inappropriate  to  her  blooming  youth.  It 
was  pleasant  to  observe  how  Tilly  Slowboy, 
waiting  in  the  background  for  the  baby,  took 
special  cognizance  (though  in  her  earliest  teens) 
of  this  grouping  ; and  stood  with  her  mouth 
and  eyes  wide  open,  and  her  head  thrust  for- 
ward, taking  it  in  as  if  it  were  air.  Nor  was  it 
less  agreeable  to  observe  how  John  the  Carrier, 
reference  being  made  by  Dot  to  the  aforesaid 
baby,  checked  his  hand  when  on  the  point  of 
touching  the  infant,  as  if  he  thought  he  might 
crack  it ; and  bending  down,  surveyed  it  from 
a safe  distance,  with  a kind  of  puzzled  pride, 
such  as  an  amiable  mastiff  might  be  supposed 
to  show,  if  he  found  himself,  one  day,  the 
father  of  a young  canary. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  Chap.  1. 

BABY-A  Moloch  of  a. 

Another  little  boy — the  biggest  there,  but 
still  little — was  tottering  to  and  fro,  bent  on 
one  side,  and  considerably  affected  in  his 
knees  by  the  weight  of  a large  baby,  which  he 
was  supposed,  by  a fiction  that  obtains  some- 
times in  sanguine  families,  to  be  hushing  to 
sleep.  But  oh  ! the  inexhaustible  regions  of 
contemplation  and  watchfulness  into  which  this 
baby’s  eyes  were  then  only  beginning  to  com- 
pose themselves  to  stare,  over  his  unconscious 
shoulder ! 

It  was  a very  Moloch  of  a baby,  on  whose 
insatiate  altar  the  whole  existence  of  this  par- 
ticular young  brother  was  offered  up  a daily 
sacrifice.  Its  personality  may  be  said  to  have 
consisted  in  its  never  being  quiet,  in  any  one 
place,  for  five  consecutive  minutes,  and  never 
going  to  sleep  when,  required.  “ T etterby’s 
baby,”  vras  as  well  known  in  the  neighborhood 
as  the  postman  or  the  pot-boy.  It  roved  from 
door- step  to  door-step,  in  the  arms  of  little 
Johnny  Tetterby,  and  lagged  heavily  at  the 
rear  of  troops  of  juveniles  who  followed  the  Tum- 
blers or  the  Monkey,  and  came  up,  all  on  one 
side,  a little  too  late  for  everything  that  was 
attractive,  from  Monday  morning  until  Satur- 
day night.  Wherever  childhood  congregated  to 
play,  there  was  little  Moloch  making  Johnny 
fag  and  toil.  Wherever  Johnny  desired  to 
stay,  little  Moloch  became  fractious,  and  would 
not  remain.  Whenever  Johnny  wanted  to  go 
out,  Moloch  was  asleep,  and  must  be  watched. 
Whenever  Johnny  wanted  to  stay  at  home, 
Moloch  was  awake,  and  must  be  taken  out. 
Yet  Johnny  was  verily  persuaded  that  it  was  a 
faultless  baby,  without  its  peer  in  the  realm  of 


BACHELORS 


33 


BACHELOR  BAGSTOCK 


England  ; and  was  quite  content  to  catch  meek 
glimpses  of  things  in  general  from  behind  its 
skirts,  or  over  its  limp  flapping  bonnet,  and  to 
go  staggering  about  with  it  like  a very  little 
porter  with  a very  large  parcel,  which  was  not 
directed  to  anybody,  and  could  never  be  deliv- 
ered anywhere. 

Christmas  Stories.  The  Haunted  Man,  Chap.  2. 

BACHELORS— In  society. 

These  are  generally  old  fellows  with  white 
heads  and  red  faces,  addicted  to  port  wine  and 
Hessian  boots,  who  from  some  cause,  real  or 
imaginary — generally  the  former,  the  excellent 
reason  being  that  they  are  rich,  and  their  rela- 
tions poor — grow  suspicious  of  everybody,  and 
do  the  misanthropical  in  chambers,  taking  great 
delight  in  thinking  themselves  unhappy,  and 
making  everybody  they  come  near,  miserable. 
You  may  see  such  men  as  these,  anywhere  ; you 
will  know  them  at  coffee-houses  by  their  discon- 
tented exclamations  and  the  luxury  of  their  din- 
ners ; at  theatres,  by  their  always  sitting  in  the 
same  place  and  looking  with  a jaundiced  eye  on 
all  the  young  people  near  them  ; at  church,  by 
the  pomposity  with  which  they  enter,  and  the 
loud  tone  in  which  they  repeat  the  responses  ; 
at  parties,  by  their  getting  cross  at  whist  and 
hating  music.  An  old  fellow  of  this  kind  will 
have  his  chambers  splendidly  furnished,  and 
collect  books,  plate,  and  pictures  about  him  in 
profusion  ; not  so  much  for  his  own  gratification 
as  to  be  superior  to  those  who  have  the  desire, 
but  not  the  means,  to  compete  with  him.  He 
belongs  to  two  or  three  clubs,  and  is  envied,  and 
flattered,  and  hated  by  the  members  of  them 
all.  Sometimes  he  will  be  appealed  to  by  a 
poor  relation — a married  nephew  perhaps — for 
some  little  assistance  : and  then  he  will  declaim 
with  honest  indignation  on  the  improvidence  of 
young  married  people,  the  worthlessness  of  a 
wife,  the  insolence  of  having  a family,  the  atro- 
city of  getting  into  debt  with  a hundred  and 
twenty-five  pounds  a-year,  and  other  unpardon- 
able crimes ; winding  up  his  exhortations  with 
a complacent  review  of  his  own  conduct,  and  a 
delicate  allusion  to  parochial  relief.  He  dies, 
some  day  after  dinner,  of  apoplexy,  having  be- 
queathed his  property  to  a Public  Society,  and 
the  Institution  erects  a tablet  to  his  memory, 
expressive  of  their  admiration  of  his  Christian 
conduct  in  this  world,  and  their  comfortable 
conviction  of  his  happiness  in  the  next. 

( Characters ),  Sketches , Chap.  i. 

BACHELOR— A crusty. 

Mr.  Nicodemus  Dumps,  or,  as  his  acquaint- 
ance called  him,  “ long  Dumps,”  was  a bachelor, 
six.  feet  high,  and  fifty  years  old  ; cross,,  cadav- 
erous, odd,  and  ill-natured.  He  was  never 
happy  but  when  he  was  miserable  ; and  always 
miserable  when  he  had  the  best  reason  to  be 
happy.  The  only  real  comfort  of  his  existence 
was  to  make  everybody  about  him  wretched — 
then  he  might  be  truly  said  to  enjoy  life.  He 
was  afflicted  with  a situation  in  the  Bank  worth 
five  hundred  a year,  and  he  rented  a “first- 
floor  furnished,”  at  Pentonville,  which  he  origi- 
nally took  because  it  commanded  a dismal 
prospect  of  an  adjacent  churchyard.  He  was 
familiar  with  the  face  of  every  tombstone,  and 
the  burial  service  seemed  to  excite  his  strongest 
sympathy.  His  friends  said  he  was  surly — he 

3 


insisted  he  was  nervous ; they  thought  him  a 
lucky  dog,  but  he  protested  that  he  was  “ the 
most  unfortunate  man  in  the  world.”  Cold  as 
he  was,  and  wretched  as  he  declared  himself  to 
be,  he  was  not  wholly  unsusceptible  of  attach- 
ments. He  revered  the  memory  of  Hoyle,  as 
he  was  himself  an  admirable  and  imperturbable 
whist-player,  and  he  chuckled  with  delight  at  a 
fretful  and  impatient  adversary.  He  adored 
King  Herod  for  his  massacre  of  the  innocents  ; 
and  if  he  hated  one  thing  more  than  another,  it 
was  a child.  However,  he  could  hardly  be  said 
to  hate  anything  in  particular,  because  he  dis- 
liked everything  in  general ; but  perhaps  his 
greatest  antipathies  were  cabs,  old  women,  doors 
that  would  not  shut,  musical  amateurs,  and  om- 
nibus cads.  He  subscribed  to  the  “ Society  for 
the  Suppression  of  Vice,”  for  the  pleasure  of 
putting  a stop  to  any  harmless  amusements  : and 
he  contributed  largely  towards  the  support  of 
two  itinerant  Methodist  parsons,  in  the  amiable 
hope  that  if  circumstances  rendered  any  people 
happy  in  this  world,  they  might  perchance  be 
rendered  miserable  by  fears  for  the  next. 

Sketches , Bloomsbury  Christening. 

BACHELOR— A miserable  creature. 

“ A bachelor  is  a miserable  wretch,  sir,”  said 
Mr.  Lilly vick. 

“ Is  he  ? ” asked  Nicholas. 

“ He  is,”  rejoined  the  collector.  “ I have 
lived  in  the  world  for  nigh  sixty  year,  and  I 
ought  to  know  what  it  is.” 

“You  ought  to  know,  certainly,”  thought 
Nicholas ; “ but  whether  you  do  or  not,  is 
another  question.” 

“ If  a bachelor  happens  to  have  saved  a little 
matter  of  money,”  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  “ his  sis- 
ters and  brothers,  and  nephews  and  nieces,  look 
to  that  money,  and  not  to  him  ; even  if,  by  be- 
ing a public  character,  he  is  the  head  of  the 
family,  or,  as  it  may  be,  the  main  from  which  all 
the  other  little  branches  are  turned  on,  they  still 
wish  him  dead  all  the  while,  and  get  low-spir- 
ited every  time  they  see  him  looking  in  good 
health,  because  they  want  to  come  into  his  lit- 
tle property.  You  see  that?  ” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  25. 

BACHELOR— Major  Bagstock. 

Although  Major  Bagstock  had  arrived  at 
what  is  called  in  polite  literature,  the  grand 
meridian  of  life,  and  was  proceeding  on  his 
journey  down-hill  with  hardly  any  throat,  and 
a very  rigid  pair  of  jaw-bones,  and  long-flap- 
ped elephantine  ears,  and  his  eyes  and  com- 
plexion in  the  state  of  artificial  excitement 
already  mentioned,  he  was  mightily  proud  of 
awakening  an  interest  in  Miss  Tox,  and  tick- 
led his  vanity  with  the  fiction  that  she  was  a 
splendid  woman,  who  had  her  eye  on  him. 
This  he  had  several  times  hinted  at  the  club  : 
in  connection  with  little  jocularities,  of  which 
old  Joe  Bagstock,  old  Joey  Bagstock,  old  J. 
Bagstock,  old  Josh  Bagstock,  or  so  forth,  was 
the  perpetual  theme  : it  being,  as  it  were,  the 
Major’s  stronghold  and  donjon-keep  of  light 
humor,  to  be  on  the  most  familiar  terms  with 
his  own  name. 

“ Joey  B.,  Sir,”  the  Major  would  say,  with  a 
flourish  of  his  walking-stick,  “ is  worth  a dozen 
of  you.  If  you  had  a few  more  of  the  Bag- 
stock  breed  among  you,  Sir,  you’d  be  none  the 


BAGSTOCK 


34 


BALL 


worse  for  it.  Old  Joe,  Sir,  needn’t  look  far  for  a 
wife  even  now,  if  he  was  on  the  look-out ; but 
he’s  hard-hearted,  Sir,  is  Joe — he’s  tough,  Sir, 
tough,  and  de-vilish  sly  ! ” After  such  a dec- 
laration wheezing  sounds  would  be  heard  ; and 
the  Major’s  blue  would  deepen  into  purple, 
while  his  eyes  strained  and  started  convul- 
sively.— Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  7. 

BAGSTOCK— The  saying’s  of  Major. 

“An  old  campaigner,  Sir,”  said  the  Major, 
“ a smoke-dried,  sun-burnt,  used-up,  invalided 
old  dog  of  a Major,  Sir,  was  not  afraid  of  being 
condemned  for  his  whim  by  a man  like  Mr. 
Dombey.” 

He  H*  H*  Sfc  HC  H* 

“ My  little  friend  here,  Sir,  will  certify  for 
Joseph  Bagstock  that  he  is  a thorough-going, 
downright,  plain-spoken,  old  Trump,  Sir,  and 
nothing  more.” 

He  He  He  He  He  He 

“None  but  the  tough  fellows  could  live, 
Sir,  at  Sandhurst.  We  put  each  other  to  the 
torture  there,  Sir.  We  roasted  the  new  fel- 
lows at  a slow  fire,  and  hung  ’em  out  of  a three 
pair  of  stairs  window,  with  their  heads  down- 
wards. Joseph  Bagstock,  Sir,  was  held  out  of 
the  window  by  the  heels  of  his  boots,  for  thir- 
teen minutes  by  the  college  clock.” 

The  Major  might  have  appealed  to  his  coun- 
tenance in  corroboration  of  this  story.  It  cer- 
tainly looked  as  if  he  had  hung  out  a little  too 
long. 

“ But  it  made  us  what  we  were,  Sir,”  said  the 
Major,  settling  his  shirt  frill.  “We  were  iron, 
Sir,  and  it  forged  us.” 

Dombey  Sf  Son,  Chap.  10. 

MONIES— An  Italian  street. 

t Corso  is  a street  a mile  long  ; a street 

snops,  and  palaces,  and  private  houses,  some- 
times opening  into  a broad  piazza.  There  are 
verandas  and  balconies,  of  all  shapes  and  sizes, 
to  almost  every  house — not  on  one  story  alone, 
but  often  to  one  room  or  another  on  every  story 
- — -put  there  in  general  with  so  little  order  or 
regularity,  that  if,  year  after  year,  and  season 
after  season,  it  had  rained  balconies,  hailed  bal- 
conies, snowed  balconies,  blown  balconies,  they 
could  scarcely  have  come  into  existence  in  a 
more  disorderly  manner. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

BALLOONIST-A. 

“ Mr.  Green  is  a steady  hand,  Sir,  and  there’s 
no  fear  about  him.” 

“ Fear  !”  said  the  little  man  : “ isn’t  it  a love- 
ly thing  to  see  him  and  his  wife  a going  up  in 
one  balloon,  and  his  own  son  and  his  wife  a 
jostling  up  against  them  in  another,  and  all  of 
them  going  twenty  or  thirty  miles  in  three 
hours  or  so,  and  then  coming  back  in  pochay- 
ses  ? I don’t  know  where  this  here  science  is  to 
stop,  mind  you  ; that’s  what  bothers  me.” 

{Scenes),  Sketches,  Chap.  14. 

BALL— A fancy  dross. 

The  preparations  were  on  the  most  delightful 
scale  ; fully  realising  the  prophetic  Pott’s  antici- 
pations about  the  gorgeousness  of  Eastern 
fairyland,  and  at  once  affording  a sufficient 
contradict  ion  to  the  malignant  statements  of 
the  reptile  Independent.  'The  grounds  were 


more  than  an  acre  and  a quarter  in  extent,  and 
they  were  filled  with  people  ! Never  was  such 
a blaze  of  beauty,  and  fashion,  and  literature. 
There  was  the  young  lady  who  “ did”  the  poe- 
try in  the  Eatanswill  Gazette,  in  the  garb  of  a 
sultana,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  the  young 
gentleman  who  “did”  the  review  department, 
and  who  was  appropriately  habited  in  a field 
marshal's  uniform — the  boots  excepted.  There 
were  hosts  of  these  geniuses,  and  any  reason- 
able person  would  have  thought  it  honor  enough 
to  meet  them.  But  more  than  these,  the  e weie 
half  a dozen  lions  from  London — authors,  real 
authors,  who  had  written  whole  books,  and 
printed  them  afterwards — and  here  you  might 
see  ’em,  walking  about,  like  ordinary  men, 
smiling,  and  talking — aye,  and  talking  pretty 
considerable  nonsense  too,  no  doubt  with  the 
benign  intention  of  rendering  themselves  intel- 
ligible to  the  common  people  about  them. 
Moreover,  there  w as  a band  of  music  in  paste- 
board caps  ; four  something-ean  singers  in  the 
costume  of  their  country,  and  a dozen  hired 
waiters  in  the  costume  of  their  country — and 
very  dirty  costume  too.  And  above  all,  there 
was  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter  in  the  character  of  Mi- 
nerva, receiving  the  company,  and  overflow- 
ing with  pride  and  gratification  at  the  notion 
of  having  called  such  distinguished  individuals 
together. — Pickwick,  Chap.  15. 

BALLS— Spangles  by  daylight. 

What  can  be  prettier  than  sp  0ies  ! It  may 
be  objected  that  they  are  not  adapted  to  the 
daylight,  but  everybody  knows  that  they  would 
glitter  if  there  were  lamps  ; and  nothing  can  be 
clearer  than  that  if  people  give  fancy  balls  in 
the  day-time,  and  the  dresses  do  not  show  quite 
as  well  as  they  would  by  night,  the  fault  lies 
solely  with  the  people  wdio  give  the  fancy  balls, 
and  is  in  no  wise  chargeable  on  the  spangles. 

Pickwick  Papers,  Chap.  15. 

BALL— A fashionable. 

“This  is  a ball  night,”  said  the  M.  C.,  again 
taking  Mr.  Pickwdck’s  hand,  as  he  rose  to  go. 
“ The  ball-nights  in  Ba — th  are  moments 
snatched  from  Paradise  ; rendered  bewitching 
by  music,  beauty,  elegance,  fashion,  etiquette, 
and — and — above  all,  by  the  absence  of  trades- 
people, who  are  quite  inconsistent  W'ith  Para- 
dise ; and  who  have  an  amalgamation  of  them- 
selves at-  the  Guildhall  every  fortnight,  which  is, 
to  say  the  least,  remarkable.” 

Hs  H<  * H*  H«  H« 

In  the  ball-room,  the  long  card-room,  the 
octagonal  card-room,  the  staircases,  and  the  pas- 
sages, the  hum  of  many  voices,  and  the  sound 
of  many  feet,  were  perfectly  bewildering. 
Dresses  rustled,  feathers  w'aved,  lights  shone, 
and  jewels  sparkled.  There  w-as  the  music — 
not  of  the  quadrille  band,  for  it  had  not  yet 
commenced  ; but  the  music  of  soft  tiny  foot- 
steps, with  now  and  then  a clear  merry  laugh — 
low'  and  gentle,  but  very  pleasant  to  hear  in  a 
female  voice,  whether  in  Bath  or  elsewhere. 
Brilliant  eyes,  lighted  up  W'ith  pleasurable  ex- 
pectation, gleamed  from  every  side  ; and  look 
where  you  would,  some  exquisite  form  glided 
gracefully  through  the  throng,  and  w'as  no  sooner 
lost,  than  it  was  replaced  by  another  as  daintj 
and  bewitching. 


BANK 


35 


BANK  OFFICIALS 


In  the  tea-room,  and  hovering  round  the  card- 
tables,  were  a vast  number  of  queer  old  ladies 
and  decrepid  old  gentlemen,  discussing  all  the 
small  talk  and  scandal  of  the  day,  with  a relish 
and  gusto  which  sufficiently  bespoke  the  inten- 
sity of  the  pleasure  they  derived  from  the  occu- 
pation. Mingled  with  these  groups,  were  three 
or  four  matchmaking  mammas,  appearing  to  be 
wholly  absorbed  by  the  conversation  in  which 
they  were  taking  part,  but  failing  not  from  time 
to  time  to  cast  an  anxious  sidelong  glance  upon 
their  daughters,  who,  remembering  the  maternal 
injunction  to  make  the  best  use  of  their  youth, 
had  already  commenced  incipient  flirtations  in 
the  mislaying  of  scarves,  putting  on  gloves,  set- 
ting down  cups,  and  so  forth  ; slight  matters  ap- 
parently, but  which  may  be  turned  to  surpris- 
ingly  good  account  by  expert  practitioners. 

Lounging  near  the  doors,  and  in  -remote  cor- 
ners, were  various  knots  of  silly  young  men, 
displaying  various  varieties  of  puppyism  and 
stupidity ; amusing  all  sensible  people  near 
them  with  their  folly  and  conceit ; and  happily 
thinking  themselves  the  objects  of  general  ad- 
miration. A wise  and  merciful  dispensation 
which  no  good  man  will  quarrel  with. 

And  lastly,  seated  on  some  of  the  back 
benches,  where  they  had  already  taken  up  their 
positions  for  the  evening,  were  divers  unmarried 
ladies  past  their  grand  climacteric,  who,  not 
dancing  because  there  were  no  partners  for 
them,  and  not  playing  cards  lest  they  should  be 
set  down  pn  irretrievably  single,  were  in  the 
favorable  situation  of  being  able  to  abuse  every- 
body without  reflecting  on  themselves.  In 
short,  they  could  abuse  everybody,  because  ev- 
erybody was  there.  It  was  a scene  of  gaiety, 
glitter,  and  show ; of  richly-dressed  people, 
handsome  mirrors,  chalked  floors,  girandoles, 
and  wax-candles  ; and  in  all  parts  of  the  scene, 
gliding  from  spot  to  spot  in  silent  softness,  bow- 
ing obsequiously  to  this  party,  nodding  famil- 
iarly to  that,  and  smiling  complacently  on  all, 
was  the  sprucely-attired  person  of  Angelo  Cy- 
rus Bantam,  Esquire,  Master  of  the  Ceremonies. 

Pickwick  Papers,  Chap.  35. 

BANK— An  old-fashioned. 

Tellson’s  Bank  by  Temple  Bar  was  on  old- 
fashioned  place,  even  in  the  year  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  eighty.  It  was  very  small, 
very  dark,  very  ugly,  very  incommodious.  It 
was  an  old-fashioned  place,  moreover,  in  the 
moral  attribute  that  the  partners  in  the  House 
were  proud  of  its  smallness,  proud  of  its  dark- 
ness, proud  of  its  ugliness,  proud  of  its  incom- 
modiousness. They  were  even  boastful  of  its 
eminence  in  those  particulars,  and  were  fired 
by  an  express  conviction  that,  if  it  were  less 
objectionable,  it  would  be  less  respectable. 
This  was  no  passive  belief,  but  an  active  weap- 
on which  they  flashed  at  more  convenient  places 
of  business.  Tellson’s  (they  said)  wanted  no 
elbow-room,  Tellson’s  wanted  no  light,  Tell- 
son’s wanted  no  embellishment.  Noakes  and 
Co.’s  might,  or  Snooks  Brothers’  might  ; but 
Tellson’s,  thank  Heaven  ! — 

Any  one  of  these  partners  would  have  disin- 
herited his  son  on  the  question  of  rebuilding 
Tellson’s.  In  this  respect  the  House  was  much 
on  a par  with  the  Country  ; which  did  very  of- 
ten disinherit  its  sons  for  suggesting  improve- 
ments in  laws  and  customs  that  had  long  been 


highly  objectionable,  but  were  only  the  more 
respectable. 

Thus  it  had  come  to  pass,  that  Tellsr.n’s  was 
the  triumphant  perfection  of  inconvenience. 
After  bursting  open  a door  of  idiotic  obstina- 
cy with  a weak  rattle  in  its  throat,  you  fell  into 
Tellson’s  down  two  steps,  and  came  to  your 
senses  in  a miserable  little  shop,  with  two  little 
counters,  where  the  oldest  of  men  made  your 
cheque  shake  as  if  the  wind  rustled  it,  while  they 
examined  your  signature  by  the  dingiest  of  win- 
dows, which  were  always  under  a shower-bath 
of  mud  from  Fleet  Street,  and  which  were 
made  the  dingier  by  their  own  iron  bars  proper, 
and  the  heavy  shadow  of  Temple  Bar.  If  your 
business  necessitated  your  seeing  “ the  House,” 
you  were  put  into  a species  of  Condemned 
Hold  at  the  back,  where  you  meditated  on  a 
misspent  life,  until  the  House  came  with  its 
hands  in  its  pockets,  and  you  could  hardly 
blink  at  it  in  the  dismal  twilight.  Your  money 
came  out  of,  or  went  into,  wormy  old  wooden 
drawers,  particles  of  which  flew  up  your  nose 
and  down  your  throat  when  they  were  opened 
and  shut.  Your  bank  notes  had  a musty  odor, 
as  if  they  were  fast  decomposing  into  rags 
again.  Your  plate  was  stowed  away  among 
the  neighboring  cesspools,  and  evil  communi- 
cations corrupted  its  good  polish  in  a day  or 
two.  Your  deeds  got  into  extemporized  strong- 
rooms made  of  kitchens  and  sculleries,  and  fret- 
ted all  the  fat  out  of  their  parchments  into  the 
banking-house  air.  Your  lighter  boxes  of  fam- 
ily papers  went  up-stairs  into  a Barmecide  room, 
that  always  had  a great  dining-table  in  it  and 
never  had  a dinner,  and  where,  even  in  the  year 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty,  the 
first  letters  written  to  you  by  your  old  ’^Te,  or 
by  your  little  children,  were  but  newly  r 
from  the  horror  of  being  ogled  throi- 
windows,  by  the  heads  exposed  on  Temf 
with  an  insensate  brutality  and  ferocity  w'fli 
of  Abyssinia  or  Ashantee. 

* * sfc  sis  * 

Cramped  in  all  kinds  of  dim  cupboards  and 
hutches  at  Tellson’s,  the  oldest  of  men  carried 
on  the  business  gravely.  When  they  took  a 
young  man  into  Tellson’s  London  house,  they 
hid  him  somewhere  till  he  was  old.  They 
kept  him  in  a dark  place,  like  a cheese,  until  he 
had'  the  full  Tellson  flavor  and  blue-mould  up- 
on him.  Then  only  was  he  permitted  to  be 
seen,  spectacularly  poring  over  large  books,  and 
casting  his  breeches  and  gaiters  into  the  gene- 
ral weight  of  the  establishment. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  II,  Chap.  1. 

BANK  OFFICIALS— Their  individuality. 

He  pushed  open  the  door  with  the  weak  rat- 
tle in  its  throat,  stumbled  down  the  two  steps, 
got  past  the  two  ancient  cashiers,  and  shoulder- 
ed himself  into  the  musty  back  closet  where 
Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  great  books  ruled  for  figures, 
with  perpendicular  iron  bars  to  his  window  as 
if  that  w^ere  ruled  for  figures  too,  and  every- 
thing under  the  clouds  wrere  a sum. 

“ Halloa  !”  said  Mr  Stryver.  “ How  do  you 
do  ? I hope  you  are  wrell !” 

It  was  Stryver’s  grand  peculiarity  that  he  al- 
ways seemed  too  big  for  any  place,  or  space. 
He  was  so  much  too  big  for  Tellson’s,  that  old 
clerks  in  distant  corners  looked  up  with  looks 
of  remonstrance,  as  though  he  squeezed  them 


BANKRUPTCY 


36 


"BARKIS  IS  W1LL.1N/’ 


against  the  wall.  The  House  itself,  magnificently 
reading  the  paper  quite  in  the  far-off  perspec- 
tive, lowered  displeased,  as  if  the  Stryver  head 
had  been  butted  into  its  responsible  waist- 
coat. 

The  discreet  Mr.  Lorry  said,  in  a sample  tone 
of  the  voice  he  would  recommend  under  the 
circumstances,  “How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Stryver? 
How  do  you  do,  sir  ?”  and  shook  hands.  There 
was  a peculiarity  in  his  manner  of  shaking 
hands,  always  to  be  seen  in  any  clerk  at  Tell- 
son’s  who  shook  hands  with  a customer  when 
the  House  pervaded  the  air.  He  shook  in  a 
self-abnegating  way,  as  one  who  shook  for 
Tellson  and  Co. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  //.,  Chap.  12. 

BANKRUPTCY. 

The  Inquest  was  over,  the  letter  was  public, 
the  Bank  was  broken,  the  other  model  struc- 
tures of  straw  had  taken  fire  and  were  turned 
to  smoke.  The  admired  piratical  ship  had 
blown  up,  in  the  midst  of  a vast  fleet  of  ships 
of  all  rates,  and  boats  of  all  sizes  ; and  on  the 
deep  was  nothing  but  ruin  : nothing  but  burn- 
ing hulls,  bursting  magazines,  great  guns  self- 
exploded  tearing  friends  and  neighbors  to 
pieces,  drowning  men  clinging  to  unseaworthy 
spars  and  going  down  every  minute,  spent 
swimmers,  floating  dead,  and  sharks. 

Little  Dorrit , Chap.  26. 

BANKRUPTCY-The  world’s  idea  of. 

Next  day  it  was  noised  abroad  that  Dombey 
and  Son  had  stopped,  and  next  night  there  was 
a List  of  Bankrupts  published,  headed  by  that 
name. 

The  world  was  very  busy  now,  in  sooth,  and 
had  a deal  to  say.  It  was  an  innocently  credu- 
lous and  a much  ill-used  world.  It  was  a world 
in  which  there  was  no  other  sort  of  bankruptcy 
whatever.  There  were  no  conspicuous  people 
in  it,  trading  far  and  wide  on  rotten  banks  of 
religion,  patriotism,  virtue,  honor.  There  was 
no  amount  worth  mentioning  of  mere  paper  in 
circulation,  on  which  anybody  lived  pretty 
handsomely,  promising  to  pay  great  sums  of 
goodness  with  no  effects.  There  were  no 
short  - comings  anywhere,  in  anything  but 
money.  The  world  was  very  angry  indeed : 
and  the  people  especially,  who,  in  a worse 
world,  might  have  been  supposed  to  be  bank- 
rupt traders  themselves  in  shows  and  pretences, 
were  observed  to  be  mightily  indignant. 

Dombey  and  Son , Chap.  58. 

BAR-ROOM  — The  Six  Jolly  Fellowship 

Porters. 

The  bar  of  the  Six  Jolly  Fellowship  Porters 
^^vas  a bar  to  soften  the  human  breast.  The 
^available  space  in  it  was  not  much  larger  than 
a hn^Jcney-coach  : but  no  one  could  have  wish- 
ed me  bar  bigger,  that  space  was  so  girt  in  by 
v cflinulcnt  little  casks,  and  by  cordial-bottles 
raffiint  with  fictitious  grapes  in  bunches,  and 
by  lemons  in  nets,  and  by  biscuits  in  baskets, 
and  by  the  polite  beer-pulls  that  made  low 
bows  when  customers  were' served  with  beer, 
and  by  the  cheese  in  a snug  corner,  and  by  the 
landlady’s  own  small  table  in  a snugger  corner 
near  the  fire,  with  the  cloth  everlastingly  laid. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Chap.  6. 


BAR-ROOM  The  Maypole. 

All  bars  are  snug  places,  but  the  Maypole’s 
was  the  very  snuggest,  cosiest,  and  completcst 
bar,  that  ever  the  wit  of  man  devised.  Such 
amazing  bottles  in  old  oaken  pigeon-holes  ; such 
gleaming  tankards  dangling  from  pegs  at  about 
the  same  inclination  as  thirsty  men  would  hold 
them  to  their  lips  ; such  sturdy  little  Dutch 
kegs  ranged  in  rows  on  shelves ; so  many 
lemons  hanging  in  separate  nets,  and  forming 
the  fragrant  grove  already  mentioned  in  this 
chronicle,  suggestive,  with  goodly  loaves  of 
snowy  sugar  stowed  away  hard  by,  of  punch, 
idealized  beyond  all  mortal  knowledge  ; such 
closets,  such  presses,  such  drawers  full  of  pipes, 
such  places  for  putting  things  away  in  hollow 
window-seats,  all  crammed  to  the  throat  with 
eatables,  drinkables,  or  savory  condiments ; 
lastly,  and  to  crown  all,  as  typical  of  the  im- 
mense resources  of  the  establishment,  and  its 
defiances  to  all  visitors  to  cut  and  come  again, 
such  a stupendous  cheese  ! 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  19. 

B AR-ROOM— A mob  in  John  Willit’s. 

Yes.  Here  was  the  bar — the  bar  that  the 
boldest  never  entered  without  special  invitation 
— the  sanctuary,  the  mystery,  the  hallowed 
ground  : here  it  was,  crammed  with  men,  clubs, 
sticks,  torches,  pistols  ; filled  with  a deafening 
noise,  oaths,  shouts,  screams,  hootings  ; chang- 
ed all  at  once  into  a bear-garden,  a madhouse, 
an  infernal  temple  ; men  darting  in  and  out, 
by  door  and  window,  smashing  the  glass,  turn- 
ing the  taps,  drinking  liquor  out  of  China 
punchbowls,  sitting  astride  of  casks,  smoking 
private  and  personal  pipes,  cutting  down  the 
sacred  grove  of  lemons,  hacking  and  hewing  at 
the  celebrated  cheese,  breaking  open  inviolable 
drawers,  putting  things  in  their  pockets  which 
didn’t  belong  to  them,  dividing  his  own  money 
before  his  own  eyes,  wantonly  wasting,  break- 
ing, pulling  down,  and  tearing  up  ; nothing 
quiet,  nothing  private ; men  everywhere  — 
above,  below,  overhead,  in  the  bedrooms,  in 
the  kitchen,  in  the  yard,  in  the  stables — clam- 
bering in  at  windows  when  there  were  doors 
wide  open  ; dropping  out  of  windows  when  the 
stairs  were  handy  ; leaping  over  the  banisters 
into  chasms  of  passages  : new  faces  and  figures 
presenting  themselves  every  instant — some  yell- 
ing, some  singing,  some  fighting,  some  break- 
ing glass  and  crockery,  some  laying  th§  dust  with 
the  liquor  they  couldn’t  drink,  some  jBnging  the 
bells  till  they  pulled  them  down,  othars  beating 
them  with  pokers  till  they  beat  thenrinto  frag- 
ments : more  men  still — more,  more,  more — 
swarming  on  like  insects  : noise,  smoke,  light, 
darkness,  frolic,  anger,  laughter,  groans,  plun- 
der, fear,  and  ruin  ! 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  54. 

"BARKIS  IS  WILLiIN.” 

He  being  of  a phlegmatic  temperament,  and 
not  at  all  conversational — I offered  him  a cake 
as  a mark  of  attention,  which  he  ate  at  one 
gulp,  exactly  like  an  elephant,  and  which 
made  no  more  impression  on  his  big  face  than 
it  would  have  done  on  an  elephant’s. 

“ Did  she  make  ’em,  now  ? ” said  Mr.  Barkis, 
always  leaning  forward,  in  his  slouching  way,  on 
the  footboard  of  the  cart  with  an  arm  on  each 
knee. 


BARKIS 


37 


BASHFULNESS 


“ Peggotty,  do  you  mean,  sir  ? ” 

“Ah!”  said  Mr.  Barkis.  “Her.” 

“Yes.  She  makes  all  our  pastry  and  does  all 
our  cooking.” 

“ Do  she  though  ? ” said  Mr.  Barkis. 

He  made  up  his  mouth  as  if  to  whistle,  but 
he  didn’t  whistle.  He  sat  looking  at  the  horse’s 
ears,  as  if  he  saw  something  new  there  ; and 
sat  so  for  a considerable  time.  By-and-by,  he 
said  : 

“No  sweethearts,  I b’lieve?” 

“ Sweetmeats  did  you  say,  Mr.  Barkis?”  For 
I thought  he  wanted  something  else  to  eat,  and 
had  pointedly  alluded  to  that  description  of  re- 
freshment. 

“ Hearts,”  said  Mr.  Barkis.  “ Sweethearts  ; 
no  person  walks  with  her  ? ” 

“ With  Peggotty?” 

“ Ah  ! ’*  he  said.  “ Her.” 

“ Oh,  no.  She  never  had  a sweetheart.” 

“Didn’t  she,  though?”  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

Again  he  made  up  his  mouth  to  whistle,  and 
again  he  didn’t  whistle,  but  sat  looking  at  the 
horse’s  ears. 

“ So  she  makes,”  said  Mr.  Barkis,  after  a long 
interval  of  reflection,  “all  the  apple  parsties, 
and  doos  all  the  cooking,  do  she  ?” 

I replied  that  such  was  the  fact. 

“Well.  I’ll  tell  you  what,”  said  Mr.  Barkis. 
“ P’raps  you  might  be  writin’  to  her?  ” 

“ I shall  certainly  write  to  her,”  I rejoined. 

“Ah!”  he  said,  slowly  turning  his  eyes  to- 
wards me.  “ Well ! If  you  was  writin’  to  her, 
p’raps  you’d  recollect  to  say  that  Barkis  was 
willin’ ; would  you  ? ” 

“ That  Barkis  was  willing,”  I repeated  inno- 
cently. “ Is  that  all  the  message  ? ” 

“Ye-es,”  he  said,  considering.  “ Ye-es. 
Barkis  is  willin’.” 

“ But  you  will  be  at  Blunderstone  again  to- 
morrow, Mr.  Barkis,”  I said,  faltering  a little  at 
the  idea  of  my  being  far  away  from  it  then, 
“ and  could  give  your  own  message  so  much 
better.” 

As  he  repudiated  this  suggestion,  however, 
with  a jerk  of  his  head,  and  once  more  con- 
firmed his  previous  request  by  saying,  with  pro- 
found gravity,  “Barkis  is  willin’.  That’s  the 
message,”  I readily  undertook  its  transmission. 
While  I was  waiting  for  the  coach  in  the  hotel 
at  Yarmouth  that  very  afternoon,  I procured  a 
sheet  of  paper  and  an  inkstand  and  wrote  a 
note  to  Peggotty,  which  ran  thus  : “ My  dear 
Peggotty.  I have  come  here  safe.  Barkis  is 
willing.  My  love  to  mamma.  Yours  affec- 
tionately. P.  S.  He  says  he  particularly  wants 
you  to  know — Barkis  is  willin' .” 

David  Copperjield , Chap.  5. 

****** 

“When  a man  says  he’s  willin’,”  said  Mr. 
Barkis,  turning  his  glance  slowly  on  me  again  ; 
“ it’s  as  much  as  to  say,  that  man’s  a waitin’  for 
a answer.” 

“Well,  Mr.  Barkis?” 

“Well,”  said  Mr.  Barkis,  carrying  his  eyes 
back  to  his  horse’s  ears  ; “ that  man’s  been  a 
waitin’  for  a answer  ever  since.” 

David  Copperjield , Chap.  8. 

BARKIS—1  ‘ It’s  true  as  taxes  is.” 

As  he  lay  in  bed,  face  upward,  and  so  covered, 
with  that  exception,  that  he  seemed  to  be  noth- 


ing but  a face — like  a conventional  cherubim — 
he  looked  the  queerest  object  I ever  beheld. 

“ What  name  was  it  as  I wrote  up  in  the  cart, 
sir?”  said  Mr.  Barkis,  with  a slow  rheumatic 
smile. 

“Ah!  Mr.  Barkis,  we  had  some  grave  talks 
about  that  matter,  hadn’t  we?” 

“I  was  willin’  a long  time,  sir!”  said  Mr. 
Barkis. 

“ A long  time,”  said  I. 

“And  I don’t  regret  it,”  said  Mr.  Barkis. 
“ Do  you  remember  what  you  told  me  once, 
about  her  making  all  the  apple  parsties  and  do- 
ing all  the  cooking  ? ” 

“Yes,  very  well,”  I returned. 

“It  was  as  true,”  said  Mr.  Barkis,  “ as  turnips 
is.  It  was  as  true,”  said  Mr.  Barkis,  nodding 
his  nightcap,  which  was  his  only  means  of  em- 
phasis, “ as  taxes  is.  And  nothing’s  truer  than 
them.” — David  Copperjield,  Chap.  21. 

BARKIS— The  death  of. 

“ Barkis,  my  dear ! ” said  Peggotty,  almost 
cheerfully,  bending  over  him,  while  her  brother 
and  I stood  at  the  bed’s  foot.  “ Here’s  my  dear 
boy — my  dear  boy,  Master  Davy,  who  brought 
us  together,  Barkis  ! That  you  sent  messages 
by,  you  know!  Won’t  you  speak  to  Master 
Davy?  ” 

He  was  as  mute  and  senseless  as  the  box 
from  which  his  form  derived  the  only  expression 
it  had. 

“ He’s  a going  out  with  the  tide,”  said  Mr. 
Peggotty  to  me,  behind  his  hand. 

My  eyes  were  dim,  and  so  were  Mr.  Peggot- 
ty’s  ; but  I repeated  in  a whisper,  “ With  the 
tide?  ” 

“ People  can’t  die,  along  the  coast,”  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  “ except  when  the  tide’s  pretty  nigh 
out.  They  can’t  be  born,  unless  its  pretty  nigh 
in — not  properly  born,  till  flood.  He’s  a going 
out  with  the  tide.  It’s  ebb  at  half-arter  three, 
slack  water  half-an-hour.  If  he  lives  ’till  it 
turns,  he’ll  hold  his  own  till  past  the  flood,  and 
go  out  with  the  next  tide.” 

We  remained  there,  watching  him,  a long 
time — hours.  What  mysterious  influence  my 
presence  had  upon  him  in  that  state  of  his 
senses,  I shall  not  pretend  to  say  ; but  when  he 
at  last  began  to  wander  feebly,  it  is  certain  he 
was  muttering  about  driving  me  to  school. 

“ He’s  coming  to  himself,”  said  Peggotty. 

Mr.  Peggotty  touched  me,  and  whispered 
with  much  awe  and  reverence,  “ They  are  both 
a going  out  fast.” 

“ Barkis,  my  dear  ! ” said  Peggotty. 

“ C.  P.  Barkis,”  he  cried  faintly.  “ No  better 
woman  anywhere  ! ” 

“Look!  Here’s  Master  Davy!”  said  Peg- 
gotty. For  he  now  opened  his  eyes. 

I was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  if  he  knew 
me,  when  he  tried  to  stretch  out  his  arm,  and 
said  to  me,  distinctly,  with  a pleasant  smil$: 

“ Barkis  is  willin’  ! ” 

And,  it  being  low  water,  he  went  out  with  the 
tide. — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  30. 

BASHFULNESS— of  Mr.  Toots. 

“How  d’ye  do,  Miss  Dombey?”  said  Mr. 
Toots.  “ I’m  very  well,  I thank  you  ; how  are 
you  ? ” 

Mr.  Toots — than  whom  there  were  few  bet- 
ter fellows  in  the  world,  though  there  may  have 


BATTLE-FIELD 


33 


been  one  or  two  brighter  spirits — had  labori- 
ously invented  this  long  burst  of  discourse  with 
the  view  of  relieving  the  feelings  both  of  Flor- 
ence and  himself.  Hut,  finding  that  he  had 
run  through  his  property,  as  it  were,  in  an  in- 
judicious manner,  by  squandering  the  whole 
before  taking  a chair,  or  before  Florence  had 
uttered  a word,  or  before  he  had  well  got  in  at 
the  door,  he  deemed  it  advisable  to  begin 
again. 

“How  d’ye  do,  Miss  Dombey?”  said  Mr. 
Toots.  “ I'm  very  well,  I thank  you  ; how  are 
you  ? ” 

Florence  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said  she 
was  very  well. 

“ I’m  very  well,  indeed,”  said  Mr.  Toots, 
taking  a chair.  “ Very  well,  indeed,  I am. 
I don’t  remember,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  after  re- 
flecting a little,  “ that  I was  ever  better,  thank 
you.” 

“ It’s  very  kind  of  you  to  come,”  said  Flor- 
ence, taking  up  her  work.  “ I am  very  glad 
to  see  you.” 

Mr.  Toots  responded  with  a chuckle.  Think- 
ing that  might  be  too  lively,  he  corrected  it  with 
a sigh.  Thinking  that  might  be  too  melan- 
choly, he  corrected  it  with  a chuckle.  Not 
thoroughly  pleasing  himself  with  either  mode 
of  reply,  he  breathed  hai'd. 

Dombey  and  Son , Chap.  18. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

So  shy  was  Mr.  Toots  on  such  occasions,  and 
so  flurried  ! But  Lady  Skettles  entering  at  the 
moment,  Mr.  Toots  was  suddenly  seized  with  a 
passion  for  asking  her  how  she  did,  and  hoping 
she  was  very  well  ; nor  could  Mr.  Toots  by  any 
possibility  leave  off  shaking  hands  with  her, 
until  Sir  Barnet  appeared  : to  whom  he  imme- 
diately clung  with  the  tenacity  of  desperation. 

“We  are  losing,  to-day.  Toots,’"  said  Sir 
Barnet,  turning  towards  Florence,  “ the  light 
of  our  house,  I assure  you.” 

“ Oh,  it’s  of  no  conseq 1 mean  yes,  to  be 

sure,”  faltered  the  embarrassed  Toots.  “ Good 
morning  ! ” — Dombey  and  Son,  Chap.  28. 

BATTLE-FIELD— A11  old. 

Once  upon  a time,  it  matters  little  when,  and 
in  stalwart  England,  it  matters  little  where,  a 
fierce  battle  was  fought.  It  was  fought  upon  a 
long  summer  day  when  the  waving  grass  was 
green.  Many  a wild  flower  formed  by  the 
Almighty  Hand  to  be  a perfumed  goblet  for 
the  dew,  felt  its  enamelled  cup  filled  high 
with  blood  that  day,  and  shrinking  dropped. 
Many  an  insect  deriving  its  delicate  color  from 
harmless  leaves  and  herbs,  was  stained  anew 
that  day  by  dying  men,  and  marked  its  fright- 
ened way  with  an  unnatural  track.  The  paint- 
ed butterfly  took  blood  into  the  air  upon  the 
edges  of  its  wings.  The  stream  ran  red.  The 
trodden  ground  became  a quagmire,  whence, 
from  sullen  pools  collected  in  the  prints  of 
human  feet  and  horses’  hoofs,  the  one  prevail- 
ing hue  still  lowered  and  glimmered  at  the 
sun. 

Heaven  keep  us  from  a knowledge  of  the 
sights  the  moon  beheld  upon  that  field,  when, 
coming  up  above  the  black  line  of  distant  rising 
ground,  softened  and  blurred  at  the  edge  by 
tree  In-  rose  into  the  sky  and  looked  upon 
the  plain,  strewn  with  upturned  faces  that  had 


BATTLE-FIELD 


once  at  mothers’  breasts  sought  mothers'  eyes, 
or  slumbered  happily.  Heaven  keep  us  from  a 
knowledge  of  the  secrets  whispered  afterwards 
upon  the  tainted  wind  that  blew  across  the 
scene  of  that  day’s  work  and  that  night’s  death 
and  suffering ! Many  a lonely  moon  was 
bright  upon  the  battle-ground,  and  many  a star 
kept  mournful  watch  upon  it,  and  many  a wind 
from  every  quarter  of  the  earth  blew  over  it,  be- 
fore the  traces  of  the  fight  were  worn  away. 

They  lurked  and  lingered  for  a long  time, 
but  survived  in  little  things  ; for  Nature,  far 
above  the  evil  passions  of  men,  soon  recovered 
her  serenity,  and  smiled  upon  the  guilty  battle- 
ground as  she  had  done  before,  when  it  was 
innocent.  The  larks  sang  high  above  it  ; the 
swallows  skimmed  and  dipped  and  flitted  to 
and  fro  ; the  shadows  of  the  flying  clouds  pur- 
sued each  other  swiftly,  over  grass  and  corn  and 
turnip-field  and  wood,  and  over  roof  and  church- 
spire  in  the  nestling  town  among  the  trees, 
away  into  the  bright  distance  on  the  borders 
of  the  sky  and  earth,  where  the  red  sunsets 
faded.  Crops  were  sown,  and  grew  up,  and 
were  gathered  in  ; the  stream  that  had  been 
crimsoned,  turned  a water-mill ; men  whistled 
at  the  plough  ; gleaners  and  haymakers  were 
seen  in  quiet  groups  at  work  ; sheep  and  oxen 
pastured  ; boys  whooped  and  called,  in  fields, 
to  scare  away  the  birds  ; smoke  rose  from  cot- 
tage chimneys  ; sabbath  bells  rang  peacefully ; 
old  people  lived  and  died  ; the  timid  creatures 
of  the  field,  and  simple  flowers  of  the  bush  and 
garden,  grew  and  withered  in  their  destined 
terms ; and  all  upon  the  fierce  and  bloody 
battle-ground,  where  thousands  upon  thousands 
had  been  killed  in  the  great  fight. 

But  there  were  deep  green  patches  in  the 
growing  corn  at  first,  that  people  looked  at 
awfully.  Year  after  year  they  reappeared  ; and 
it  was  known  that  underneath  those  fertile 
spots,  heaps  of  men  and  horses  lay  buried,  in- 
discriminately, enriching  the  ground.  The 
husbandmen  who  ploughed  those  places  shrur* 
from  the  great  worms  abounding  there  ; and 
the  sheaves  they  yielded  were,  for  many  a long 
year,  called  the  Battle  Sheaves,  and  set  apart ; 
and  no  one  ever  knew  a Battle  Sheaf  to  be 
among  the  last  load  at  a Harvest  Home.  For 
a long  time,  every  furrow  that  was  turned  re- 
vealed some  fragments  of  the  fight.  For  a long 
time  there  were  wounded  trees  upon  the  battle- 
ground ; and  scraps  of  hacked  and  broken  fence 
and  wall,  where  deadly  struggles  had  been 
made ; and  trampled  parts  where  not  a leaf  or 
blade  would  grow.  For  a long  time  no  village 
girl  would  dress  her  hair  or  bosom  with  the 
sweetest  flower  from  that  field  of  death  : and 
after  many  a year  had  come  and  gone,  the  ber- 
ries growing  there  were  still  believed  to  leave 
too  deep  a stain  upon  the  hand  that  plucked 
them. 

The  Seasons  in  their  course,  however,  though 
they  passed  as  lightly  as  the  summer  clouds 
themselves,  obliterated,  in  the  lapse  of  time, 
even  these  remains  of  the  old  conflict,  and 
wore  away  such  legendary  traces  of  it  -as  the 
neighboring  people  carried  in  their  minds,  un- 
til they  dwindled  into  old  wives’  tales,  dimly 
remembered  round  the  winter  fire,  and  waning 
every  year.  Where  the  wild  flowers  and  berries 
had  so  long  remained  upon  the  stem  untouch- 
ed, gardens  arose,  and  houses  were  built,  and 


BEAUTY 


39 


BED-BOOM 


children  played  at  battles  on  the  turf.  The 
wounded  trees  had  long  ago  made  Christmas 
logs,  and  blazed  and  roared  away.  The  deep 
green  patches  were  no  greener  now  than  the 
memory  of  those  who  lay  in  dust  below.  The 
ploughshare  still  turned  up  from  time  to  time 
some  rusty  bits  of  metal,  but  it  was  hard  to  say 
what  use  they  had  ever  served,  and  those  who 
found  them  wondered  and  disputed.  An  old 
dinted  corslet,  and  a helmet,  had  been  hanging 
in  the  church  so  long,  that  the  same  weak,  half- 
blind old  man  who  tried  in  vain  to  make  them 
out  above  the  whitewashed  arch,  had  marvelled 
at  them  as  a baby.  If  the  host  slain  upon  the 
field  could  have  been  for  a moment  reanimated 
in  the  forms  in  which  they  fell,  each  upon  the 
spot  that  was  the  bed  of  his  untimely  death, 
gashed  and  ghastly  soldiers  would  have  stared 
in,  hundreds  deep,  at  household  door  and  win- 
dow ; and  would  have  risen  on  the  hearths  of 
quiet  homes  ; and  would  have  been  the  garner- 
ed store  of  barns  and  granaries ; and  would 
have  started  up  between  the  cradled  infant  and 
its  nurse  ; and  would  have  floated  with  the 
stream,  and  whirled  round  on  the  mill,  and 
crowded  the  orchard,  and  burdened  the  meadow, 
and  piled  the  rickyard  high  with  dying  men. 
So  altered  was  the  battle-ground,  where  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  had  been  killed  in  the 
great  fight. — Battle  of  Life , Chap.  I. 

BEAUTY— A grinning-  skull  beneath. 

“ I am  not  a man  to  be  moved  by  a pretty 
face,”  muttered  Ralph  sternly.  “ There  is  a 
grinning  skull  beneath  it,  and  men  like  me, 
who  look  and  work  below  the  surface,  see  that, 
and  not  its  delicate  covering.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  31. 

BED— “An  out-an-outer.” 

Mr.  Weller  proceeded  to  inquire  which 
was  the  individual  bedstead  that  Mr.  Roker 
had  so  flatteringly  described  as  an  out-an-outer 
to  sleep  in. 

“That’s  it,”  replied  Mr.  Roker.  pointing  to  a 
very  rusty  one  in  a corner.  “ It  would  make 
any  one  go  to  sleep,  that  bedstead  would,  wheth- 
er »hey  wanted  to  or  not.” 

“I  should  think,”  said  Sam,  eyeing  the  piece 
of  furniture  in  question  with  a look  of  exces- 
sive disgust,  “ I should  think  poppies  was  noth- 
ing to  it.” 

“ Nothing  at  all,”  said  Mr.  Roker. 

“ And  I s’pose,”  said  Sam,  with  a sidelong 
glance  at  his  master,  as  if  to  see  whether  there 
were  any  symptoms  of  his  determination  being 
shaken  by  what  passed,  “ I s’pose  the  other 
genTmen  as  sleeps  here,  are  gen’l’men  ?” 

“ Nothing  but  it,”  said  Mr.  Roker.  “ One  of 
’em  takes  his  twelve  pints  of  ale  a-day,  and 
never  leaves  off  smoking  even  at  his  meals.” 

“ He  must  be  a first-rater,”  said  Sam. 

“ A r,”  replied  Mr.  Roker. 

Nothing  daunted,  even  by  this  intelligence, 
Mr.  Pickwick  smilingly  announced  his  deter- 
mination to  test  the  powers  of  the  narcotic 
bedstead  for  that  night. 

Pickwick  Papers , Chap.  41. 

BED-ROOM— Pickwick  in  tbe  wrong-. 

Having  carefully  drawn  the  curtains  of  his 
bed  on  the  outside,  Mr.  Pickwick  sat  down  on 
the  rush  bottomed  chair,  and  leisurely  divested 


himself  of  his  shoes  and  gaiters.  He  then  took 
off  and  folded  up  his  coat,  waistcoat,  and  neck- 
cloth, and  slowly  drawing  on  his  tasseled  night- 
cap, secured  it  firmly  on  his  head,  by  tying 
beneath  his  chin  the  strings  which  he  always 
had  attached  to  that  article  of  dress.  It  was  at 
this  moment  that  the  absurdity  of  his  recent  be- 
wilderment struck  upon  his  mind.  Throwing 
himself  back  in  the  rush-bottomed  chair,  Mr. 
Pickwick  laughed  to  himself  so  heartily,  that  it 
would  have  been  quite  delightful  to  any  man 
of  well-constituted  mind  to  have  watched  the 
smiles  that  expanded  his  amiable  features  as 
they  shone  forth  from  beneath  the  night-cap. 

“It  is  the  best  idea,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick  to 
himself,  smiling  till  he  almost,  cracked  the 
night-cap  strings  : “ it  is  the  best  idea,  my  los- 
ing myself  in  this  place,  and  wandering  about 
those  staircases,  that  I ever  heard  of.  Droll, 
droll,  very  droll.”  Here  Mr.  Pickwick  smiled 
again,  a broader  smile  than  before,  and  was 
about  to  continue  the  process  of  undressing, 
in  the  best  possible  humor,  when  he  was  sud- 
denly stopped  by  a most  unexpected  interrup- 
tion ; to  wit,  the  entrance  into  the  room  of  some 
person  with  a candle,  who,  after  locking  the 
door,  advanced  to  the  dressing-table,  and  set 
down  the  light  upon  it. 

The  smile  that  played  on  Mr.  Pickwick’s  fea- 
tures was  instantaneously  lost  in  a look  of  the 
most  unbounded  and  wonder-stricken  surprise. 
The  person,  whoever  it  was,  had  come  in  so 
suddenly  and  with  so  little  noise,  that  Mr. 
Pickwick  had  had  no  time  to  call  out,  or  oppose 
their  entrance.  Who  could  it  be?  A rob- 
ber ? Some  evil-minded  person  who  had  seen 
him  come  up-stairs  with  a handsome  watch  in 
his  hand,  perhaps.  What  was  he  to  do  ! 

The  only  way  in  which  Mr.  Pickwick  could 
catch  a glimpse  of  his  mysterious  visitor  with 
the  least  danger  of  being  seen  himself,  was  by 
creeping  on  to  the  bed,  and  peeping  out  from 
between  the  curtains  on  the  opposite  side. 
To  this  manoeuvre  he  accordingly  resorted. 
Keeping  the  curtains  carefully  closed  with  his 
hand,  so  that  nothing  more  of  him  could  be 
seen  than  his  face  and  night-cap,  and  putting 
on  his  spectacles,  he  mustered  up  courage,  and 
looked  out. 

Mr.  Pickwick  almost  fainted  with  horror  and 
dismay.  Standing  before  the  dressing- glass 
was  a middle-aged  lady,  in  yellow  curl-papers, 
busily  engaged  in  brushing  what  ladies  call 
their  “ back  hair.”  However  the  unconscious 
middle-aged  lady  came  into  that  room,  it  was 
quite  clear  that  she  contemplated  remaining 
there  for  the  night  ; for  she  had  brought  a 
rushlight  and  shade  with  her,  which,  with 
praiseworthy  precaution  against  fire,  she  had 
stationed  in  a basin  on  the  floor,  where  it  was 
glimmering  away,  like  a gigantic  light-house  in 
a particularly  small  piece  of  water. 

“ Bless  my  soul,”  thought  Mr.  Pickwick, 
“ what  a dreadful  thing  ! ” 

“Hem  !”  said  the  lady;  and  in  went  Mr. 
Pickwick’s  head  with  automaton-like  rapidity. 

“ I never  met  with  anything  so  awful  as  this,” 
thought  poor  Mr.  Pickwick,  the  cold  perspira- 
tion starting  in  drops  upon  his  night-cap. 
“Never.  This  is  fearful.” 

It  was  quite  impossible  to  resist  the  urgent 
desire  to  see  what  was  going  forward.  So  out 
went  Mr.  Pickwick’s  head  again.  The  prospect 


BED-ROOM 


40 


BED-ROOM 


was  worse  than  before.  The  middle-aged  lady 
had  finished  arranging  her  hair : had  carefully 
enveloped  it  in  a muslin  night-cap  with  a small 
plaited  border  ; and  was  gazing  pensively  on  the 
fire. 

“ This  matter  is  growing  alarming,”  reasoned 
Mr.  Pickwick  with  himself.  “ I can’t  allow 
things  to  go  on  in  this  way.  By  the  self-pos- 
session of  that  lady  it  is  clear  to  me  that  I must 
have  come  into  the  wrong  room.  If  I call  out 
she’ll  alarm  the  house  ; but  if  I remain  here  the 
consequences  will  be  still  more  frightful.” 

Mr.  Pickwick,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  to  say, 
was  one  of  the  most  modest  and  delicate-mind- 
ed of  mortals.  The  very  idea  of  exhibiting  his 
night-cap  to  a lady  overpowered  him,  but  he 
had  tied  those  confounded  strings  in  a knot,  and 
do  what  he  would,  he  couldn’t  get  it  off.  The 
disclosure  must  be  made.  There  was  only  one 
other  way  of  doing  it.  He  shrunk  behind  the 
curtains,  and  called  out  very  loudly : 

“ Ha — hum  ! ” 

That  the  lady  started  at  this  unexpected 
sound  was  evident,  by  her  falling  up  against 
the  rush-light  shade  ; that  she  persuaded  her- 
self it  must  have  been  the  effect  of  imagination 
was  equally  clear,  for  when  Mr.  Pickwick,  under 
the  impression  that  she  had  fainted  away  stone- 
dead  from  fright,  ventured  to  peep  out  again, 
she  was  gazing  pensively  on  the  fire  as  before. 

“ Most  extraordinary  female  this,”  thought 
Mr.  Pickwick,  popping  in  again.  “ Ha — 
hum  ! ” 

These  last  sounds,  so  like  those  in  which,  as 
legends  inform  us,  the  ferocious  giant  Blunder- 
bore  was  in  the  habit  of  expressing  his  opinion 
that  it  was  time  to  lay  the  cloth,  wei^e  too  dis- 
tinctly audible  to  be  again  mistaken  for  the 
workings  of  fancy. 

“ Gracious  Heaven  ! ” said  the  middle  aged 
lady,  “ what  is  that  ? ” 

“ It’s — it’s — only  a gentleman,  Ma’am,”  said 
Mr.  Pickwick  from  behind  the  curtains. 

“A  gentleman!”  said  the  lady,  with  a ter- 
rific scream. 

“ It’s  all  over  ! ” thought  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ A strange  man ! ” shrieked  the  lady. 
Another  instant  and  the  house  would  be  alarm- 
ed. Her  garments  rustled  as  she  rushed  to- 
wards the  door. 

“ Ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  thrusting  out 
his  head,  in  the  extremity  of  his  desperation, 
“ Ma’am  ! ” 

Now,  although  Mr.  Pickwick  was  not  actuated 
by  any  definite  object  in  putting  out  his  head, 
it  was  instantaneously  productive  of  a good 
effect.  The  lady,  as  we  have  already  stated, 
was  near  the  door.  She  must  pass  it,  to  reach 
the  staircase,  and  she  would  most  undoubtedly 
have  done  so  by  this  time,  had  not  the  sudden 
apparition  of  Mr.  Pickwick’s  night-cap  driven 
her  back  into  the  remotest  corner  of  the  apart- 
ment, where  she  stood  staring  wildly  at  Mr. 
Pickwick,  while  Mr.  Pickwick  in  his  turn 
stared  wildly  at  her. 

“Wretch,”  said  the  lady,  covering  her  eyes 
with  her  hands,  “ what  do  you  want  here  ?” 

“ Nothing,  Ma'am  ; nothing,  whatever, 
Ma’am;”  said  Mr.  Pickwick  earnestly. 

" Nothing  ! ” said  the  lady,  looking  up. 

“Nothing,  Ma’am,  upon  my  honor,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick,  nodding  his  head  so  energetically 
that  the  tassel  of  his  night-cap  danced  again. 


“ I am  almost  ready  to  sink,  Ma’am,  beneath 
the  confusion  of  addressing  a lady  in  my  night- 
cap (here  the  lady  hastily  snatched  off  hers), 
but  I can’t  get  it  off,  Ma’am  (here  Mr.  Pickwick 
gave  it  a tremendous  tug,  in  proof  of  the  state- 
ment). It  is  evident  to  me,  Ma’am,  now,  that 
I have  mistaken  this  bed-room  for  my  own.  I 
had  not  been  here  five  minutes,  Ma’am,  when 
you  suddenly  entered  it.” 

“ If  this  improbable  story  be  really  true, 
sir,”  said  the  lady,  sobbing  violently,  “ you  will 
leave  it  instantly.” 

“ I will,  Ma’am,  with  the  greatest  pleasure,” 
replied  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Instantly,  sir,”  said  the  lady. 

“Certainly,  Ma’am,”  interposed  Mr.  Pick 
wick  very  quickly.  “ Certainly,  Ma’am.  I — I — 
am  very  sorry,  Ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
making  his  appeararice  at  the  bottom  of  the 
bed,  “ to  have  been  the  innocent  occasion  of 
this  alarm  and  emotion  ; deeply  sorry,  Ma’am.” 

The  lady  pointed  to  the  door.  One  ex- 
cellent quality  of  Mr.  Pickwick’s  character  was 
beautifully  displayed  at  this  moment,  under  the 
most  trying  circumstances.  Although  he  had 
hastily  put  on  his  hat  over  his  night-cap,  after 
the  manner  of  the  old  patrol ; although  he  car- 
ried his  shoes  and  gaiters  in  his  hand,  and  his 
coat  and  waistcoat  over  his  arm,  nothing 
could  subdue  his  native  politeness. 

“ I am  exceedingly  sorry,  Ma’am,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick,  bowing  very  low. 

“ If  you  are,  sir,  you  will  at  once  leave  the 
room,”  said  the  lady. 

“ Immediately,  Ma’am  ; this  instant,  Ma’am,” 
said  Mr.  Pickwick,  opening  the  door,  and  drop- 
ping both  his  shoes  with  a crash  in  so  doing. 

“ I trust,  Ma’am,”  resumed  Mr.  Pickwick, 
gathering  up  his  shoes,  and  turning  round  to 
bow  again  : “I  trust,  Ma’am,  that  my  unblem- 
ished character,  and  the  devoted  respect  I en- 
tertain for  your  sex,  will  plead  as  some  slight 
excuse  for  this — ” But  before  Mr.  Pickwick  could 
conclude  the  sentence  the  lady  had  thrust  him 
into  the  passage,  and  locked  and  bolted  the 
door  behind  him. 

H«  He  He  He  * * 

“Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  suddenly  appear- 
ing before  him,  “where’s  my  bedroom?” 

Mr.  Weller  stared  at  his  master  with  the 
most  emphatic  surprise  ; and  it  was  not  until 
the  question  had  been  repeated  three  several 
times,  that  he  turned  round,  and  led  the  way  to 
the  long-sought  apartment. 

“ Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick  as  he  got  into  bed, 
“ I have  made  one  of  the  most  extraordinary 
mistakes  to-night,  that  ever  were  heard  of.” 

“ Wery  likely,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller  drily. 

“ But  of  this  I am  determined,  Sam,”  said 
Mr.  Pickwick  ; “ that  if  I were  to  stop  in  this 
house  for  six  months,  I would  never  trust  my- 
self about  it,  alone,  again.” 

“ That’s  the  wery  prudentest  resolution  as 
you  could  come  to,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 
“ You  rayther  want  somebody  to  look  arter  you, 
sir,  wen  your  judgment  goes  out  a wisitin’.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Sam  ? ” said 
Mr.  Pickwick.  He  raised  himself  in  bed  and 
extended  his  hand,  as  if  he  were  about  to  say 
something  more  ; but  suddenly  checking  him- 
self, turned  round,  and  bade  his  valet  “Good 
night.” 

“Good  night,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller.  He 


BEDSTEAD 


41 


BEGGARS 


paused  when  he  got  outside  the  door — shook 
his  head — walked  on — stopped — snuffed  the 
candle — shook  his  head  again — and  finally  pro- 
ceeded slowly  to  his  chamber,  apparently  buried 
in  the  profoundest  meditation. 

Pickwick , Chap.  22. 

BEDSTEAD— A despotic  monster. 

It  was  a sort  of  vault  on  the  ground-floor  at 
the  back,  with  a despotic  monster  of  a four-post 
bedstead  in  it,  straddling  over  the  whole  place, 
putting  one  of  his  arbitrary  legs  into  the  fire- 
place and  another  into  the  door- way,  and  squeez- 
ing the  wretched  little  washing-stand  in  quite  a 
Divinely  Righteous  manner. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  45. 

BEDSTEADS— The  characteristics  of. 

A turn-up  bedstead  is  a blunt,  honest  piece 
of  furniture  ; it  may  be  slightly  disguised  with 
a sham  drawer  ; and  sometimes  a mad  attempt 
is  even  made  to  pass  it  off  for  a book-case  ; or- 
nament it  as  you  will,  however,  the  turn-up 
bedstead  seems  to  defy  disguise,  and  to  insist 
on  having  it  distinctly  understood  that  he  is  a 
turn-up  bedstead,  and  nothing  else — that  he  is 
indispensably  necessary,  and  that,  fleing  so  use- 
ful, he  disdains  to  be  ornamental. 

How  different  is  the  demeanor  of  a sofa  bed- 
stead ! Ashamed  of  its  real  use,  it  stx'ives  to 
appear  an  article  of  luxury  and  gentility — an 
attempt  in  which  it  miserably  fails.  It  has 
neither  the  respectability  of  a sofa,  nor  the  vir- 
tues of  a bed  ; every  man  who  keeps  a sofa 
bedstead  in  his  house,  becomes  a party  to  a wil- 
ful and  designing  fraud — we  question  whether 
you  could  insult  him  more  than  by  insinuating 
that  you  entertain  the  least  suspicion  of  its  real 
use. — Scenes , Chap.  21. 

BEES— As  models  of  industry. 

Mr.  Skimpole  was  as  agreeable  at  breakfast 
as  he  had  been  over-night.  There  was  honey 
on  the  table,  and  it  led  him  into  a discourse 
about  Bees.  He  had  no  objection  to  honey,  he 
said  (and  I should  think  he  had  not,  for  he 
seemed  to  like  it),  but  he  protested  against  the 
overweening  assumptions  of  Bees.  He  didn’t  at 
all  see  why  the  busy  Bee  should  be  proposed  as 
a model  to  him  ; he  supposed  the  Bee  liked  to 
make  honey,  or  he  wouldn’t  do  it — nobody 
asked  him.  It  was  not  necessary  for  the  Bee 
to  make  such  a merit  of  his  tastes.  If  every 
confectioner  went  buzzing  about  the  world, 
banging  against  everything  that  came  in  his 
way,  and  egotistically  calling  upon  everybody 
to  take  notice  that  he  was  going  to  his  work 
and  must  not  be  interrupted,  the  world  would 
be  quite  an  unsupportable  place.  Then,  after 
all,  it  was  a ridiculous  position,  to  be  smoked 
out  of  your  fortune  with  brimstone,  as  soon  as 
you  had  made  it.  You  would  have  a very  mean 
opinion  of  a Manchester  man,  if  he  spun  cot- 
ton for  no  other  purpose.  He  must  say  he 
thought  a Drone  the  embodiment  of  a plea- 
santer and  wiser  idea.  The  Drone  said,  un- 
affectedly, “ You  will  excuse  me  ; I really  can- 
not attend  to  the  shop  ! I find  myself  in  a 
world  in  which  there  is  so  much  to  see,  and  so 
short  a time  to  see  it  in,  that  I must  take  the 
liberty  of  looking  about  me,  and  begging  to  be 
provided  for  by  somebody  who  doesn’t  want  to 
look  about  him.”  This  appeared  to  Mr.  Skim- 


pole to  be  the  Drone  philosophy,  and  he 
thought  it  a very  good  philosophy — always  sup- 
posing the  Drone  to  be  willing  to  be  on  good 
terms  with  the  Bee : which,  so  far  as  he  knew, 
the  easy  fellow  always  was,  if  the  consequential 
creature  would  only  let  him,  and  not  be  so  con- 
ceited about  his  honey  !—  Bleak  House , Chap.  b. 

BEES— Their  example  a humbug-. 

“ But  there’s  nothing  like  work.  Look  at 
the  bees.” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,”  returned  Eugene,  with 
a reluctant  smile,  “ but  you  will  excuse  my 
mentioning  that  I always  protest  against  being 
referred  to  the  bees.” 

“ Do  you  ? ” said  Boffin. 

“ I object  on  principle,”  said  Eugene,  “ as  a 
biped ” 

“ As  a what?  ” asked  Mr.  Boffin. 

“ As  a two-footed  creature  ; — I object  on 
principle,  as  a two-footed  creature,  to  being 
constantly  referred  to  insects  and  four-footed 
creatures.  I object  to  being  required  to  model 
my  proceedings  according  to  the  proceedings 
of  the  bee,  or  the  dog,  or  the  spider,  or  the 
camel.  I fully  admit  that  the  camel,  for  iiv 
stance,  is  an  excessively  temperate  person  ; but 
he  has  several  stomachs  to  entertain  himself 
with,  and  I have  only  one.  Besides,  I am  not 
.fitted  up  with  a convenient  cool  cellar  to  keep 
my  drink  in.” 

“ But  I said,  you  know,”  urged  Boffin,  rather 
at  a loss  for  an  answer,  “ the  bee.” 

“ Exactly.  And  may  I i-epresent  to  you  that 
it’s  injudicious  to  say  the  bee?  for  the  whole 
case  is  assumed.  Conceding  for  a moment  that 
there  is  any  analogy  between  a bee  and  a man 
in  a shirt  and  pantaloons  (which  I deny),  and 
that  it  is  settled  that, the  man  is  to  learn  from 
the  bee  (which  I also  deny),  the  question  still 
remains,  what  is  he  to  learn?  To  imitate? 
Or  to  avoid  ? When  your  friends  the  bees 
worry  themselves  to  that  highly  fluttered  ex- 
tent about  their  sovereign,  and  become  per- 
fectly distracted  touching  the  slightest  mon- 
archical movement,  are  we  men  to  learn  the 
greatness  of  Tuft-hunting,  or  the  littleness  of 
the  Court  Circular?  I am  not  clear,  Mr.  Boffin, 
but  that  the  hive  may  be  satirical.” 

“ At  all  events,  they  work,.”  said  Mr.  Boffin. 

“Ye-es,”  returned  Eugene,  disparagingly, 
“ they  work  ; but  don’t  you  think  they  overdo  it  ? 
They  work  so  much  more  than  they  need — they 
make  so  much  more  than  they  can  eat — they 
are  so  incessantly  boring  and  buzzing  at  their 
one  idea  till  Death  comes  upon  them — that 
don’t  you  think  they  overdo  it  ? And  are 
human  laborers  to  have  no  holidays,  because  of 
the  bees  ? And  am  I never  to  have  change  of 
air,  because  the  bees  don’t?  Mr.  Boffin,  I 
think  honey  excellent  at  breakfast  ; but,  regard- 
ed in  the  light  of  my  conventional  schoolmaster 
and  moralist,  I protest  against  the  tyrannical 
humbug  of  your  friend  the  bee.” 

Our  Mutual  F'Aend,  Chap.  8. 

BEGGARS— in  Italian  churches. 

There  is  a very  interesting  subterranean 
church  here  ; the  roof  supported  by  marble  pil- 
lars, behind  each  of  which  there  seemed  to  be 
at  least  one  beggar  in  ambush  : to  say  nothing 
of  the  tombs  and  secluded  altars.  From  every 


BEGGARS 


42 


BEGGARS 


one  of  these  lurking-places,  such  crowds  of 
phantom-looking  men  and  women,  leading 
other  men  and  women  with  twisted  limbs,  or 
chattering  jaws,  or  paralytic  gestures,  or  idiotic- 
heads,  or  some  other  sad  infirmity,  came  hob- 
bling out  to  beg,  that  if  the  ruined  frescoes  in 
the  cathedral  above  had  been  suddenly  anima- 
ted, and  had  retired  to  this  lower  church,  they 
could  hardly  have  made  a greater  confusion,  or 
exhibited  a more  confounding  display  of  arms 
and  legs. — Pictures  fro7ii  Italy. 

BEGGARS —Italian. 

A hollow-cheeked  and  scowling  people  they 
are  ! All  beggars  ; but  that’s  nothing.  Look 
at  them  as  they  gather  round.  Some  aie  too 
indolent  to  come  down  stairs,  or  are  too  wise- 
ly mistrustful  of  the  stairs,  perhaps,  to  venture  ; 
so  stretch  out  their  lean  hands  from  upper  win- 
dows, and  howl ; others  come  flocking  about 
us,  fighting  and  jostling  one  another,  and  de- 
manding, incessantly,  charity  for  the  love  of 
God,  charity  for  the  love  of  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin, charity  for  the  love  of  all  the  Saints.  A 
group  of  miserable  children,  almost  naked, 
screaming  forth  the  same  petition,  discover 
that  they  can  see  themselves  reflected  in  the 
varnish  of  the  carriage,  and  begin  to  dance 
and  make  grimaces,  that  they  may  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  their  antics  repeated  in  this 
mirror.  A crippled  idiot,  in  the  act  of  striking 
one  of  them  who  drowns  his  clamorous  de- 
mand for  charity,  observes  his  angry  counter- 
part in  the  panel,  stops  short,  and  thrusting  out 
his  tongue,  begins  to  wag  his  head  and  chat- 
ter. The  shrill  cry  raised  at  this,  awakens  half 
a dozen  wild  creatures  wrapped  in  frowsy 
brown  cloaks,  who  are  lying  on  the  church- 
steps  with  pots  and  pans  for  sale.  These, 
scrambling  up,  approach,  and  beg  defiantly.  “ I 
am  hungry.  Give  me  something.  Listen  to 
me,  Signor.  I am  hungry  ! ” Then,  a ghastly 
old  woman,  fearful  of  being  too  late,  comes 
hobbling  down  the  street,  stretching  out  one 
hand,  and  scratching  herself  all  the  way  with 
the  other,  and  screaming,  long  before  she  can 
be  heard,  “Charity,  charity!  I’ll  go  and  pray 
for  you  directly,  beautiful  lady,  if  you’ll  give 
me  charity  ! ” Lastly,  the  members  of  a broth- 
erhood for  burying  the  dead  — hideously  mask- 
ed, and  attired  in  shabby  black  robes,  white  at 
the  skirts,  with  the  splashes  of  many  muddy 
winters,  escorted  by  a dirty  priest,  and  a con- 
genial cross-bearer — come  hurrying  past.  Sur- 
rounded by  this  motley  concourse,  we  move  out 
of  Fondi  ; bad  bright  eyes  glaring  at  us,  out  of 
. the  darkness  of  every  crazy  tenement,  like 
glistening  fragments  of  its  filth  and  putrefac- 
tion.— Pictures  from  Italy. 

BEGGARS— of  society:  the 

But  there  are,  besides,  the  individual  beg- 
gars ; and  how  does  the  heart  of  the  Secretary 
fail  him  when  he  has  to  cope  with  them!  And 
they  must  be  coped  with  to  some  extent,  be- 
cause they  all  enclose  documents  (they  call  their 
scraps  documents  ; but  they  are,  as  to  papers 
deserving  the  name,  what  minced  veal  is  to  a 
calf),  the  non-return  of  which  would  be  their 
ruin.  That  is  to  say,  they  are  utterly  ruined 
now,  but  they  would  be  more  utterly  ruined 
then.  Among  these  correspondents  are  several 
daughters  of  general  officers,  long  accustomed 


to  every  luxury  of  life  (except  spelling),  who 
little  thought,  when  their  gallant  fathers  wagtrt 
war  in  the  Peninsula,  that  they  would  ever  havt 
to  appeal  to  those  whom  Providence,  in  its 
inscrutable  wisdom,  has  blessed  with  untold 
gold,  and  from  among  whom  they  select  the 
name  of  Nicodemus  Boffin,  Esquire,  for  a 
maiden  effort  in  this  wise,  understanding  that 
he  has  such  a heart  as  never  was.  The  Secre- 
tary learns,  too,  that  confidence  between  man 
and  wife  would  seem  to  obtain  but  rarely  when 
virtue  is  in  distress,  so  numerous  are  the  wives 
who  take  up  their  pens  to  ask  Mr.  Boffin  for 
money  without  the  knowledge  of  their  devoted 
husbands,  who  would  never  permit  it  ; while 
on  the  other  hand,  so  numerous  are  the  hus 
bands  who  take  up  their  pens  to  ask  Mr.  Boffin 
for  money  without  the  knowledge  of  their  de  - 
voted wives,  who  would  instantly  go  out  of  their 
senses  if  they  had  the  least  suspicion  of  the 
circumstance.  There  are  the  inspired  beggars, 
too.  These  were  sitting,  only  yesterday  even- 
ing, musing  over  a fragment  of  candle  which 
must  soon  go  out  and  leave  them  in  the  dark 
for  the  rest  of  their  nights,  when  surely  some 
Angel  whispered  the  name  of  Nicodemus  Bof- 
fin, Esquire,  to  their  souls,  imparting  rays  of 
hope,  nay,  confidence,  to  which  they  had  long 
been  strangers  1 Akin  to  these  are  the  sugges- 
tively-befriended beggars.  They  were  partak- 
ing of  a cold  potato  and  water  by  the  flick- 
ering and  gloomy  light  of  a lucifer-match,  in 
their  lodgings  (rent  considerably  in  arrear,  and 
heartless  landlady  threatening  expulsion  “ like 
a dog  ” into  the  streets),  when  a gifted  friend 
happening  to  look  in,  said,  “Write  immediate- 
ly to  Nicodemus  Boffin,  Esquire,”  and  would 
take  no  denial.  There  are  the  nobly  indepen- 
dent beggars  too.  These,  in  the  days  of  their 
abundance,  ever  regarded  gold  as  dross,  and 
have  not  yet  got  over  that  only  impediment  in 
the  way  of  their  amassing  wealth,  but  they 
want  no  dross  from  Nicodemus  Boffin,  Esquire  ; 
No,  Mr.  Boffin  ; the  world  may  term  it  pride, 
paltfy  pride  if  you  will,  but  they  wouldn’t  take 
it  if  you  offered  it  ; a loan,  sir — for  fourteen 
weeks  to  the  day,  interest  calculated  at  the  rate 
of  five  per  cent,  per  annum,  to  be  bestoyved 
upon  any  charitable  institution  you  may  name 
— is  all  they  want  of  you,  and  if  you  have  the 
meanness  to  refuse  it,  count  on  being  despised 
by  these  great  spirits.  There  are  the  beggars 
of  punctual  business  habits  too.  These  will 
make  an  end  of  themselves  at  a quarter  to  one 
p.  m.  on  Tuesday,  if  no  Post-office  order  is  in 
the  interim  received  from  Nicodemus  Boffin, 
Esquire;  arriving  after  a quarter  to  one  P.  M. 
on  Tuesday,  it  need  not  be  sent,  as  they  will 
then  (having  made  an  exact  memorandum  jnf 
the  heartless  circumstances)  be  “ cold  in  death:” 
There  are  the  beggars  on  horseback  too,  in  an- 
other sense  from  the  sense  of  the  proverb.  These 
are  mounted  and  ready  to  start  on  the  highway  to 
affluence.  The  goal  is  before  them,  the  road  is 
in  the  best  condition,  their  spurs  are  on,  the 
steed  is  willing,  but  at  the  last  moment,  lor 
want  of  some  special  thing — a clock,  a violin, 
an  astronomical  telescope,  an  electrifying  ma- 
chine— they  must  dismount  for  ever,  unless  they 
receive  its  equivalent  in  money  from  Nicotie- 
mus  Boffin,  Esquire.  Less  given  to  detail  are 
the  beggars  who  make  sporting  ventures. 

I These,  usually  to  be  addressed  m reply  under 


BEGGING-LETTER  WRITER 


43 


BELLS 


initials  at  a country  post  office,  inquire  in  femi- 
nine hands,  Dare  one  who  cannot  disclose  her 
self  to  Nicodemus  Boffin,  Esquire,  but  whose 
name  might  startle  him  were  it  revealed,  solicit 
the  immediate  advance  of  two  hundred  pounds 
from  unexpected  riches  exercising  their  noblest 
privilege  in  the  trust  of  a common  humanity  ? 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  17. 

BEGGING-LETTER  WRITER-The. 

I ought  to  know  something  of  the  Beg- 
ging-Letter Writer.  He  has  beseiged  my  door, 
at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night;  he  has  fought 
my  servant ; he  has  lain  in  ambush  for  me,  go- 
ing out  and  coming  in  ; he  has  followed  me  out 
of  town  into  the  country  ; he  has  appeared  at 
provincial  hotels,  where  I have  been  staying  for 
only  a few  hours  ; he  has  written  to  me  from 
immense  distances,  when  I have  been  out  of 
England.  He  has  fallen  sick  ; he  has  died,  and 
been  buried ; he  has  come  to  life  again,  and 
again  departed  from  this  transitory  scene  ; he 
has  been  his  own  son,  his  own  mother,  his  own 
baby,  his  idiot  brother,  his  uncle,  his  aunt,  his 
aged  grandfather.  He  has  wanted  a great  coat, 
to  go  to  India  in  ; a pound  to  set  him  up  in  life 
for  ever ; a pair  of  boots,  to  take  him  to  the 
coast  of  China;  a hat,  to  get 'him  into  a per- 
manent situation  under  Government.  He  has 
frequently  been  exactly  seven-and-sixpence 
short  of  independence.  He  has  had  such  open- 
ings at  Liverpool — posts  of  great  trust  and  con- 
fidence in  merchants’  houses,  which  nothing  but 
seven-and-sixpence  was  wanting  to  him  to  se- 
cure— that  I wonder  he  is.  not  Mayor  of  that 
flourishing  town  at  the  present  moment. 

The  natural  phenomena  of  which  he  has  been 
the  victim,  are  of  a most  astounding  nature. 
He  has  had  two  children,  who  have  never  grown 
up  ; who  have  never  had  anything  to  cover  them 
at  night ; who  have  been  continually  driving 
him  mad,  by  asking  in  vain  for  food  ; who  have 
never  come  out  of  fevers  and  measles  (which,  I 
suppose,  has  accounted  for  his  fuming  his  let- 
ters with  tobacco  smoke  as  a disinfectant)  ; who 
have  never  changed  in  the  least  degree,  through 
fourteen  long  revolving  years.  As  to  his  wife, 
what  that  suffering  woman  has  undergone,  no- 
body knows.  She  has  always  been  in  an  inter- 
esting situation  through  the  same  long  period, 
and  has  never  been  confined  yet.  His  devotion 
to  her  has  been  unceasing.  He  has  never  cared 
.for  himself ; he  could  have  perished — he  would 
rather,  in  short — but  was  it  not  his  Christian 
duty  as  a man,  a husband,  and  a father,  to  write 
begging  letters  when  he  looked  at  her?  (He 
has  usually  remarked  that  he  would  call  in  the 
evening  for  an  answer  to  this  question.) 

He  has  been  the  sport  of  the  strangest  mis- 
fortunes. What  his  brother  has  done  to  him 
would  have  broken  anybody  else’s  heart.  His 
brother  went  into  business  with  him,  and  ran 
away  with  the  money  ; his  brother  got  him  to 
be  security  for  an  immense  sum,  and  left  him  to 
pay  it ; his  brother  would  have  given  him  em- 
ployment to  the  tune  of  hundreds  a year,  if  he 
would  have  consented  to  write  letters  on  a Sun- 
day ; his  brother  enunciated  principles  incom- 
patible with  his  religious  views,  and  he  could 
not  (in  consequence)  permit  his  brother  to  pro- 
vide for  him.  His  landlord  has  never  shown  a 
spark  of  human  feeling.  When  he  put  in  that 
execution  I don’t  know,  but  he  has  never  taken 


it  out.  The  broker’s  man  has  grown  gray  in 
possession.  They  will  have  to  bury  him  seme 
day. 

He  ^has  been  attached  to  every  conceivable 
pursuit.  He  has  been  in  the  army,  in  the  navy, 
in  the  church,  in  the  law  ; connected  with  the 
press,  the  fine  arts,  public  institutions,  every  de- 
scription and  grade  of  business.  He  has  been 
brought  up  as  a gentleman  : he  has  been  at 
every  college  in  Oxford  and  Cambridge  ; he 
can  quote  Latin  in  his  letters  (but  generally 
mis-spells  some  minor  English  word)  ; he  can 
tell  you  what  Shakespeare  says  about  begging, 
better  than  you  know  it.  It  is  to  be  observed, 
that  in  the  midst  of  his  afflictions  he  always 
reads  the  newspapers  ; and  rounds  off  his  ap- 
peals with  some  allusion,  that  may  be  supposed 
to  be  in  my  way,  to  the  popular  subject  of  the 
hour. 

His  life  presents  a series  of  inconsistencies. 
Sometimes  he  has  never  written  such  a letter 
before.  He  blushes  with  shame.  That  is  the 
first  time  ; that  shall  be  the  last.  Don’t  answer 
it,  and  let  it  be  understood  that,  then,  he  will 
kill  himself  quietly.  Sometimes  (and  more  fre- 
quently) he  has  written  a few  such  letters.  Then 
he  encloses  the  answers,  with  an  intimation  that 
they  are  of  inestimable  value  to  him,  and  a re- 
quest that  they  may  be  carefully  returned.  He 
is  fond  of  enclosing  something — verses,  letteis, 
pawnbrokers’  duplicates,  anything  to  necessitate 
an  answer.  Pie  is  very  severe  upon  “ the  pam- 
pered minion  of  fortune,”  who  refused  him  the 
half-sovereign  referred  to  in  the  enclosure 
number  two — but  he  knows  me  better. 

He  writes  in  a variety  of  styles  ; sometimes 
in  low  spirits  ; sometimes  quite  jocosely.  When 
he  is  in  low  spirits,  he  writes  down-hill,  and 
repeats  words — these  little  indications  being 
expressive  of  the  perturbation  of  his  mind. 
When  he  is  more  vivacious,  he  is  frank  with 
me  ; he  is  quite  the  agreeable  rattle.  I know 
what  human  nature  is — who  better?  Well! 
He  had  a little  money  once,  and  he  ran  through 
it — as  many  men  have  done  before  him.  He 
finds  his  old  friends  turn  away  from  him  now — 
many  men  have  done  that  before  him,  too ! 
Shall  he  tell  me  why  he  writes  to  me  ? Be- 
cause he  has  no  kind  of  claim  upon  me.  He 
puts  it  on  that  ground,  plainly  ; and  begs  to 
ask  for  the  loan  (as  I know  human  nature)  of 
two  sovereigns,  to  be  repaid  next  Tuesday  six 
weeks,  before  twelve  at  noon. 

w ^ 

The  poor  never  write  these  letters.  Nothing 
could  be  more  unlike  their  habits.  The  writers 
are  public  robbers  ; and  we  who  support  them 
are  parties  to  their  depredations.  They  trade 
upon  every  circumstance  within  their  know- 
ledge that  affects  us,  public  or  private,  joyful  or 
sorrowful ; they  pervert  the  lessons  of  our  lives  ; 
they  change  what  ought  to  be  our  strength  and 
virtue,  into  weakness  and  encouragement  of 
vice.  There  is  a plain  remedy,  and  it  is  in  our 
own  hands.  We  must  resolve,  at  any  sacrifice 
of  feeling,  to  be  deaf  to  such  appeals,  and  crush 
the  trade. — Reprinted  Pieces. 

BELLS— The  associations  of  Sunday. 

It  was  Sunday  evening  in  London,  gloomy, 
close,  and  stale.  Maddening  church  bells  of 
all  degrees  of  dissonance,  sharp  and  flat,  crack- 
ed and  clear,  fast  and  slow,  made  the  brick  and 


BELLS 


BELL 


mortar  echoes  hideous.  Melancholy  streets,  in 
a penitential  garb  of  soot,  steeped  the  souls  of 
the  people  who  were  condemned  to  look  at 
them  out  of  windows,  in  dire  despondency.  In 
every  thoroughfare,  up  almost  every  alley,  and 
down  almost  every  turning,  some  doleful  bell 
was  throbbing,  jerking,  tolling,  as  if  the  Plague 
were  in  the  city  and  the  dead-carts  were  going 
round.  Everything  was  bolted  and  barred  that 
could  by  possibility  furnish  relief  to  an  over- 
worked people.  No  pictures,  no  unfamiliar  an- 
imals, no  rare  plants  or  flowers,  no  natural  or 
artificial  wonders  of  the  ancient  world — all 
taboo  with  that  enlightened  strictness  that  the 
ugly  South  Sea  gods  in  the  British  Museum 
might  have  supposed  themselves  at  home  again. 
Nothing  to  see  but  streets,  streets,  streets. 
Nothing  to  breathe  but  streets,  streets,  streets. 
Nothing  to  change  the  brooding  mind,  or 
raise  it  up.  Nothing  for  the  spent  toiler  to  do, 
but  to  compare  the  monotony  of  his  seventh  day 
with  the  monotony  of  his  six  days,  think  what  a 
weary  life  he  led,  and  make  the  best  of  it — or 
the  worst,  according  to  the  probabilities. 

* * * *•  * * 

Mr.  Arthur  Clennam  sat  in  the  window  of 
the  coffee-house  on  Ludgate  Hill,  counting  one 
of  the  neighboring  bells,  making  sentences  and 
burdens  of  songs  out  of  it  in  spite  of  himself, 
and  wondering  how  many  sick  people  it  might 
be  the  death  of  in  the  course  of  a year.  As  the 
hour  approached,  its  changes  of  measure  made 
it  more  and  more  exasperating.  At  the  quar- 
ter, it  went  off  into  a condition  of  deadly  lively 
importunity,  urging  the  populace  in  a voluble 
manner  to  Come  to  church,  Come  to  church, 
Come  to  church  ! At  the  ten  minutes,  it  be- 
came aware  that  the  congregation  would  be 
scanty,  and  slowly  hammered  out  in  low  spirits, 
They  wont  come,  they  worit  come,  they  wont 
come  ! At  the  five  minutes  it  abandoned  hope, 
and  shook  every  house  in  the  neighborhood  for 
three  hundred  seconds,  with  one  dismal  swing 
per  second,  as  a groan  of  despair. 


BELLS— Grown  worldly.  ^ 

Since  the  time  of  noble  Whittington,  fair 
flower  of  merchants,  bells  have  come  to  have 
less  sympathy  with  humankind.-  They  only 
ring  for  money  and  on  state  occasions.  Wan- 
derers have  increased  in  number ; ships  leave 
the  Thames  for  distant  regions,  carrying  from 
stem  to  stern  no  other  cargo  ; the  bells  are  si- 
lent ; they  ring  out  no  entreaties  or  regrets  ; 
they  are  used  to  it  and  have  grown  worldly. 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  31. 

BELL— The  voice  of  the  alarm. 

This  time  Mr.  Willet  indicated  it  correctly. 
The  man  was  hurrying  to  the  door,  when  sud- 
denly there  came  towards  them,  on  the  wind, 
the  loud  and  rapid  tolling  of  an  alarm  bell, 
and  then  a bright  and  vivid  glare  streamed  up, 
which  illumined,  not  only  the  whole  chamber, 
but  all  the  country. 

It  was  not  the  sudden  change  from  darkness 
to  this  dreadful  light,  it  was  not  the  sound  of 
distant  shrieks  and  shouts  of  triumph,  it  was 
not  this  dread  invasion  of  the  serenity  and 
peace  of  night,  that  drove  the  man  back  as 
though  a thunderbolt  had  struck  him.  It  was 
the  Bell.  If  the  ghastliest  shape  the  human 


mind  has  ever  pictured  in  its  wildest  dreams 
had  risen  up  before  him,  he  could  not  have  stag- 
gered backward  from  its  touch,  as  he  did  from 
the  first  sound  of  that  loud  iron  voice.  With 
eyes  that  started  from  his  head,  his  limbs  con- 
vulsed, his  face  most  horrible  to  see,  he  raised 
one  arm  high  up  into  the  air,  and  holding  some- 
thing visionary,  back  and  down,  with  his  other 
hand,  drove  at  it  as  though  he  held  a knife  and 
stabbed  it  to  the  heart.  He  clutched  his  hair, 
and  stopped  his  ears,  and  travelled  madly  round 
and  round  ; then  gave  a frightful  cry,  and  with 
it  rushed  away  : still,  still,  the  Bell  tolled  on 
and  seemed  to  follow  him — louder  and  louder, 
hotter  and  hotter  yet.  The  glare  grew  bright- 
er, the  roar  of  voices  deeper ; the  crash  of 
heavy  bodies  falling,  shook  the  air ; bright 
streams  of  sparks  rose  up  into  the  sky  ; but 
louder  than  them  all — rising  faster  far,  to  Heav- 
en— a million  times  more  fierce  and  furious — 
pouring  forth  dreadful  secrets  after  its  long  si- 
lence— speaking  the  language  of  the  dead — the 
Bell— the  Bell ! 

What  hunt  of  spectres  could  surpass  that 
dread  pursuit  and  flight  ! Had  there  been  a 
legion  of  them  on  his  track,  he  could  have  bet- 
ter borne  it.  They  would  have  had  a begin- 
ning and  an  end,  but  here  all  space  was  full. 
The  one  pursuing  voice  was  everywhere  : it 
sounded  in  the  earth,  the  air ; shook  the  long 
grass,  and  howled  among  the  trembling  trees. 
The  echoes  caught  it  up,  the  owls  hooted  as  it 
flew  upon  the  breeze,  the  nightingale  was  silent 
and  hid  herself  among  the  thickest  boughs  : it 
seemed  to  goad  and  urge  the  angry  fire,  and 
lash  it  into  madness;  everything  was  steeped  in 
one  prevailing  red  ; the  glow  was  everywhere  ; 
nature  was  drenched  in  blood  : still  the  remorse- 
less crying  of  that  awful  voice — the  Bell — the 
Bell ! 

It  ceased  ; but  not  in  his  ears.  The  knell 
was  at  his  heart.  No  woik  of  man  had  ever 
voice  like  that  which  sounded  there,  and  warn- 
ed him  that  it  cried  unceasingly  to  Heaven. 
Who  could  hear  that  bell,  and  not  know  what 
it  said  ! There  was  murder  in  its  every  note — 
cruel,  relentless,  savage  murder — the  murder  of 
a confiding  man,  by  one  who  held  his  every 
trust.  Its  ringing  summoned  phantoms  from 
their  graves.  What  face  was  that,  in  which  a 
friendly  smile  changed  to  a look  of  half  incred- 
ulous horror,  which  stiffened  for  a moment  into 
one  of  pain,  then  changed  again  into  an  im- 
ploring glance  at  Heaven,  and  so  fell  idly 
down  with  upturned  eyes,  like  the  dead  stags 
he  had  often  peeped  at  when  a little  child, 
shrinking  and  shuddering — there  was  a dread- 
ful thing  to  think  of  now ! — and  clinging  to  an 
apron  as  he  looked  ! He  sank  upon  the  ground, 
and  grovelling  down  as  if  he  would  dig  himself 
a place  to  hide  in,  covered  his  face  and  ears  ; 
but  no,  no,  no — a hundred  walls  and  roofs  of 
brass  would  not  shut  out  that  bell,  for  in  it 
spoke  the  wrathful  voice  of  God,  and  from  that 
voice,  the  whole  wide  universe  could  not  afford 
a refuge  1 — Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  55. 

BELL Its  vibrations. 

The  ancient  tower  of  a church,  whose  gruff 
old  bell  was  always  peeping  slily  down  at  Scrooge 
out  of  a Gothic  window  in  the  wall,  became  in- 
visible, and  struck  the  hours  and  quarters  in  the 
clouds,  with  tremulous  vibrations  afterwards,  as 


BELLS 


45 


BELLS 


if  its  teeth  were  chattering  in  its  frozen  head  up 
there. — Christmas  Carols  Stave  I. 

BELLS— Church. 

So  many  bells  are  ringing,  when  I stand  un- 
decided at  a street  corner,  that  every  sheep  in 
the  ecclesiastical  fold  might  be  a bell-wether. 
The  discordance  is  fearful.  My  state  of  inde- 
cision is  referable  to,  and  about  equally  divisi- 
ble among,  four  great  churches,  which  are  all 
within  sight  and  sound — all  within  the  space  of 
a few  square  yards.  As  I stand  at  the  street 
corner.  I don’t  see  as  many  as  four  people  at 
once  going  to  church,  though  I see  as  many  as 
four  churches  with  their  steeples  clamoring  for 
people. — Uncommercial  Ti'aveller,  Chap.  9. 

BELLS— At  midnig-ht. 

When  a church  clock  strikes  on  houseless 
ears  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  it  may  be  at  first 
mistaken  for  company,  and  hailed  as  such.  But 
as  the  spreading  circles  of  vibration,  which  you 
may  perceive  at  such  a time  with  great  clearness, 
go  opening  out,  for  ever  and  ever  afterwards 
widening  perhaps  (as  the  philosopher  has  sug- 
gested) in  eternal  space,  the  mistake  is  rectified, 
and  the  sense  of  loneliness  is  profounder. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  13. 

BELL— The  last  stroke  of  the  year. 

We  have  scarcely  written  the  last  word  of 
the  previous  sentence,  when  the  first  stroke  of 
twelve  peals  from  the  neighboring  churches. 
There  certainly — we  must  confess  it — is  some- 
thing awful  in  the  sound.  Strictly  speaking,  it 
may  not  be  more  impressive  now  than  at  any 
other  time  ; for  the  hours  steal  as  swiftly  on  at 
other  periods,  and  their  flight  is  little  heeded. 
But  we  measure  man’s  life  by  years,  and  it  is  a 
solemn  knell  that  warns  us  we  have  passed  an- 
other of  the  landmarks  which  stand  between  us 
and  the  grave.  Disguise  it  as  we  may,  the  re- 
flection will  force  itself  on  our  minds,  that  when 
the  next  bell  announces  the  arrival  of  a new 
year,  we  may  be  insensible  alike  of  the  timely 
warning  we  have  so  often  neglected,  and  of  all 
the  warm  feelings  that  glow  within  us  now. 

Sketches  ( Characters ),  Chap.  3. 

BELLS— The  Chimes. 

High  up  in  the  steeple  of  an  old  church,  far 
above  the  light  and  murmur  of  the  town  and 
far  below  the  flying  clouds  that  shadow  it,  is  the 
wild  and  dreary  place  at  night : and  high  up  in 
the  steeple  of  an  old  church,  dwelt  the  Chimes 
I tell  of. 

They  were  old  Chimes,  trust  me.  Centuries 
ago,  these  Bells  had  been  baptized  by  bishops  : 
so  many  centuries  ago,  that  the  register  of  their 
baptism  was  lost  long,  long  before  the  memory 
of  man,  and  no  one  knew  their  names.  They 
had  had  their  Godfathers  and  Godmothers,  these 
Bells  (for  my  own  part,  by  the  way,  I would 
rather  incur  the  responsibility  of  being  God- 
father to  a Bell  than  a Boy),  and  had  had 
their  silver  mugs  no  doubt,  besides.  But  Time 
had  mowed  down  their  sponsors,  and  Henry 
the  Eighth  had  melted  down  their  mugs  ; and 
they  now  hung,  nameless  and  mugless,  in  the 
church  tower. 

Not  speechless,  though.  Far  from  it.  They 
had  clear,  loud,  lusty,  sounding  voices,  had  these 
Bells  ; and  far  and  wide  they  might  be  heard 


upon  the  wind.  Much  too  sturdy  Chimes  were 
they,  to  be  dependent  on  the  pleasure  of  the 
wind,  moreover  ; for,  fighting  gallantly  against 
it  when  it  took  an  adverse  whim,  they  would 
pour  their  cheerful  notes  into  a listening  ear 
right  royally  ; and  bent  on  being  heard,  on 
stormy  nights,  by  some  poor  mother  watching 
a sick  child,  or  some  lone  wife  whose  husband 
was  at  sea,  they  had  been  sometimes  known  to 
beat  a blustering  Nor’  Wester;  aye,  “all  to 
fits,”  as  Toby  Veck  said — 

****** 

For,  being  but  a simple  man,  he  invested  them 
with  a strange  and  solemn  character.  They 
were  so  mysterious,  often  heard  and  never  seen  ; 
so  high  up,  so  far  off,  so  full  of  such  deep  strong 
melody,  that  he  regarded  them  with  a species 
of  awe  : and  sometimes  when  he  looked  up  at 
the  dark,  arched  windows  in  the  tower,  he  half 
expected  to  be  beckoned  to  by  something  which 
was  not  a Bell,  and  yet  what  he  heard  so  often 
sounding  in  the  Chimes. 

****** 

As  he  was  stooping  to  sit  down,  the  Chimes 
rang. 

• “Amen!”  said  Trotty,  pulling  off  his  hat 
and  looking  up  towards  them. 

“ Amen  to  the  Bells,  father?”  cried  Meg. 

“ They  broke  in  like  a grace,  my  dear,”  said 
Trotty,  taking  his  seat.  “ They’d  say  a good 
one,  I am  sure,  if  they  could.  Many’s  the  kind 
thing  they  say  to  me.” 

“ The  Bells  do,  father  ! ” laughed  Meg,  as 
she  set  the  basin,  and  a knife  and  fork  before 
him.  “ Well ! ” 

“Seem  to,  my  Pet,”  said  Trotty,  falling  to 
with  great  vigor.  “ And  where’s  the  difference  ? 
If  I hear  ’em,  what  does  it  matter  whether  they 
speak  it  or  not  ? Why  tlesc  you,  my  dear,” 
said  Toby,  pointing  at  the  tower  with  his  fork, 
and  becoming  more  animated  under  the  influ- 
ence of  dinner,  “ how  often  have  I heard  them 
bells  say,  ‘ Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  keep  a good 
heart,  Toby  ! Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  keejD  a 
good  heart,  Toby!’  A million  times?  More!” 

“Well,  I ^BBWM«cried  Meg. 

She  had,  Bough — over  and  over  again.  For 
it  was  Tobm  . constant  topic. 

“ When  nfings  is  very  bad,”  said  Trotty; 
“very  bad  indeed,  I mean  ; almost  at  the  worst ; 
then  it’s  ‘Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  job  coming 
soon,  Toby ! Toby  Veck,  Toby  Veck,  job 
coming  soon,  Toby  ! ’ That  way.” 

Christmas  Stories , Chimes , Chap.  1. 

BELLS— The  Fairies  of  the. 

Awake,  and  standing  on  his  feet  upon  the 
boards  where  he  had  lately  lain,  he  saw  this 
Goblin  Sight. 

He  saw  the  tower,  whither  his  charmed  foot- 
steps had  brought  him,  swarming  with  dwarf 
phantoms,  spirits,  elfin  creatui-es  of  the  Bells. 
He  saw  them  leaping,  flying,  dropping,  pouring 
from  the  Bells  without  a pause.  He  saw  them 
round  him  on  the  ground  ; above  him  in  the  air, 
clambering  from  him,  by  the  ropes  below  ; look- 
ing down  upon  him,  from  the  massive  iron- 
girded  beams  ; peeping  in  upon  him,  through 
the  chinks  and  loopholes  in  the  walls  ; spreading 
away  and  away  from  him  in  enlarging  circles,  as 
the  water  ripples  give  place  to  a huge  stone 
that  suddenly  comes  plashing  in  among  them. 
He  saw  them,  of  all  aspects  and  all  shapes.  He 


BENEVOLENCE 


40 


BETSEY  TROTWOOD 


saw  them  ugly,  handsome, crippled,  exquisitely 
formed.  He  saw  them  young,  he  saw  them  old, 
he  saw  them  kind,  he  saw  them  cruel,  he  saw 
them  merry,  he  saw  them  grim  ; he  saw  them 
dance,  and  heard  them  sing  ;.he  saw  them  tear 
their  hair,  and  heard  them  howl.  He  saw  the 
air  thick  with  them.  He  saw  them  come  and 
go,  incessantly.  He  saw  them  riding  down- 
ward, soaring  upward,  sailing  off  afar,  perching 
near  at  hand,  all  restless  and  all  violently  active. 
Stone,  and  brick,  and  slate;  and  tile,  became 
transparent  to  him  as  to  them.  He  saw  them  in 
the  houses,  busy  at  the  sleepers’  beds.  He  saw 
them  soothing  people  in  their  dreams  ; he  saw 
them  beating  them  with  knotted  whips  ; he  saw 
them  yelling  in  their  ears  ; he  saw  them  playing 
softest  music  on  their  pillows ; he  saw  them 
cheering  some  with  the  songs  of  birds  and  the 
perfume  of  flowers  ; he  saw  them  flashing  awful 
faces  on  the  troubled  rest  of  others,  from  en- 
chanted mirrors  which  they  carried  in  their 
hands. 

He  saw  these  creatures,  not  only  among  sleep- 
ing men,  but  waking  also,  active  in  pursuits 
irreconcileable  with  one  another,  and  possessing 
or  assuming  natures  the  most  opposite,  fie  saw' 
one  buckling  on  innumerable  wings  to  increase 
his  speed  ; another  loading  himself  with  chains 
and  weights,  to  retard  his.  He  saw  some  put- 
ting the  hands  of  clocks  forward,  some  putting 
the  hands  of  clocks  backward,  some  endeavor- 
ing to  stop  the  clock  entirely.  He  saw  them 
representing,  here  a marriage  ceremony,  there  a 
funeral  ; in  this  chamber  an  election,  in  that  a 
ball  ; he  saw,  everywhere,  restless  and  untiring 
motion. 

Bewildered  by  the  host  of  shifting  and  extra- 
ordinary figures,  as  well  as  by  the  uproar  of  the 
Bells,  which  all  this  while  were  ringing,  Trotty 
clung  to  a wooden  pillar  for  support,  and  turned 
his  white  face  here  and  there,  in  mute  and 
stunned  astonishment. 

As  he  gazed,  the  Chimes  stopped. 

■34-  sj«  :Jc  5j;  Sf.  -34- 

Then  and  not  before,  did  Trotty  see  in  every 
Bell  a bearded  figure  of  the  bulk  and  stature  of 
the  Bell — incomprehensibly,  a figure  and  the 
Bell  itself.  Gigantic,  grave,  and  darkly  watch- 
ful of  him  as  he  stood  I'ooted  to  the  ground. 

Mysterious  and  awful  figures ! Resting  on 
nothing:  poised  in  the  night  air  of  the  tower, 
with  their  draped  and  hooded  heads  merged  in 
the  dim  roof;  motionless  and  shadowy.  Shadowy 
and  dark,  although  he  saw  them  by  some  light 
belonging  to  themselves — none  else  was  there — 
each  with  its  muffled  hand  upon  its  goblin 
mouth. — Christmas  Stories , Chap.  3. 

BENEVOLENCE— King  Lear  an  Exempli- 
fication of. 

“A  very  prepossessing  old  gentleman,  Mr. 
Richard — charming  countenance,  sir — extremely 
calm — benevolence  in  every  feature,  sir.  He 
quite  realizes  my  idea  of  King  Lear,  as  he  ap- 
peared when  in  possession  of  his  kingdom,  Mr. 
Richard  —the  same  good  humor,  the  same  white 
hair  and  partial  baldness,  the  same  liability  to 
be  imposed  upon.  Ah  ! A sweet  subject  for 
contemplation,  sir,  very  sweet  !” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  57. 

BETSEY  TROTWOOD  and  Mrs.  Crupp. 

My  aunt  had  obtained  a signal  victory  over 


Mrs.  Crupp,  by  paying  her  off,  throwing  the  first 
pitcher  she  planted  on  the  stairs  out  of  the 
window,  and  protecting,  in  person,  up  and  down 
the  staircase,  a supernumerary  whom  she  en- 
gaged from  the  outer  world.  These  vigorous 
measures  struck  such  terror  to  the  breast  of  Mrs. 
Crupp,  that  she  subsided  into  her  own  kitchen, 
under  the  impression  that  my  aunt  was  mad. 
My  aunt  being  supremely  indifferent  to  Mrs. 
Crupp’s  opinion  and  everybody  else’s,  and 
rather  favoring  than  discouraging  the  idea,  Mrs. 
Crupp,  of  late  the  bold,  became  within  a few  days 
so  faint-hearted,  that,  rather  than  encounter  my 
aunt  upon  the  staircase,  she  would  endeavor  to 
hide  her  portly  form  behind  doors — leaving 
visible,  however,  a wide  margin  of  flannel  petti- 
coat— or  would  shrink  into  dark  corners.  This 
gave  my  aunt  such  unspeakable  sa  isfaction,  that 
I believe  she  took  a delight  in  prowling  up  and 
dowm,  with  her  bonnet  insanely  perched  on  the 
top  of  her  head,  at  times  when  Mrs.  Crupp  was 
likely  to  be  in  the  way. 

David  Ccpperfield , Chap.  37. 

BETSEY  TROTWOOD  and  Uriah  Heep. 

“ Deuce  take  the  man  ! ” said  my  aunt 
sternly,  “ what’s  he  about  ? Don’t  be  galvanic, 
sir ! ” 

“ I ask  your  pardon,  Miss  Trotwood,”  re- 
turned Uriah  ; “I’m  aware  you’re  nervous.” 

“ Go  along  with  you,  sir ! ” said  my  aunt, 
anything  but  appeased.  “ Don’t  presume  to 
say  so  ! I am  nothing  of  the  sort.  If  you’re 
an  eel,  sir,  conduct  yourself  like  one.  If  you’re 
a man,  control  your  limbs,  sir ! Good  God  ! ” 
said  my  aunt,  with  great  indignation,  “ I am  not 
going  to  be  serpentined  and  corkscrewed  out 
of  my  senses  ! ” 

Mr.  Heep  was  rather  abashed,  as  most  people 
might  have  been,  by  this  explosion  ; which  de- 
rived great  additional  force  from  the  indignant 
manner  in  which  my  aunt  afterwards  moved  in 
her  chair,  and  shook  her  head  as  if  she  were 
making 'snaps  or  bounces  at  him. 

David  Copperfiield,  Chap.  35. 

BETSEY  TROTWOOD— “Janet ! Donkeys  ! ” 

My  au,nt  was  a tall,  hard-featured  lady,  but 
by  no  means  ill-looking.  There  was  an  inflexi- 
bility in  her  face,  in  her  voice,  in  her  gait  and 
carriage,  amply  sufficient  to  account  for  the 
effect  she  had  made  upon  a gentle  creature  like 
my  mother  ; but  her  features  were  rather  hand- 
some than  otherwise,  though  unbending'  and 
austere.  I particularly  noticed  that  she  had  a 
very  quick,  bright  eye.  Her  hair,  which  was 
grey,  was  arranged  in  two  plain  divisions,  under 
what  I believe  would  be  called  a mob-cap  ; I 
mean  a cap,  much  more  common  then  than  now, 
with  side-pieces  fastening  under  the  chin.  Her 
dress  was  of  a lavender  color,  and  perfectly 
neat,  but  scantily  made,  as  if  she  desired  to  be 
as  little  encumbered  as  possible.  I remember 
that  I thought  it,  in  form,  more  like  a riding 
habit  with  the  superfluous  skirt  cut  off,  than 
anything  else.  She  wove  at  her  side  a gentle- 
man’s gold  watch,  if  I might  judge  from  its 
size  and  make,  with  an  appropriate  chain  and 
seals  ; she  had  some  linen  at  her  throat  not  un- 
like a shirt-collar,  and  things  at  her  wrists  like 
little  shirt  wristbands. 

>|:  * * * * * 

Janet  had  gone  away  to  get  the  bath  ready 


BIBLE 


47 


BIRDS 


when  my  aunt,  to  my  great  alarm,  became  in 
one  moment  rigid  with  indignation,  and  had 
hardly  voice  to  cry  out,  “Janet!  Donkeys!” 

Upon  which,  Janet  came  running  up  the 
stairs  as  if  the  house  were  in  flames,  darted  out 
on  a little  piece  of  green  in  front,  and  warned 
off  two  saddle-donkeys,  lady-ridden,  that  had 
presumed  to  set  hoof  upon  it ; while  my  aunt, 
rushing  out  of  the  house,  seized  the  bridle  of  a 
third  animal  laden  with  a bestriding  child, 
turned  him,  led  him  forth  from  those  sacred 
precincts,  and  boxed  the  ears  of  the  unlucky 
urchin  in  attendance  who  had  dared  to  profane 
that  hallowed  ground. 

To  this  hour  I don’t  know  whether  my  aunt 
had  any  lawful  right  of  way  over  that  patch  of 
green  ; but  she  had  settled  it  in  her  own  mind 
that  she  had,  and  it  was  all  the  same  to  her. 
The  one  great  outrage  of  her  life,  demanding  to 
be  constantly  avenged,  was  the  passage  of  a 
donkey  over  that  immaculate  spot.  In  what- 
ever occupation  she  was  engaged,  however 
interesting  to  her  the  conversation  in  which  she 
was  taking  part,  a donkey  turned  the  current  of 
her  ideas  in  a moment,  and  she  was  upon  him 
straight.  Jugs  of  water,  and  watering  pots,  were 
kept  in  secret  places  ready  to  be  discharged  on 
the  offending  boys  ; sticks  were  laid  in  ambush 
behind  the  door  ; sallies  were  made  at  all  hours  ; 
and  incessant  war  prevailed.  Perhaps  this  was 
an  agreeable  excitement  to  the  donkey-boys  : 
or,  perhaps,  the  more  sagacious  of  the  donkeys, 
understanding  how  the  case  stood,  delighted 
with  constitutional  obstinacy  in  coming  that 
way.  I only  know  that  there  were  three  alarms 
before  the  bath  was  ready  ; and  that,  on  the  oc- 
casion of  the  last  and  most  desperate  of  all,  I 
saw  my  aunt  engage,  single-handed,  with  a 
sandy-headed  lad  of  fifteen,  and  bump  his  sandy 
head  against  her  own  gate,  before  he  seemed  to 
comprehend  what  was  the  matter.  These 
interruptions  were  the  more  ridiculous  to  me, 
because 'she  was  giving  me  broth  out  of  a table- 
spoon at  the  time  (having  firmly  persuaded  her- 
self that  I was  actually  starving,  and  must  re- 
ceive nourishment  at  first  in  very  small  quan- 
tities), and,  while  my  mouth  was  yet  open  to 
receive  the  spoon,  she  would  put  it  back  into 
the  basin,  cry,  “ Janet  ! Donkeys  ! ” and  go  out 
to  the  assault. — David  Copper  field,  Chap.  13. 

BIBLE- The. 

Harriet  complied  and  read — read  the  eternal 
book  for  all  the  weary  and  the  heavy-laden  ; for 
all  the  wretched,  fallen,  and  neglected  of  this 
earth — read  the  blessed  history,  in  which  the 
blind,  lame,  palsied  beggar,  the  criminal,  the 
woman  stained  with  shame,  the  shunned  of  all 
our  dainty  clay,  has  each  a portion,  that  no  hu- 
man pride,  indifference,  or  sophistry,  through  all 
the  ages  that  this  world  shall  last,  can  take 
away,  or  by  the  thousandth  atom  of  a grain  re- 
duce— read  the  ministry  of  Him  who,  through 
the  round  of  human  life,  and  all  its  hopes  and 
griefs,  from  birth  to  death,  from  infancy  to  age, 
had  sweet  compassion  for,  and  interest  in,  its 
every  scene  and  stage,  its  every  suffering  and 
sorrow. — Doi7ibey  6°  Son,  Chap.  59. 

BILL— A. 

A bill,  by  the  by,  is  the  most  extraordinary 
locomotive  engine  that  the  genius  of  man  ever 
produced.  It  would  keep  on  running  during 


the  longest  lifetime,  without  ever  once  stopping 
of  its  own  accord. 

Pickwick  Papers,  Chap.  32. 

BIPEDS  AND  QUADRUPEDS— The  differ- 
ence. 

Quadruped  lions  are  said  to  be  savage  only 
when  they  are  hungry  ; biped  lions  are.  rarely 
sulky  longer  than  when  their  appetite  for  dis- 
tinction remains  un  appeased. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  15. 

BIRDS— The  unhappiness  of  cagred. 

In  every  pane  of  glass  there  was  at  least  one 
tiny  bird  in  a tiny  bird-cage,  twittering  and  hop- 
ping his  little  ballet  of  despair,  and  knocking 
his  head  against  the  roof : while  one  unhappy 
goldfinch  who  lived  outside  a red  villa  with  his 
name  on  the  door,  drew  the  water  for  his  own 
drinking,  and  mutely  appealed  to  some  good 
man  to  drop  a farthing’s  worth  of  poison  in  it. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  19. 

BIRDS— The  traits  of. 

Nothing  in  shy  neighborhoods  perplexes  my 
mind  more  than  the  bad  company  birds  keep. 
Foreign  birds  often  get  into  good  society,  but 
British  birds  are  inseparable  from  low  associates. 
There  is  a whole  street  of  them  in  St.  Giles’s  ; 
and  I always  find  them  in  poor  and  immoral 
neighborhoods,  convenient  to  the  public-house 
or  the  pawnbroker’s.  They  seem  to  lead  peo- 
ple into  drinking,  and  even  the  man  who  makes 
their  cages  usually  gets  into  a chronic  state  of 
black  eye.  Why  is  this  ? Also,  they  will  do 
things  for  people  in  short-skirted  velveteen  coats 
with  bone  buttons,  or  in  sleeved  waistcoats  and 
fur  caps,  which  they  cannot  be  persuaded  by  the 
respectable  oi'ders  of  society  to  undertake.  In 
a dirty  court  in  Spitalfields,  once,  I found  a 
goldfinch  drawing  his  own  water,  and  drawing 
as  nyich  of  it  as  if  he  were  in  a consuming 
fever.  That  goldfinch  lived  at  a bird-shop,  and 
offered,  in  writing,  to  barter  himself  against  old 
clothes,  empty  bottles,  or  even  kitchen-stuff. 
Surely  a low  thing  and  a depraved  taste  in  any 
finch  ! I bought  that  goldfinch  for  money.  He 
was  sent  home,  and  hung  upon  a nail  over 
against  my  table.  He  lived  outside  a counter- 
feit dwelling-house,  supposed  (as  I argued)  to 
be  a dyei'’s  ; othei'wise  it  woixld  have  been  im- 
possible to  accouixt  for  his  perch  sticking  out  of 
the  garret  window.  From  the  time  of  his  ap- 
pearance iix  my  room,  either  he  left  off  being 
thirsty — which  was  not  in  the  bond — or  he  could 
not.  make  up  his  mind  to  hear  his  little  bucket 
drop  back  into  his  well  when  he  let  it  go — a 
shock  which  in  the  best  of  times  had  made  him 
tremble.  lie  drew  no  water  but  by  stealth  and 
txnder  the  cloak  of  night.  After  an  interval  of 
futile  and  at  length  hopeless  expectation,  the 
merchant  who  had  edixcated  him  was  appealed 
to.  The  merchant  was  a bow-legged  chai'acter, 
with  a flat  and  cushiony  nose,  like  the  last  new 
strawberry.  He  wore  a fur  cap,  and  shorts,  and 
was  of  the  velveteen  race  velveteeny.  He  sent 
woi'd  that  he  would  “ look  round.”  He  looked 
round,  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  room, 
and  slightly  cocked  up  his  evil  eye  at  the  gold- 
finch. Instantly  a raging  thirst  beset  that  bird  ; 
when  it  was  appeased,  he  still  drew  sevei'al  un- 
necessary buckets  of  water  ; and  finally  leaped 
about  his  perch,  and  shai'pened  his  bill,  as  if  he 


BIRD 


48 


BLUNTNESS 


had  been  to  the  nearest  wine-vaults  and  got 
drunk. — Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  io. 

BIRD— The  Raven  of  Barnaby. 

“ Halloa  ! ” cried  a hoarse  voice  in  his  ear. 
“ Halloa,  halloa,  halloa  ! Bow  wow  wow.  What’s 
the  matter  here  ! Hal-loa  ! ” 

The  speaker — who  made  the  locksmith  start, 
as  if  he  had  seen  some  supernatural  agent — was 
a large  raven,  who  had  perched  upon  the  top  of 
the  easy  chair,  unseen  by  him  and  Edward,  and 
listened  with  a polite  attention  and  a most  ex- 
traordinary appearance  of  comprehending  every 
woi'd,  to  all  they  had  said  up  to  this  point  ; turn- 
ing his  head  from  one  to  the  other,  as  if  his 
office  were  to  judge  between  them,  and  it  were 
of  the  very  last  importance  that  he  should  not 
lose  a word. 

“ Look  at  him  !”  said  Varden,  divided  be- 
tween admiration  of  the  bird  and  a kind  of  fear 
of  him.  “ Was  there  ever  such  a knowing  imp 
as  that ! Oh,  he’s  a dreadful  fellow  ! ” 

The  raven,  with  his  head  very  much  on  one 
side,  and  his  bright  eye  shining  like  a diamond, 
preserved  a thoughtful  silence  for  a few  seconds, 
and  then  replied  in  a voice  so  hoarse  and 
distant,  that  it  seemed  to  come  through  his  thick 
feathers  rather  than  out  of  his  mouth. 

“ Halloa,  halloa,  halloa  ! What’s  the  matter 
here  ! Keep  up  your  spirits.  Never  say  die. 
Bow  wow  wow.  I’m  a devil,  I’m  a devil,  I’m  a 
devil.  Hurrah  ! ” — And  then,  as  if  exulting  in 
his  infernal  character,  he  began  to  whistle. 

“ I more  than  half  believe  he  speaks  the 
truth.  Upon  my  word  I do,”  said  Varden. 
“ Do  you  see  how  he  looks  at  me,  as  if  he  knew 
what  I was  saying  ? ” 

* To  which  the  bird,  balancing  himself  on  tip- 
toe, as  it  were,  and  moving  his  body  up  and 
down  in  a sort  of  grave  dance,  rejoined,  “ I’m  a 
devil,  I’m  a devil,  I’m  a devil  ! ” and  flapped  his 
wings  against  his  sides  as  if  he  were  bursting 
with  laughter.  Barnaby  clapped  his  hands,  and 
fairly  rolled  upon  the  ground  in  an  ecstacy  of 
delight. 

“ Strange  companions,  sir,”  said  the  lock- 
smith, shaking  his  head  and  looking  from  one 
to  the  other.  “ The  bird  has  all  the  wit.” 

“ Strange  indeed  !”  said  Edward,  holding  out 
his  forefinger  to  the  raven,  who,  in  acknow- 
ledgement of  the  attention,  made  a dive  at 
it  immediately  with  his  iron  bill.  “ Is  he 
old  ? ” 

“ A mere  boy,  sir,”  replied  the  locksmith.  “ A 
hundred  and  twenty,  or  thereabouts.  Call  him 
down,  Barnaby,  my  man.” 

“ Call  him  !”  echoed  Barnaby,  sitting  upright 
upon  the  floor,  and  staring  vacantly  at  Gabriel 
as  he  thrust  his  hair  back  from  his  face.  “ But 
who  can  make  him  come  ! He  calls  me,  and 
makes  me  go  where  he  will.  He  goes  on  before, 
and  I follow.  He’s  the  master,  and  I’m  the 
man.  Is  that  the  truth,  Grip?” 

The  raven  gave  a short,  comfortable,  confi- 
dential kind  of  croak — a most  expressive  croak, 
which  seemed  to  say,  “ You  need’nt  let  these 
fellows  intu  our  secrets.  We  understand  each 
other.  It’s  all  right  ” 

“/  make  ///’;//  come  f ” cried  Barnaby,  point- 
ing to  the  bird,  “ Him,  who  never  goes  to  sleep, 
or  so  much  as  winks  ! — Why,  any  time  of  night, 
you  may  see  his  eyes  in  my  dark  room,  shining 
like  two  sparks.  And  every  night,  and  all  night 


too,  he’s  broad  awake,  talking  to  himself,  think- 
ing what  he  shall  do  to-morrow,  where  we  shall 
go,  and  what  he  shall  steal,  and  hide,  and  bury. 
/ make  him  come  ! Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ” 

On  second  thoughts,  the  bird  appeared  dis- 
posed to  come  of  himself.  After  a short  survey 
of  the  ground,  and  a few  sidelong  looks  at  the 
ceiling  and  at  everybody  present  in  turn,  he 
fluttered  to  the  floor  and  went  to  Barnaby— not 
in  a hop,  or  walk,  or  run,  but  in  a pace  like  that 
of  a very  particular  gentleman  with  exceedingly 
tight  boots  on,  trying  to  walk  fast  over  loose 
pebbles.  Then,  stepping  into  his  extended 
hand,  and  condescending  to  be  held  out  at 
arm’s  length,  he  gave  vent  to  a succession  of 
sounds,  not  unlike  the  drawing  of  some  eight  or 
ten  dozen  of  long  corks,  and  again  asserted  his 
brimstone  birth  and  parentage  with  great  dis 
tinctness. — Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  6. 

****** 

The  raven  was  in  a highly  reflective  state  ; 
walking  up  and  down  when  he  had  dined,  with 
an  air  of  elderly  complacency  which  was  strongly 
suggestive  of  his  having  his  hands  under 
his  coat-tails ; and  appearing  to  read  the 
tomb-stones  with  a very  critical  taste.  Some- 
times, after  a long  inspection  of  an  epitaph,  he 
would  strop  his  beak  upon  the  grave  to  which 
it  referred,  and  cry  in  his  hoarse  tones,  “ I’m  a 
devil,  I’m  a devil,  I’m  a devil  ! ” but  whether 
he  addressed  his  observations  to  any  supposed 
person  below,  or  merely  threw  them  off  as  a 
general  remark,  is  matter  of  uncertainty. 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  25. 

BLINDNESS— The  various  degrees  of. 

“ There  are  various  degrees  and  kinds  of 
blindness,  widow.  There  is  the  connubial 
blindness,  ma’am,  which  perhaps  you  may  have 
observed  in  the  course  of  your  own  experience, 
and  which  is  a kind  of  wilful  and  self-damaging 
blindness.  There  is  the  blindness  of  party, 
ma’am,  and  public  men,  which  is  the  blindness 
of  a mad  bull  in  the  midst  of  a regiment  of 
soldiers  clothed  in  red.  There  is  the  blind  con- 
fidence of  youth,  which  is  the  blindness  of  young 
kittens,  whose  eyes  have  not  yet  opened  on  the 
world  : and  there  is ' that  physical  blindness, 
ma’am,  of  which  I am,  contrary  to  my  own  de- 
sire, a most  illustrious  example.  Added  to  these, 
ma’am,  is  that  blindness  of  the  intellect,  of 
which  we  have  a specimen  in  your  interesting 
son,  and  which,  having  sometimes  glimmerings 
and  dawnings  of  the  light,  is  scarcely  to  be 
trusted  as  a total  darkness.” 

Barnaby  Budge , Chap.  45. 

BLUSTER. 

He  had  a certain  air  of  being  a handsome 
man — which  he  was  not ; and  a certain  air  of 
being  a well-bred  man — which  he  was  not.  It 
was  mere  swagger  and  challenge  ; but  in  this 
particular,  as  in  many  others,  blustering  asser- 
tion goes  for  proof,  half  over  the  world. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.  Chap.  I. 

BLUNTNESS  Versus  Sincerity. 

Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons  was  a rich  sugar-baker, 
who  mistook  rudeness  for  honesty,  and  abrupt 
bluntness  for  an  open  and  candid  manner ; 
many  besides  Gabriel  mistake  bluntness  for  sin 
cerity. — Talcs , Chap.  10. 


BIRTH 


43 


BOARDING-HOUSE 


BIRTH— The  Curse  on  Adam. 

A ceremony  to  which  the  usage  of  gossips  has 
given  that  name  which  expresses,  in  two  syllables, 
the  curse  pronounced  on  Adam. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  ig. 

BLIND— The  Faces  of  the. 

It  is  strange  to  watch  the  faces  of  the  blind, 
and  see  how  free  they  are  from  all  concealment 
of  what  is  passing  in  their  thoughts  ; observing 
which,  a man  with  his  eyes  may  blush  to  con- 
template the  mask  he  wears.  Allowing  for  one 
shade  of  anxious  expression  which  is  never  ab- 
sent from  their  countenances,  and  the  like  of 
which  we  may  readily  detect  in  our  own  faces 
if  we  try  to  feel  our  way  in  the  dark,  every  idea, 
as  it  rises  within  them,  is  expressed  with  the 
lightning’s  speed  and  nature’s  truth.  If  the 
company  at  a rout,  or  drawing-room  at  court, 
could  only  for  one  time  be  as  unconscious  of  the 
eyes  upon  them  as  blind  men  and  women  are, 
what  secrets  would  come  out,  and  what  a worker 
of  hypocrisy  this  sight,  the  loss  of  which  we  so 
much  pity,  would  appear  to  be  ! 

The  thought  occurred  to  me  as  I sat  down  in 
another  room  before  a girl,  blind,  deaf,  and  dumb, 
destitute  of  smell,  and  nearly  so  of  taste — before 
a fair  young  creature  with  every  human  faculty 
and  hope  and  power  of  goodness  and  affection 
enclosed  within  her  delicate  frame,  and  but  one 
outward  sense — the  sense  of  touch.  There  she 
was  before  me  ; built  up,  as  it  were,  in  a marble 
cell,  impervious  to  any  ray  of  light  or  particle 
of  sound  ; with  her  poor  white  hand  peeping 
through  a chink  in  the  wall,  beckoning  to  some 
good  man  for  help,  that  an  immortal  soul  might 
be  awakened. 

Long  before  I looked  upon  her,  the  help  had 
come.  Her  face  was  radiant  with  intelligence 
and  pleasure.  Her  hair,  braided  by  her  own 
hands,  was  bound  about  a head  whose  intellect- 
ual capacity  and  development  were  beautifully 
expressed  in  its  graceful  outline  and  its  broad, 
open  brow  ; her  dress,  arranged  by  herself,  was 
a pattern  of  neatness  and  simplicity  ; the  work 
she  had  knitted  lay  beside  her ; her  writing- 
book  was  on  the  desk  she  leaned  upon.  From 
the  mournful  ruin  of  such  bereavement  there  had 
slowly  risen  up  this  gentle,  tender,  guileless, 
grateful-hearted  being. 

****** 

Ye  who  have  eyes  and  see  not,  and  have  ears 
and  hear  not ; ye  who  are  as  the  hypocrites,  of  sad 
countenances,  and  disfigure  your  faces  that  ye 
may  seem  unto  men  to  fast  ; learn  healthy  cheer- 
fulness and  mild  contentment,  from  the  deaf, 
and  dumb,  and  blind  ! Self-elected  saints  with 
gloomy  brows,  this  sightless,  careless,  voiceless 
child  piay  teach  you  lessons  you  will  do  well  to 
follow.  Let  that  poor  hand  of  hers  lie  gently 
on  your  hearts,  for  there  may  be  something  in 
its  healing  touch  akin  to  that  of  the  Great 
Master,  whose  precepts  you  misconstrue,  whose 
lessons  you  pervert,  of  whose  charity  and  sym- 
pathy with  all  the  world  not  one  among  you  in  his 
daily  practice  knows  as  much  as  many  of  the 
worst  among  those  fallen  sinners  to  whom  you 
are  liberal  in  nothing  but  the  preachment  of  per- 
dition.— American  Notes , Chap.  3. 

BLOOD  Versus  Liquid  Aggravation. 

“ Ecod,  you  may  say  what  you  like  of  my 
father,  then,  and  so  I give  you  leave,”  said 


Jonas.  “ I think  it’s  liquid  aggravation  that 
circulates  through  his  veins,  and  not  regular 
blood.” — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  11. 

BLOOD— The  Aristocracy  of. 

Traddles  and  I were  separated  at  table,  being 
billeted  in  two  remote  corners  ; he,  in  the  glare 
of  a red  velvet  lady  : I,  in  the  gloom  of  Hamlet’s 
aunt.  The  dinner  was  very  long,  and  the  con- 
versation was  about  the  Aristocracy — and  Blood. 
Mrs.  Waterbi-ook  repeatedly  told  us,  that  if  she 
had  a weakness,  it  was  Blood. 

****** 

We  might  have  been  a party  of  Ogres,  the 
conversation  assumed  such  a sanguine  com- 
plexion. 

“ I confess  I am  of  Mrs.  Waterbrook’s  opin- 
ion,” said  Mr.  Waterbrook,  with  his  wine-glass 
at  his  eye.  “ Other  things  are  all  very  well  in 
their  way,  but  give  me  Blood  ! ” 

“ Oh ! Thei'e  is  nothing,”  observed  Hamlet’s 
aunt,  “so  satisfactory  to  one  ! There  is  nothing 
that  is  so  much  one’s  beau  ideal  of — of  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  speaking  generally.  There  are 
some  low  minds  (not  many,  I am  happy  to  be- 
lieve, but  there  are  some ) that  would  prefer  to 
do  what  I should  call  bow  down  before 
idols.  Positively  Idols  ! Before  services,  intel- 
lect, and  so  on.  But  these  are  intangible  points. 
Blood  is  not  so.  We  see  Blood  in  a nose,  and 
we  know  it.  We  meet  with  it  in  a chin,  and  we 
say,  ‘There  it  is!  That’s  Blood!’  It  is  an 
actual  matter  of  fact.  We  point  it  out.  It  ad- 
mits of  no  doubt.” 

The  simpering  fellow  with  the  weak  legs,  who 
had  taken  Agnes  down,  stated  the  question  more 
decisively  yet,  I thought. 

“ Oh,  you  know,  deuce  take  it,”  said  this 
gentleman,  looking  round  the  board  with  an 
imbecile  smile,  “we  can’t  forego  Blood,  you 
know.  We  must  have  Blood,  you  know. 
Some  young  fellows,  you  know,  may  be  a 
little  behind  their  station,  perhaps,  in  point  of 
education  and  behavior,  and  may  go  a little 
wrong,  you  know,  and  get  themselves  and  other 
people  into  a variety  of  fixes — and  all  that — 
but,  deuce  take  it,  it’s  delightful  to  reflect  that 
they’ve  got  Blood  in  ’em  ! Myself,  I’d  rather  at 
any  time  be  knocked  down  by  a man  who  had 
got  Blood  in  him,  than  I’d  be  picked  up  by  a 
man  who  hadn’t  ! ” 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  25. 

BLUSH— A. 

Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  blushed  up  to  the  eyes 
and  down  to  the  chin,  and  exhibited  a most  ex- 
tensive combination  of  colors  as  he  confessed 
the  soft  impeachment. — Tales , Chap.  10. 

BOARDING-HOUSE-Mrs.  Todg-ers. 

M.  Todgers’s  Commercial  Boarding-House 
was  a house  of  that  sort  which  is  likely  to  be  dark 
at  any  time  ; but  that  morning  it  was  especially 
dark.  There  was  an  odd  smell  in  the  passage, 
as  if  the  concentrated  essence  of  all  the  dinners 
that  had  been  cooked  in  the  kitchen  since  the 
house  was  built,  lingered  at  the  top  of  the 
kitchen  stairs  to  that  hour,  and,  like  the  Black 
Friar  in  Don  Juan,  “ wouldn’t  be  driven  away.” 
In  particular,  there  was  a sensation  of  cabbage  : 
as  if  all  the  greens  that  had  ever  beeti  boiled 
there  were  evergreens,  and  flourished  in  immor- 
tal strength.  The  parlor  was  wainscoted,  and 


BOARDING-HOUSE-KEEPER 


50 


BOOTS 


communicated  to  strangers  a magnetic  and  in- 
stinctive consciousness  of  rats  and  mice.  The 
staircase  was  very  gloomy  and  very  broad,  with 
balustrades  so  thick  and  heavy  that  they  would 
have  served  for  a bridge.  In  a sombre  corner 
on  the  first  landing,  stood  a gruff  old  giant. of  a 
clock,  with  a preposterous  coronet  of  three  brass 
balls  on  his  head  ; whom  few  had  ever  seen — 
none  ever  looked  in  the  face — and  who  seemed 
to  continue  his  heavy  tick  for  no  other  reason 
than  to  warn  heedless  people  from  running  into 
him  accidentally.  It  had  not  been  papered  or 
painted,  hadn’t  Todgers’s,  within  the  memory 
of  man.  It  was  very  black,  begrimed,  and 
mouldy.  And,  at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  was 
an  old,  disjointed,  rickety,  ill-favored  skylight, 
patched  and  mended,  in  all  kinds  of  ways,  which 
looked  distrustfully  down  at  everything  that 
passed  below,  and  covered  Todgers’s  up  as  if  it 
were  a sort  of  human  citcumber-frame,  and  only 
people  of  a peculiar  growth  were  reared  there. 

M.  Todgers  was  a lady,  rather  a bony  and 
hard-featured  lady,  with  a row  of  curls  in  front 
of  her  head,  shaped  like  little  barrels  of  beer  ; 
and  on  the  top  of  it  something  made  of  net — 
you  couldn’t  call  it  a cap  exactly — which  looked 
like  a black  cobweb.  She  had  a little  basket  on 
her  arm,  and  in  it  a bunch  of  keys  that  jingled 
as  she  came.  In  her  other  hand  she  bore  a 
flaming  tallow  candle,  which,  after  surveying 
Mr.  Pecksniff  for  one  instant  by  its  light,  she 
put  down  upon  the  table,  to  the  end  that  she 
might  receive  him  with  the  greater  cordiality. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  8. 

BOARDING-HOUSE-KEEPER— Mrs.  lod- 
gers. 

Commercial  gentlemen  and  gravy  had  tried 
Mrs.  Todgers’s  temper  ; the  main  chance — it 
was  such  a very  small  one  in  her  case,  that  she 
might  have  been  excused  for  looking  sharp  after 
it,  lest  it  should  entirely  vanish  from  her  sight — 
had  taken  a firm  hold  on  Mrs.  Todgers’s  atten- 
tion. But  in  some  odd  nook  in  Mrs.  Todgers’s 
breast,  up  a great  many  steps,  and  in  a corner 
easy  to  be  overlooked,  there  was  a secret  door, 
with  “ Woman”  written  on  the  spring,  which, 
at  a touch  from  Mercy’s  hand,  had  flown  wide 
open,  and  admitted  her  for  shelter. 

When  boarding-house  accounts  are  balanced 
with  all  other  ledgers,  and  the  books  of  the 
Recording  Angel  are  made  up  for  ever,  perhaps 
there  may  be  seen  an  entry  to  thy  credit,  lean 
Mrs.  Todgers,  which  shall  make  thee  beautiful  ! 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  37. 

BOHEMIANS  The  gypsies  of  gentility. 

The  venerable  inhabitants  of  that  venerable 
pile  seemed,  in  those  times,  to  be  encamped 
there  like  a sort  of  civilized  gypsies.  There 
was  a temporary  air  about  their  establishments, 
as  if  they  were  going  .away  the  moment  they 
could  get  anything  better  ; there  was  also  a dis- 
satisfied air  about  themselves,  as  if  they  took  it 
very  ill  that  they  had  not  already  got  something 
much  better,  (lented  blinds  and  make-shifts 
were  more  or  less  observable  as  soon  as  their 
doors  were  opened  ; screens  not  half  high 
enough,  which  made  dining-rooms  out  of  arched 
passages,  and  warded  off  obscure  corners  where 
footboyg  slept  at  night  with  their  heads  among 
the  knives  and  forks  ; curtains  which  called 
upon  you  to  believe  that  they  didn’t  hide  any- 1 


thing  ; panes  of  glass  which  requested  you  not  to 
see  them  ; many  objects  of  various  forms,  feign- 
ing to  have  no  connection  with  their  guilty  se- 
cret, a bed  ; disguised  traps  in  walls,  which 
were  clearly  coal-cellars  ; affectations  of  no 
thoroughfares,  which  were  evidently  doors  to 
little  kitchens.  Mental  reservations  and  artful 
mysteries  grew  out  of  these  things.  Callers, 
looking  steadily  into  the  eyes  of  their  receivers, 
pretended  not  to  smell  cooking  three  feet  off ; 
people,  confronting  closets  accidentally  left 
open,  pretended  not  to  see  bottles  ; visitors, 
with  their  heads  against  a partition  of  thin  can- 
vas, and  a page  and  a young  female  at  high 
words  on  the  other  side,  made  believe  to  be  sit- 
ting in  a primeval  silence.  There  was  no  end 
to  the  small  social  accommodation-bills  of  this 
nature  which  the  gypsies  of  gentility  were  con- 
stantly drawing  upon,  and  accepting  for,  one  an- 
other. 

Some  of  these  Bohemians  were  of  an  irritable 
temperament,  as  constantly  soured  and  vexed 
by  two  mental  trials  ; the  first,  the  consciousness 
that  they  had  never  got  enough  out  of  the  pub- 
lic ; the  second,  the  consciousness  that  the  pub- 
lic were  admitted  into  the  building.  Under  the 
latter  great  wrong,  a few  suffered  dreadfully — 
particularly  on  Sundays,  when  they  had  for 
some  time  expected  the  earth  to  open  and  swal- 
low the  public  up  ; but  which  desirable  event 
had  not  yet  occurred,  in  consequence  of  some 
reprehensible  laxity  in  the  arrangements  of  the 
Universe. — Little  Don  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  26. 

BOLDNESS. 

“ A man  can  well  afford  to  be  as  bold  as  brass, 
my  good  fellow,  when  he  gets  gold  in  exchange  ! ” 
Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  27. 

BOOKS— The  readers  of. 

No  one  who  can  read,  ever  looks  at  a book, 
even  unopened  on  a shelf,  like  one  who  cannot. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

BOOK— Of  reference. 

* * * “ His  Lexicon  has  got  so  dropsical 

from  constant  reference,  that  it  won’t  shut,  and 
yawns  as  if  it  really  could  not  bear  to  be  so 
bothered.” — Dombey  Sf  Son , Chap.  41. 

BOOKS  -The  lost. 

Master  Humphrey’s  Clock,  as  originally  con- 
structed, became  one  of  the  lost  books  of  the 
earth — which,  we  all  know,  are  far  more  precious 
than  any  that  can  be  read  for  love  or  money. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  I. 

BOOTS— TIGHT— Their  relation  to  the  stom- 
ach. 

I have  my  doubts,  too,  founded  on  the  acute 
experience  acquired  at  this  period  of  my  life, 
whether  a sound  enjoyment  of  animal  food  can 
develop  itself  freely  in  any  human  subject  which 
is  always  in  torment  from  tight  boots.  I think 
the  extremities  require  to  be  at  peace  before  the 
stomach  will  conduct  itself  with  vigor. 

David  Copper  field , Chap.  28. 

BOOTS— Irreparable. 

We  were  going  up  to  the  house,  among  some 
dark,  heavy  trees,  when  he  called  after  my  con- 
ductor, 

“Hallo  !” 


BORES 


51 


BOWER 


We  looked  back,  and  he  was  standing  at  the 
door  of  a little  lodge,  where  he  lived,  with  a 
pair  of  boots  in  his  hand. 

“ Here  ! The  cobbler’s  been,”  he  said,  “ since 
you’ve  been  out,  Mr.  Mell,  and  he  says  he  can’t 
mend  ’em  any  more.  He  says  there  ain’t  a bit 
of  the  original  boot  left,  and  he  wonders  you 
expect  it.” — David  Copperjield , Chap.  5. 

BORES. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  we  keep  a bore. 
Everybody  does.  But,  the  bore  whom  we  have 
the  pleasure  and  honor  of  enumerating  among 
our  particular  friends,  is  such  a generic  bore,  and 
has  so  many  traits  (as  it  appears  to  us)  in  com- 
mon with  the  great  bore  family,  that  we  are 
tempted  to  make  him  the  subject  of  the  present 
notes.  May  he  be  generally  accepted  ! 

Our  bore  is  admitted  on  all  hands  to  be  a 
good-hearted  man.  He  may  put  fifty  people  out 
of  temper,  but  he  keeps  his  own.  lie  preserves 
a sickly  stolid  smile  upon  his  face,  when  other 
faces  are  ruffled  by  the  perfection  he  has  at- 
tained in  his  art,  and  has  an  equable  voice  which 
never  travels  out  of  one  key  or  rises  above  one 
pitch.  His  manner  is  a manner  of  tranquil  in- 
terest. None  of  his  opinions  are  startling. 
Among  his  deepest-rooted  convictions,  it  may 
be  mentioned  that  he  considers  the  air  of  Eng- 
land damp,  and  holds  that  our  lively  neighbors 
— he  always  calls  the  French  our  lively  neigh- 
bors— have  the  advantage  of  us  in  that  particu- 
lar. Nevertheless,  he  is  unable  to  forget  that 
John  Bull  is  John  Bull  all  the  world  over,  and 
that  England  with  all  her  faults  is  England  still. 

Our  bore  has  travelled.  He  could  not  possi- 
bly be  a complete  bore  without  having  travelled. 
He  rarely  speaks  of  his  travels  without  intro- 
ducing, sometimes  on  his  own  plan  of  construc- 
tion, morsels  of  the  language  of  the  country — 
which  he  always  translates.  You  cannot  name 
to  him  any  little  remote  town  in  France,  Italy, 
Germany,  or  Switzerland,  but  he  knows  it  well  ; 
stayed  there  a fortnight  under  peculiar  circum- 
stances. And,  talking  of  that  little  place,  per- 
haps you  know  a statue  over  an  old  fountain,  up 
a little  court,  which  is  the  second — no,  the 
third — stay — yes,  the  third  turning  on  the  right, 
after  you  come  out  of  the  Post-house,  going  up 
the  hill  towards  the  market?  You  dor? I know 
that  statue?  Nor  that  fountain ? You  surprise 
him  ! They  are  not  usually  seen  by  travellers 
(most  extraordinary,  he  has  never  yet  met  with  a 
single  traveller  who  knew  them,  except  one  Ger- 
man, the  most  intelligent  man  he  ever  met  in  his 
life  !)  but  he  thought  that  YOU  would  have  been 
the  man  to  find  them  out.  And  then  he  de- 
scribes them,  in  a circumstantial  lecture  half  an 
hour  long,  generally  delivered  behind  a door 
which  is  constantly  being  opened  from  the  other 
side  ; and  implores  you,  if  you  ever  revisit  that 
place,  now  do  go  and  look  at  that  statue  and 
fountain  ! 

****** 

The  instinct  with  which  our  bore  finds  out 
another  bore,  and  closes  with  him,  is  amazing. 
We  have  seen  him  pick  his  man  out  of  fifty 
men,  in  a couple  of  minutes.  They  love  to  go 
(which  they  do  naturally)  into  a slow  argument 
on  a previously  exhausted  subject,  and  to  con- 
tradict each  other,  and  to  wear  the  hearers  out, 
without  impairing  their  own  perennial  freshness 
as  bores.  It  improves  the  good  understanding  | 


between  them,  and  they  get  together  afterwards, 
and  bore  each  other  amicably.  Whenever  we 
see  our  bore  behind  a door  with  another  bore, 
we  know  that  when  he  comes  forth,  he  will 
praise  the  other  bore  as  one  of  the  most  intelli- 
gent men  he  ever  met.  And  this  bringing  us  to 
the  close  of  what  we  had  to  say  about  our  bore, 
we  are  anxious  to  have  it  understood  that  he 
never  bestowed  this  praise  on  us. 

Our  Bore — Reprinted  Pieces. 

BORE— A Practical. 

The  incompatibility  of  Mr.  Barlow  with  all 
other  portions  of  my  young  life  but  himself,  the 
adamantine  inadaptability  of  the  man  to  my 
favorite  fancies  and  amusements,  is  the  thing 
for  which  I hate  him  most.  What  right  had  he 
to  bore  his  way  into  my  Arabian  Nights?  Yet 
he  did.  He  was  always  hinting  doubts  of  the 
veracity  of  Sindbad  the  Sailor.  If  he  could  have 
got  hold  of  the  Wonderful  Lamp,  I knew  he 
would  have  trimmed  it,  and  lighted  it,  and  de- 
livered a lecture  over  it  on  the  qualities  of 
sperm  oil,  with  a glance  at  the  whale-fisheries. 
He  would  so  soon  have  found  out — on  mechan- 
ical principles — the  peg  in  the  neck  of  the  En- 
chanted Horse,  and  would  have  turned  it  the 
right  way  in  so  workmanlike  a manner,  that  the 
horse  could  never  have  got  any  height  into  the 
air,  and  the  story  couldn’t  have  been.  He 
would  have  proved,  by  map  and  compass, 
that  there  was  no  such  kingdom  as  the 
delightful  kingdom  of  Casgar,  on  the  fron- 
tiers of  Tartary.  He  would  have  caused  that 
hypocritical  young  prig,  Harry,  to  make 
an  experiment — with  the  aid  of  a temporary 
building  in  the  garden  and  a dummy — demon- 
strating that  you  couldn’t  let  a choked  Hunch- 
back down  an  eastern  chimney  with  a cord,  and 
leave  him  upright  on  the  hearth  to  terrify  the 
Sultan’s  purveyor. 

:jc  sj:  * * * * 

With  the  dread  upon  me  of  developing  into 
a Harry,  and  with  the  further  dread  upon  me 
of  being  Barlowed  if  I made  inquiries,  by 
bringing  down  upon  myself  a cold  shower-bath 
of  explanations  and  experiments,  I forebore  en- 
lightenment in  my  youth,  and  became,  as  they 
say  in  melodramas,  “ the  wreck  you  now  be- 
hold.” 

* * * * * * 

Thought  I,  with  a shudder,  “ Mr.  Barlow  is  a 
bore,  with  an  immense  constructive  power  of 
making  bores.  His  prize  specimen  is  a bore. 
He  seeks  to  make  a bore  of  me.  That  Know- 
ledge is  Power,  I am  not  prepared  to  gainsay  ; 
but,  with  Mr.  Barlow,  Knowledge  is  Power  to 
bore.”  Therefore,  I took  refuge  in  the  Caves 
of  Ignorance,  wherein  I have  resided  ever  since, 
and  which  are  still  my  private  address. 

Mr.  Barlow , New  Unco?n.  Samples. 

BOTTLES. 

* * * A shelf  laden  with  tall  Flemish  drink- 

ing-glasses,  and  quaint  bottles  . some  with  necks 
like  so  many  storks,  and  others  with  square, 
Dutch-built  bodies  and  short,  fat,  apoplectic 
throats. — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  51. 

BOWER. 

There  was  a bower  at  the  further  end,  with 
honeysuckle,  jessamine,  and  creeping  plants— one 


BOY 


52 


BOY 


of  those  sweet  retreats  which  humane  men  erect 
for  the  accommodation  of  spiders. 

Pickwick  Papers , Chap.  8. 

BOY— Advice  as  to  his  Lodgings. 

“Major,"  I says,  “be  cool,  and  advise  me 
what  to  do  with  Joshua,  my  dead  and  gone  Lir- 
riper’s  own  youngest  brother.”  “ Madam,”  says 
the  Major,  “my  advice  is  that  you  board  and 
lodge  him  in  a Powder  Mill,  with  a handsome 
gratuity  to  the  proprietor  when  exploded.” 

Mrs.  Lirriper's  Legacy , Chap.  I. 

BOY— The  Spartan. 

* * Like  the  Spartan  boy  with  the  fox  biting 

him,  which  1 hope  you’ll  excuse  my  bringing  up, 
for  of  all  the  tiresome  boys  that  will  go  tum- 
bling into  every  sort  of  company,  that  boy’s  the 
tiresomest.” — Little  Dornt , Book  /.,  Chap.  24. 

BOY— At  Mugby. 

I am  the  boy  at  Mugby.  That’s  about  what  / 
am. 

You  don’t  know  what  I mean?  What  a pity  ! 
But  I think  you  do.  I think  you  must.  Look 
here.  I am  the  Boy  at  what  is  called  The  Re- 
freshment-Room at  Mugby  Junction,  and  what’s 
proudest  boast  is,  that  it  never  yet  refreshed  a 
mortal  being. 

Up  in  a corner  of  the  Down  Refreshment- 
Room  at  Mugby  Junction,  in  the  height  of  twenty- 
seven  cross  draughts  (I’ve  often  counted  ’em  while 
they  brush  the  First  Class  hair  twenty-seven 
ways),  behind  the  bottles,  among  the  glasses, 
bounded  on  the  nor’ west  by  the  beer,  stood 
pretty  far  to  the  right  of  a metallic  object  that’s 
at  times  the  tea-urn  and  at  times  the  soup-tureen 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  last  twang  im- 
parted to  its  contents,  which  are  the  same  ground- 
work, fended  off  from  the  traveller  by  a barrier 
of  stale  spongecakes  erected  atop  of  the  counter, 
and  lastly  exposed  sideways  to  the  glare  of  Our 
Missis’s  eye — you  ask  a Boy  so  sitiwated,  next 
time  you  stop  in  a hurry  at  Mugby,  for  anything 
to  drink  ; you  take  particular  notice  that  he’ll 
try  to  seem  not  to  hear  you,  that  he’ll  appear  in 
a absent  manner  to  survey  the  Line  through  a 
transparent  medium  composed  of  your  head 
and  body,  and  that  he  won’t  serve  you  as  long 
as  you  can  possibly  bear  it.  That’s  me. 

Boy  at  Mugby. 

BOY— A Street. 

His  son  began  to  execute  commissions  in  a 
knowing  manner,  and  to  be  of  the  prison,  pris- 
onous, and  of  the  street,  streety. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  6. 

BOY— A Vagrant. 

I I is  social  existence  had  been  more  like  that 
of  an  early  Christian,  than  an  innocent  child 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  He  had  been 
stoned  in  the  streets  ; he  had  been  over- 
thrown into  gutters  ; bespattered  with  mud  ; 
violently  flattened  against  posts.  Entire  strangers 
to  li is  person  had  lifted  his  yellow  cap  off  his 
head,  and  1 1 1 1 1 to  the  winds.  His  legs  had  not 
only  undergone  verbal  criticisms  and  revilings, 
but  had  been  handled  and  pinched.  That  very 
morning,  lie  had  received  a perfectly  unsolicited 
black  eye  on  his  way  to  the  Crindcrs’ establish- 
ment, and  had  been  punished  for  it  by  the 


master ; a superannuated  old  Grinder  of  savage 
disposition,  who  had  been  appointed  school- 
master because  he  didn’t  know  anything,  and 
wasn’t  fit  for  anything,  and  for  whose  cruel  cane 
all  chubby  little  boys  had  a perfect  fascination, 
Dombey  and  Son , Chap.  6. 

BOY— A Depraved. 

A bundle  of  tatters,  held  together  by  a hand, 
in  size  and  form  almost  an  infant’s,  but,  in  its 
greedy,  desperate  little  clutch,  a bad  old  man’s. 
A face  rounded  and  smoothed  by  some  half- 
dozen  years,  but  pinched  and  twisted  by  the  ex- 
periences of  a life.  Bright  eyes,  but  not  youth- 
ful. Naked  feet,  beautiful  in  their  childish 
delicacy — ugly  in  the  blood  and  dirt  that 
cracked  upon  them.  A baby  savage,  a young 
monster,  a child  who  had  never  been  a child,  a 
creature  who  might  live  to  take  the  outward 
form  of  man,  but  who,  within,  would  live  and 
perish  a mere  beast. — LLaunted  Man , Chap.  1. 

BOY— “ Jo  ” the  Outcast. 

As  Allan  Woodcourt  and  Jo  proceed  along 
the  streets,  where  the  high  church  spires  and 
the  distances  are  so  near  and  clear  in  the  morn- 
ing light  that  the  city  itself  seems  renewed  by 
rest,  Allan  revolves  in  his  mind  how  and  where 
he  shall  bestow  his  companion.  “ It  surely  is  a 
strange  fact,”  he  considers,  “ that  in  the  heart  of 
a civilized  world  this  creature  in  human  form 
should  be  more  difficult  to  dispose  of  than  an 
unowned  dog.”  But  it  is  none  the  less  a fact 
because  of  its  strangeness,  and  the  difficulty  re- 
mains. 

At  first,  he  looks  behind  him  often,  to  assure 
himself  that  Jo  is  still  really  following.  But 
look  where  he  will,  he  still  beholds  him  close  to 
the  opposite  houses,  making  his  way  with  his 
wary  hand  from  brick  to  brick,  and  from  door 
to  door,  and  often,  as  he  creeps  along,  glancing 
over  at  him,  watchfully.  Soon  satisfied  that  the 
last  thing  in  his  thoughts  is  to  give  him  the  slip, 
Allan  goes  on  ; considering  with  a less  divided 
attention  what  he  shall  do. 

A breakfast-stall  at  a street  corner  suggests 
the  first  thing  to  be  done.  He  stops  there,  looks 
round,  and  beckons  Jo.  Jo  crosses,  and  comes 
halting  and  shuffling,  slowly  scooping  the 
knuckles  of  his  right  hand  round  and  round  in 
the  hollowed  palm  of  his  left — kneading  dirt 
with  a natural  pestle  and  mortar.  What  is  a 
dainty  repast  to  Jo  is  then  set  before  him,  and 
he  begins  to  gulp  the  coffee,  and  to  gnaw  the 
bread-and-butter  ; looking  anxiously  about  him 
in  all  directions,  as  he  eats  and  drinks,  like  a 
scared  animal. 

But  he  is  so  sick  and  miserable,  that  even 
hunger  has  abandoned  him.  “ I thought  I was 
a’most  a-starvin’,  sir,”  says  Jo,  soon  putting 
down  his  food  : “ but  I don’t  know  nothink — 
not  even  that.  I don’t  care  for  eating  wittles 
nor  yet  for  drinking  on  ’em.”  And  Jo  stands 
shivering,  and  looking  at  the  breakfast  wonder- 
ingly. 

Allan  Woodcourt  lays  his  hand  upon  his  pulse 
and  on  his  chest.  “Draw  breath,  Jo!”  “It 
draws,”  says  Jo,  “ as  heavy  as  a cart.”  He 
might  add,  “ and  rattles  like  it  but  he  only 
mutters,  “ I’m  a-moving  on,  sir.” 

Allan  looks  about  lor  an  apothecary’s  shop. 
There  is  none  at  hand,  bi  , tavern  does  as  well 
or  better.  He  obtains  a little  measure  of  wine, 


BOY 


53 


BOY 


and  gives  the  lad  a portion  of  it  very  carefully. 
He  begins  to  revive  almost  as  soon  as  it  passes 
his  lips.  “We  may  repeat  that  dose,  Jo,”  ob- 
serves Allan,  after  watching  him  with  his  atten- 
tive face.  “ So  ! we  will  now  take  five  minutes’ 
rest,  and  then  go  on  again.” 

Leaving  the  boy  sitting  on  the  bench  of  the 
breakfast-stall,  with  his  back  against  an  iron 
railing,  Allan  Woodcourt  paces  up  and  down  in 
the  early  sunshine,  casting  an  occasional  look 
towards  him  without  appearing  to  watch  him. 
It  requires  no  discernment  to  perceive  that  he 
is  warmed  and  refreshed.’  If  a face  so 'shaded 
can  brighten,  his  face  brightens  somewhat ; and, 
by  little  and  little,  he  eats  the  slice  of  bread  he 
had  so  hopelessly  laid  down.  Observant  of  these 
signs  of  improvement,  Allan  engages  him  in 
conversation  ; and  elicits,  to  his  no  small  won- 
der, the  adventure  of  the  lady  in  the  veil,  with 
all  its  consequences.  Jo  slowly  munches,  as  he 
slowly  tells  it.  When  he  has  finished  his  story 
and  his  bread,  they  go  on  again. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  47. 

“ Who  took  you  away  ? ” 

“ I dustn’t  name  him,”  says  Jo.  “ [ dustn’t 
do  it,  sir.” 

“ But  I want,  in  the  young  lady’s  name,  to 
know.  You  may  trust  me.  No  one  else  shall 
hear.” 

“Ah,  but  I don’t  know,”  replies  Jo,  shaking 
his  head  fearfully,  “ as  he  don't  hear.” 

“ Why,  he  is  not  in  this  place.” 

“ Oh.  ain’t  he  though?”  says  Jo.  “He’s  in 
all  manner  of  places,  all  at  wunst.” 

Allan  looks  at  him  in  perplexity,  but  discovers 
some  real  meaning  and  good  faith  at  the  bottom 
of  this  bewildering  reply.  He  patiently  awaits 
an  explicit  answer  ; and  Jo,  more  baffled  by  his 
patience  than  anything  else,  at  last  desperately 
whispers  a name  in  his  ear. 

“ Aye  ! ” says  Allan.  “ Why,  what  had  you 
been  doing  ? ” 

“ Nothink,  sir.  Never  done  nothink  to  get 
myself  into  no  trouble,  ’sept  in  not  moving  on, 
and  the  Inkwhich.  But  I’m  a-moving  on  now. 
I’m  a moving  on  to  the  berryin  ground— that’s 
the  move  as  I’m  up  to.” 

“ No,  no,  we  will  try  to  prevent  that.  But 
what  did  he  do  with  you  ? ” 

“Put  me  in  a horsepittle,”  replied  Jo,  whis- 
pering, “ till  I was  discharged,  then  gave  me  a 
little  money — four  half-bulls,  wot  you  may  call 
half-crowns — and  ses  ‘ Hook  it ! Nobody  wants 
you  here,’  he  ses.  ‘You  hook  it.  You  go  and 
tramp,’  he  ses.  ‘ You  move  on,’  he  ses.  * Don’t 
let  me  ever  see  you  nowheres  within  forty  mile 
of  London,  or  you’ll  repent  it.’  So  I shall,  if 
ever  he  does  see  me,  and  he’ll  see  me  if  I’m 
above  ground,”  concludes  Jo,  nervously  repeat- 
ing all  his  former  precautions  and  investiga- 
tions. 

Allan  considers  a little  ; then  remarks,  turn- 
ing to  the  woman,  but  keeping  an  encouraging 
eye  on  Jo  ; “ He  is  not  so  ungrateful  as  you  sup- 
posed. He  had  a reason  for  going  away,  though 
it  was  an  insufficient  one.” 

“Thank’ee,  sir,  thank’ee!”  exclaims  Jo. 
“ There  now  ! See  how  hard  you  wos  upon  me. 
But  ony  you  tell  the  young  lady  wot  the  genlmn 
ses,  and  it’s  all  right.  For  you  wos  wei*y  good  to 
me  too,  and  I knows  it.” 

1 Now,  Jo,”  says  Allan,  keeping  his  eye  upon 


him,  “ come  with  me,  and  I will  find  you  a bet- 
ter place  than  this  to  lie  down  and  hide  in.  If 
I take  one  side  of  the  way,  and  you  the  other,  to 
avoid  observation,  you  will  not  run  away,  I 
know  very  well,  if  you  make  me  a promise.” 

“ I won’t,  not  unless  I wos  to  see  him  a-com- 
ing,  sir.” — Bleak  House , Chap.  46. 

****** 

“ Look  here,  Jo  ! ” says  Allan.  “ This  is  Mr. 
George.” 

Jo  searches  the  floor  for  some  time  longer, 
then  looks  up  for  a moment,  and  then  down 
again. 

“ He  is  a kind  friend  to  you,  for  he  is  going  to 
give  you  lodging-room  here.” 

Jo  makes  a scoop  with  one  hand,  which  is 
supposed  to  be  a bow.  After  a little  more  con- 
sideration, and  some  backing  and  changing  of 
the  foot  on  which  he  rests,  he  mutters  that  he  is 
“ wery  thankful.” 

“ You  are  quite  safe  here.  All  you  have  to  do 
at  present  is  to  be  obedient,  and  to  get  strong. 
And  mind  you  tell  us  the  truth  here,  whatever 
you  do,  Jo.” 

“ Wishermaydie  if  I don’t,  sir,”  says  Jo,  re- 
verting to  his  favorite  declaration.  “ I never 
done  nothink  yit,  but  wot  you  knows  on,  to  get 
myself  into  no  trouble.  I never  was  in  no 
other  trouble  at  all,  sir — ’sept  not  knowin’  no- 
think and  starwation.” 

* * * * * * 

To  Mr.  Jarndyce,  Jo  repeats  in  substance 
what  he  said  in  the  morning  ; without  any  ma- 
terial variation.  Only,  that  cart  of  his  is  heavier 
to  draw,  and  draws  with  a hollower  sound. 

“ Let  me  lay  here  quiet,  and  not  be  chivied  no 
more,”  falters  Jo  ; “and  be  so  kind  any  .person 
as  is  a-passin’  nigh  where  I used  fur  to  sweep,  as 
jist  to  say  to  Mr.  Sangsby  that  Jo,  wot  he  known 
once,  is  a-moving  on  right  forards  with  his  duty, 
and  I’ll  be  wery  thankful.  I’d  be  more  thank- 
ful than  I am  a’ready,  if  it  wos  any  ways  possi- 
ble for  an  unfortnet  to  be  it.” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  47. 

BOY- An  old  “ Bailey.” 

Mr.  Bailey  spoke  as  if  he  already  had  a leg 
and  three-quarters  in  the  grave,  and  this  had 
happened  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago.  Paul 
Sweedlepipe,  the  meek,  was  so  perfectly  con- 
founded by  his  precocious  ‘self-possession,  and 
his  patronising  manner,  as  well  .as  by  his  boots, 
cockade,  and  livery,  that  a mist  swam  before  his 
eyes,  and  he  saw — not  the  Bailey  of  acknow- 
ledged juvenility,  from  Todger’s  Commercial 
Boarding  House,  who  had  made  his  acquaint- 
ance within  a twelve-month,  by  purchasing,  at 
sundry  times,  small  birds  at  two-pence  each — 
but  a highly  condensed  embodiment  of  all  the 
sporting  grooms  in  London  ; an  abstract  of  all 
the  stable-knowledge  of  the  time  ; a something 
at  a high  pressure  that  must  have  had  existence 
many  years,  and  was  fraught  with  terrible  ex- 
periences. And  truly,  though  in  the  cloudy  at- 
mosphere of  Todgers’s,  Mr.  Bailey’s  genius  had 
ever  shone  out  brightly  in  this  particular  re- 
spect, it  now  eclipsed  both  time  and  space, 
cheated  beholders  of  their  senses,  and  worked 
on  their  belief  in  defiance  of  all  natural  laws. 
He  walked  along  the  tangible  and  real  stones 
of  Holborn  Hill,  an  under-sized  boy  ; and  yet 
he  winked  the  winks,  and  thought  the  thoughts 


BOZ 


54 


BREAD  AND  BUTTER 


and  did  the  deeds,  and  said  the  sayings  of  an  an- 
cient man.  There  was  an  old  principle  within 
him,  and  a young  surface  without.  lie  became 
an  inexplicable  creature:  a breeched  and  booted 
Sphinx.  There  was  no  course  open  to  the 
barber  but  to  go  distracted  himself,  or  to  take 
Bailey  for  granted  : and  he  wisely  chose  the 
latter. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  26. 

“ BOZ  ’’—The  Original. 

“ Boz,”  my  signature  in  the  Morning  Chronicle, 
and  in  the  Old  Monthly  Magazine,  appended 
to  the  monthly  cover  of  this  book,  and  retained 
long  afterwards,  was  the  nick-name  of  a pet 
child,  a younger  brother,  whom  I dubbed 
Moses,  in  honor  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ; 
which  being  facetiously  pronounced  through 
the  nose,  became  Boses,  and,  being  shortened, 
became  Boz.  Boz  was  a very  familiar  house- 
hold word  to  me,  long  before  I was  an ‘author, 
and  so  I came  to  adopt  it. 

Preface  to  Pickwick . 

BROKER— Pancks’  Opinion  of  a. 

“Noble  old  boy;  ain’t  he?”  said  Mr. 
Pancks,  entering  on  a series  of  the  dryest  of 
snorts.  “ Generous  old  buck.  Confiding  old 
boy.  Philanthropic  old  buck.  Benevolent  old 
boy  ! Twenty  per  cent.  I engaged  to  pay  him, 
sir.  But  we  never  do  business  for  less,  at  our 
shop.” 

Arthur  felt  an  awkward  consciousness  of  hav- 
ing in  his  exultant  condition  been  a little  prema- 
ture. 

“ I said  to  that — boiling-over  old  Christian,” 
Mr.  Pancks  pursued,  appearing  greatly  to  relish 
this  descriptive  epithet,  “ that  I had  got  a little 
project  on  hand  ; a hopeful  one  ; I told  him  a 
hopeful  one  ; which  wanted  a certain  small  capi- 
tal. I proposed  to  him  to  lend  me  the  money  on 
my  note.  Which  he  did,  at  twenty  ; sticking 
the  twenty  on  in  a business-like  way,  and  put- 
ting it  into  the  note  to  look  like  a part  of  the 
principal.  If  I had  broken  down  after  that,  I 
should  have  been  his  grubber  for  the  next  seven 
years  at  half  wages  and  double  grind.  But  he 
is  a perfect  Patriarch  : and  it  would  do  a man 
good  to  serve  him  on  such  terms — on  any 
terms.” 

* * * * * * 

“ As  to  the  brim  of  his  hat,  it’s  narrow.  And 
there’s  no  more  benevolence  bubbling  out  of 
him  than  out  of  a ninepin.” 

Little  Dorrit,  Chap.  35. 

BROKER— In  Second-Hand  Furniture. 

There  lived  in  those  days,  round  the  corner 
— in  Bishopsgate  Street  Without — one  Brogley, 
sworn  broker  and  appraiser,  who  kept  a shop 
where  every  description  of  second-hand  furni- 
ture was  exhibited  in  the  most  uncomfortable 
aspect,  and  under  circumstances  and  in  com- 
binations the  most  completely  foreign  to  its 
purpose.  Dozens  of  chairs  hooked  on  to  wash- 
ing-stands, which  with  difficulty  poised  them- 
selves on  the  shoulders  of  sideboards,  which  in 
their  turn  stood  upon  the  wrong  side  of  dining- 
tables,  gymnastic  with  their  legs  upward  on  the 
tops  of  other  dining  tables,  were  among  its  liiost 
reasonable  arrangements.  A banquet  array  of 
dish-covers,  wine  glasses,  and  decanters  was 
generally  to  be  seen  spread  forth  upon  the 


bosom  of  a four-post  bedstead,  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  such  genial  company  as  half-a-dozen 
pokers,  and  a hall  lamp.  A set  of  window  cur- 
tains with  no  windows  belonging  to  them,  would 
be  seen  gracefully  draping  a barricade  of  chests 
of  drawers,  loaded  with  little  jars  from  chemists' 
shops ; while  a homeless  hearthrug,  severed 
from  its  natural  companion  the  fireside,  braved 
the  shrewd  east  wind  in  its  adversity,  and  trem- 
bled in  melancholy  accord  with  the  shrill  com- 
plainings of  a caljinet  piano,  wasting  away,  a 
string  a day,  and  faintly  resounding  to  the  noises 
of  the  street  in  its  jangling  and  distracted  brain. 
Of  motionless  clocks  that  never  stirred  a finger, 
and  seemed  as  incapable  of  being  successfully 
wound  up  as  the  pecuniary  affairs  of  their 
former  owners,  there  was  always  great  choice  in 
Mr.  Brogley’s  shop:  and  various  looking-glasses 
accidentally  placed  at  compound  interest  of  re- 
flection and  refraction,  presented  to  the  eye  an 
eternal  perspective  of  bankruptcy  and  ruin. 

Mr.  Brogley  himself  was  a moist-eyed,  pink- 
complexioned,  crisp-haired  man,  of  a bulky  fig- 
ure and  an  easy  temper — for  that  class  of  Caius 
Marius  who  sits  upon  the  ruins  of  other  peo- 
ple’s Carthages,  can  keep  up  his  spirits  well 
enough. — Dotnbey  and  Son,  Chap.  9. 

BROKERS’-SHOPS. 

Our  readers  must  often  have  observed  in  some 
by-street,  in  a poor  neighborhood,  a small,  dirty 
shop,  exposing  for  sale  the  most  extraordinary 
and  confused  jumble  of  old,  worn  out,  wretched 
articles,  that  can  well  be  imagined.  Our  won- 
der at  their  ever  having  been  bought,  is  only  to 
be  equalled  by  our  astonishment  at  the  idea  of 
their  ever  being  sold  again.  On  a board  at  the 
side  of  the  door  are  placed  about  twenty  books 
— all  odd  volumes  ; and  as  many  wine-glasses — 
all  different  patterns ; several  locks,  an  old 
earthenware  pan,  full  of  rusty  keys ; two  or 
three  gaudy  chimney  ornaments — cracked,  of 
course  ; the  remains  of  a lustre,  without  any 
drops  ; a round  frame  like  a capital  O,  which  has 
once  held  a mirror  ; a flute,  complete,  with  the 
exception  of  the  middle  joint  ; a pair  of  curling- 
irons  ; and  a tinder-box.  In  front  of  the  shop- 
window  are  ranged  some  half-dozen  high-backed 
chairs,  with  spinal  complaints  and  wasted  legs  ; 
a corner  cupboard  ; two  or  three  very  dark  ma- 
hogany tables  with  flaps  like  mathematical 
problems  ; some  pickle  jars  ; some  surgeons’  dit- 
to, with  gilt  labels  and  without  stoppers  ; an 
unframed  portrait  of  some  lady  who  flourished 
about  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
by  an  artist  who  never  flourished  at  all ; an  in- 
calculable host  of  miscellanies  of  every  descrip- 
tion, including  bottles  and  cabinets,  rags  and 
bones,  fenders  and  street-door  knockers,  fire- 
irons,  wearing-apparel  and  bedding,  a hall-lamp, 
and  a room -door.  Imagine,  in  addition  to  this 
incongruous  mass,  a black  doll  in  a white  frock, 
with  two  faces — one  looking  up  the  street,  and 
the  other  looking  down,  swinging  over  the  door  ; 
aboard  with  the  squeezed-up  inscription  “Deal- 
er in  marine  stores,”  in  lanky  white  letters, 
whose  height  is  strangely  out  of  proportion  to 
their  width  ; and  you  have  before  you  precisely 
the  kind  of  shop  to  which  we  wish  to  direct 
your  attention. — Scenes,  Chap.  21. 

BREAD  AND  BUTTER. 

Mr.  Trabb  had  sliced  his  hot  roll  into  three 


BREATH 


55 


BUTCHER 


feather  beds,  and  was  slipping  butter  in  between 
the  blankets,  and  covering  it  up. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  19. 

BREATH— A short. 

“ And  how  have  you  been  since  ? ” 

Very  well,  I thanked  him,  as  I hoped  he  had 
been  too. 

“ Oh  ! nothing  to  grumble  at,  you  know,”  said 
Mr.  Omer.  “ I find  my  breath  gets  short,  but  it 
seldom  gets  longer  as  a man  gets  older.  I take 
it  as  it  comes,  and  make  the  most  of  it.  That’s 
the  best  way,  ain’t  it  ? ” 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  21. 

BRUISES— of  Mr.  Squeers. 

“ I was  one  blessed  bruise,  sir,”  said  Squeers, 
touching  first  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  then  the 
toes  of  his  boots,  “ from  here  to  there.  Vinegar 
and  brown  paper,  vinegar  and  brown  paper, 
from  morning  to  night.  I suppose  there  was  a 
matter  of  half  a ream  of  brown  paper  stuck 
upon  me,  from  first  to  last.  As  I laid  all  of  a 
heap  in  our  kitchen,  plastered  all  over,  you 
might  have  thought  I was  a large  brown  paper 
parcel,  chock  full  of  nothing  but  groans.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  34. 

BUSINESS  MANAGER-Capt.  Cuttle  as  a. 

“ And  how  is  master,  Rob  ? ” said  Polly. 

“Well,  I don’t  know,  mother;  not  much  to 
boast  on.  There  ain’t  no  bis'ness  done,  you 
see.  He  don’t  know  anything  about  it,  the 
Cap’en  don’t.  There  was  a man  come  into  the 
shop  this  very  day,  and  says,  ‘ I want  a so-and- 
so,’  he  says — some  hard  name  or  another.  * A 
which  ? ’ says  the  Cap’en.  ‘ A so-'and-so,’  says 
the  man.  ‘ Brother,’  says  the  Cap’en,  ‘ will  you 
take  a observation  round  the  shop  ? ’ ‘ Well,’ 

says  the  man,  ‘ I’ve  done  it.’  ‘ Do  you  see  what 
you  want?’  says  the  Cap’en.  ‘No,  I don’t,’ 
says  the  man.  * Do  you  know  it  when  you  do 
see  it?’  says  the  Cap’en.  ‘No,  I don’t,”  says 
the  man.  ‘ Why,  then  I tell  you  wot,  my  lad,’ 
says  the  Cap’en,  ‘ you’d  better  go  back  and  ask 
wot  it’s  like,  outside,  for  no  more  don’t  I ! ’ ” 

“ That  ain’t  the  way  to  make  money,  though, 
is  it  ?”  said  Polly. 

“ Money,  mother  ! He’ll  never  make  money.” 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  38. 

Captain  Cuttle,  also,  as  a man  of  business, 
took  to  keeping  books.  In  these  he  entered  ob- 
servations on  the  weather,  and  on  the  currents 
of  the  wagons  and  other  vehicles  ; which  he 
observed,  in  that  quarter,  to  set  westward  in  the 
morning  and  during  the  greater  part  of  the  day, 
and  eastward  towards  the  evening.  Two  or 
three  stragglers  appearing  in  one  week,  who 
“ spoke  him  ” — so  the  Captain  entered  it — on 
the  subject  of  spectacles,  and  who,  without  posi- 
tively purchasing,  said  they  would  look  in  again, 
the  Captain  decided  that  the  business  was  im- 
proving, and  made  an  entry  in  the  day-book  to 
that  effect : the  wind  then  blowing  (which  he 
first  recorded)  pretty  fresh,  west  and  by  north  ; 
having  changed  in  the  night. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  39. 

BUSINESS  MANAGER-Carker  the. 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  sat  at  his  desk, 
smooth  and  soft  as  usual,  reading  those  letters 
which  were  reserved  for  him  to  open,  backing 


them  occasionally  with  such  memoranda  and 
references  as  their  business  purport  required, 
and  parcelling  them  out  into  little  heaps  for  dis- 
tribution through  the  several  departments  of  the 
House.  The  post  had  come  in  heavy  that  morn- 
ing, and  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  had  a good 
deal  to  do. 

The  general  action  of  a man  so  engaged — 
pausing  to  look  over  a bundle  of  papers  in  his 
hand,  dealing  them  round  in  various  portions, 
taking  up  another  bundle  and  examining  its  con- 
tents with  knitted  brows  and  pursed-out  lips — 
dealing,  and  sorting,  and  pondering  by  turns — 
would  easily  suggest  some  whimsical  resemblance 
to  a player  at  cards.  The  face  of  Mr.  Carker 
the  Manager  was  in  good  keeping  with  such  a 
fancy.  It  was  the  face  of  a man  who  studied 
his  play,  warily  : who  made  himself  master  of 
all  the  strong  and  weak  points  of  the  game : 
who  registered  the  cards  in  his  mind  as  they  fell 
about  him,  knew  exactly  what  was  on  them, 
what  they  missed,  and  what  they  made  : who 
was  crafty  to  find  out  what  the  other  players 
held,  and  who  never  betrayed  his  own  hand. 

The  letters  were  in  various  languages,  but  Mr. 
Carker  the  Manager  read  them  all.  If  there  had 
been  anything  in  the  offices  of  Dombey  and  Son 
that  he  could  not  read,  there  would  have  been  a 
card  wanting  in  the  pack.  He  read  almost  at  a 
glance,  and  made  combinations  of  one  letter 
with  another  and  one  business  with  another  as 
he  went  on,  adding  new  matter  to  the  heaps — 
much  as  a man  would  know  the  cards  at  sight, 
and  work  out  their  combinations  in  his  mind 
after  they  were  turned.  Something  too  deep  for 
a partner,  and  much  too  deep  for  an  adversary, 
Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  sat  in  the  rays  of  the 
sun  that  came  down  slanting  on  him  through 
the  skylight,  playing  his  game  alone. 

Dotribey  Son , Chap.  22. 

Frequently,  when  the  clerks  were  all  gone, 
the  offices  dark  and  empty,  and  all  similar 
places  of  business  shut  up,  Mr.  Carker,  with  the 
whole  anatomy  of  the  iron  room  laid  bare  be- 
fore him,  would  explore  the  mysteries  of  books 
and  papers,  with  the  patient  progress  of  a man 
who  was  dissecting  the  minutest  nerves  and 
fibres  of  his  subject. 

Dombey  &>  Son , Chap.  46. 

BUSINESS-The  motto  of  Pancks. 

“ Take  all  you  can  get,  and  keep  back  all  you 
can’t  be  forced  to  give  up.  That’s  business.” 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  24. 

BUTCHER— Artistically  considered. 

To  see  the  butcher  slap  the  steak,  before  he 
laid  it  on  the  block,  and  give  his  knife  a sharpen- 
ing, was  to  forget  breakfast  instantly.  It  waL. 
agreeable,  too — it  really  was — to  see  him  cut  it 
off,  so  smooth  and  juicy.  There  was  nothing 
savage  in  the  act,  although  the  knife  was  large 
and  keen  ; it  was  a piece  of  art — high  art ; there 
was  delicacy  of  touch,  clearness  of  tone,  skillful 
handling  of  the  subject,  fine  shading.  It  was 
the  triumph  of  mind  over  matter  ; quite. 

Perhaps  the  greenest  cabbage-leaf  ever  grown 
in  a garden  was  wrapped  about  this  steak,  be- 
fore it  was  delivered  over  to  Tom.  But  the 
butcher  had  a sentiment  for  his  business,  and 
knew  how  to  refine  upon  it.  When  he  saw  Tom 
putting  the  cabbage -leaf  into  his  pocket  awk- 


BUTTONED-UP  MEN 


50 


CANAL-BOAT 


wardly,  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  do  it  for 
him  “ for  meat,”  he  said  with  some  emotion, 
“must  be  humored,  not  drove.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap . 39. 

BUTTONED-TJP  MEN  Their  importance. 

Mr.  Tite  Barnacle  was  a buttoned-up  man, 
and  consequently  a weighty  one.  All  buttoned- 
up  men  are  weighty.  All  buttoned-up  men  are 
believed  in.  Whether  or  no  the  reserved  and 
never-exercised  power  of  unbuttoning,  fascinates 
mankind  ; whether  or  no  wisdom  is  supposed  to 
condense  and  augment  when  buttoned  up,  and 
to  evaporate  when  unbuttoned ; it  is  certain 
that  the  man  to  whom  importance  is  accorded  is 
the  buttoned-up  man.  Mr.  Tite  Barnacle  never 
would  have  passed  for  half  his  current  value, 
unless  his  coat  had  been  always  buttoned  up  to 
his  white  cravat. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  12. 


c 

CABS  AND  DRIVERS— Description  of. 

Of  all  the  cabriolet-drivers  whom  we  ever  had 
the  honor  and  gratification  of  knowing  by 
sight — and  our  acquaintance  in  this  way  has 
been  most  extensive — there  is  one  who  made  an 
impression  on  our  mind  which  can  never  be 
effaced,  and  who  awakened  in  our  bosom  a feel- 
ing of  admiration  and  respect,  which  we  enter- 
tain a fatal  presentiment  will  never  be  called 
forth  again  by  any  human  being.  He  was  a 
man  of  most  simple  and  prepossessing  appear- 
ance. He  was  a brown-whiskered,  white-hatted, 
no-coated  cabman  ; his  nose  was  generally  red, 
and  his  bright  blue  eye  not  unfrequently  stood  out 
in  bold  relief  against  a black  border  of  artificial 
workmanship  ; his  boots  were  of  the  Wellington 
form,  pulled  up  to  meet  his  corduroy  knee  smalls, 
or  at  least  to  approach  as  near  them  as  their  di- 
mensions would  admit  of ; and  his  neck  was 
usually  garnished  with  a bright  yellow  hand- 
kerchief. In  summer  he  carried  in  his  mouth  a 
flower  ; in  winter,  a straw — slight,  but  to  a con- 
templative mind,  certain  indications  of  a love  of 
nature,  and  a taste  for  botany. 

His  cabriolet  was  gorgeously  painted — a 
bright  red  ; and  wherever  we  went,  City  or 
West  End,  Paddington  or  Holloway,  North, 
East,  West,  or  South,  there  was  the  red  cab, 
bumping  up  against  the  posts  at  the  street  cor- 
ners, and  turning  in  and  out,  among  hackney- 
coaches,  and  drays,  and  carts,  and  wagons,  and 
omnibuses,  and  contriving  by  some  strange 
means  or  other  to  get  out  of  places  which  no 
other  vehicle  but  the  red  cab  could  ever  by  any 
possibility  have  contrived  to  get  into  at  all.  Our 
fondness  for  that  red  cab  is  unbounded.  How 
we  should  have  liked  to  see  it  in  the  circle  at 
Astley’s  ! Our  life  upon  it,  that  it  should  have 
performed  such  evolutions  as  would  have  put 
the  whole  company  to  shame — Indian  chiefs, 
knights,  Swiss  peasants,  and  all. 

Some  people  object  to  the  exertion  of  getting 
into  cabs,  and  others  object  to  the  difficulty  of 
getting  out  of  them  ; we  think  both  these  are 


objections  which  take  their  rise  in  perverse  and 
ill-conditioned  minds.  The  getting  into  a cab 
is  a very  pretty  and  graceful  process,  which, 
when  well  performed,  is  essentially  melodra- 
matic. First,  there  is  the  expressive  pantomime 
of  every  one  of  the  eighteen  cabmen  on  the 
stand,  the  moment  you  raise  your  eyes  from  the 
ground.  Then  there  is  your  own  pantomime  in 
reply — quite  a little  ballet.  Four  cabs  immedi- 
ately leave  the  stand,  for  your  especial  accom- 
modation ; and  the  evolutions  of  the  animals 
who  draw  them  are  beautiful  in  the  extreme,  as 
they  grate  the  wheels  of  the  cabs  against  the 
curb-stones,  and  sport  playfully  in  the  kennel. 
You  single  out  a particular  cab,  and  dart  swiftly 
towards  it.  One  bound,  and  you  are  on  the 
first  step  ; turn  your  body  lightly  round  to  the 
right,  and  you  are  on  the  second  ; bend  grace- 
fully beneath  the  reins,  working  round  to  the 
left  at  the  same  time,  and  you  are  in  the  cab. 
There  is  no  difficulty  in  finding  a seat : the 
apron  knocks  you  comfortably  into  it  at  once, 
and  off  you  go. — Scenes , Chap.  17. 

CANAL-BOAT— An  American. 

I have  mentioned  my  having  been  in  some 
uncertainty  and  doubt,  at  first,  relative  to  the 
sleeping-arrangements  on  board  this  boat.  I 
remained  in  the  same  vague  state  of  mind  until 
ten  o’clock  or  thereabouts,  when,  going  below, 
I found,  suspended  on  either  side  of  the  cabin, 
three  long  tiers  of  hanging  book-shelves,  de- 
signed apparently  for  volumes  of  the  small  oc- 
tavo size.  Looking  with  greater  attention  at 
these  contrivances  (wondering  to  find  such  liter- 
ary preparations  in  such  a place),  I descried  on 
each  shelf  a sort  of  microscopic  sheet  and  blan- 
ket ; then  I began  dimly  to  comprehend  that 
the  passengers  were  the  library,  and  that  they 
were  to  be  arranged,  edgewise,  on  these  shelves 
till  morning. 

I was  assisted  to  this  conclusion  by  seeing 
some  of  them  gathered  round  the  master  of  the 
boat,  at  one  of  the  tables,  drawing  lots  with  all 
the  anxieties  and  passions  of  gamesters  depicted 
in  their  countenances  ; while  others,  with  small 
pieces  of  card-board  in  their  hands,  were  grop- 
ing among  the  shelves  in  search  of  numbers 
corresponding  with  those  they  had  drawn.  As 
soon  as  any  gentleman  found  his  number,  he 
took  possession  of  it  by  immediately  undressing 
himself  and  crawling  into  bed.  The  rapidity 
with  which  an  agitated  gambler  subsided  into  a 
snoring  slumberer  was  one  of  the  most  singular 
effects  I have  ever  witnessed.  As  to  the  ladies, 
they  were  already  abed,  behind  the  red  curtain, 
which  was  carefully  drawn  and  pinned  up  the 
centre  ; though,  as  every  cough,  or  sneeze,  or 
whisper  behind  this  curtain  was  perfectly  audible 
before  it,  we  had  still  a lively  consciousness  of 
their  society. 

The  politeness  of  the  person  in  authority  had 
secured  to  me  a shelf  in  a nook  near  this  red 
curtain,  in  some  degree  removed  from  the  great 
body  of  sleepers — to  which  place  I retired,  with 
many  acknowledgments  to  him  for  his  attention. 
I found  it,  on  after-measurement,  just  the  width 
of  an  ordinary  sheet  of  Bath  post  letter-paper  ; 
and  I was  at  first  in  some  uncertainty  as  to  the 
best  means  of  getting  into  it.  But,  the  shelf 
being  a bottom  one,  1 finally  determined  on 
lying  upon  the  floor,  rolling  gently  in,  stopping 
immediately  I touched  the  mattress,  and  remain- 


CANDLE 


57 


CAPTAIN  CUTTLE 


ing  for  the  night  with  that  side  uppermost,  what- 
ever it  might  be.  Luckily,  I came  upon  my 
back  at  exactly  the  right  moment.  I was  much 
alarmed,  on  looking  upward,  to  see,  by  the  shape 
of  his  half-yard  of  sacking  (which  his  weight  had 
bent  into  an  exceedingly  tight  bag),-  that  there 
was  a very  heavy  gentleman  above  me,  whom 
the  slender  cords  seemed  quite  incapable  of 
holding  ; and  I could  not  help  reflecting  upon 
the  grief  of  my  wife  and  family  in  the  event  of 
his  coming  down  in  the  night.  But  as  I could 
not  have  got  up  again  without  a severe  bodily 
struggle,  which  might  have  alarmed  the  ladies, 
and  as  I had  nowhere  to  go  to,  even  if  I had, 

I shut  my  eyes  upon  the  danger,  and  remained 
there. — American  Notes , Chap.  io. 

CANDLE— Lighting-  a. 

The  wretched  candle  burns  down  ; the 
woman  takes  its  expiring  end  between  her  fin- 
gers, lights  another  at  it,  crams  the  guttering, 
frying  morsel  deep  into  the  candlestick,  and  rams 
it  home  with  the  new  candle,  as  if  she  were 
loading  some  ill-savored  and  unseemly  weapon 
of  witchcraft. — Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  23. 

CAPTAIN  CUTTLE  — His  reverence  for 

Science. 

“ I suppose  he  could  make  a clock  if  he 
tried  ? ” 

“ I shouldn’t  wonder,  Captain  Cuttle,”  re- 
turned the  boy. 

“ And  it  would  go  ! ” said  Captain  Cuttle, 
making  a species  of  serpent  in  the  air  with  his 
hook.  “ Lord,  how  that  clock  would  go  ! ” 

' . For  a moment  or  two  he  seemed  quite  lost  in 
contemplating  the  pace  of  this  ideal  timepiece, 
and  sat  looking  at  the  boy  as  if  his  face  were 
the  dial. 

“ But  he’s  chockfull  of  science,”  he  observed, 
waving  his  hook  towards  the  stock-in-trade. 
“ Look  ’ye  here  ! Here’s  a collection  of  ’em. 
Earth,  air,  or  water.  It’s  all  one.  Only  say 
where  you’ll  have  it.  Up  in  a balloon?  There 
you  are.  Down  in  a bell  ? There  you  are. 
D’ye  want  to  put  the  North  Star  in  a pair  of 
scales  and  weigh  it  ? He’ll  do  it  for  you.” 

It  may  be  gathered  from  these  remarks  that 
Captain  Cuttle’s  reverence  for  the  stock  of  in- 
struments was  profound,  and  that  his  philosophy 
knew  little  or  no  distinction  between  trading  in 
it  and  inventing  it. 

“ Ah  !”  he  said,  with  a sigh,  “ it’s  a fine  thing 
to  understand  ’em.  And  yet  it’s  a fine  thing 
not  to  understand  ’em.  I hardly  know1  which  is 
best.  It’s  so  comfortable  to  sit  here  and  feel 
that  you  might  be  weighed,  measured,  magnified, 
electrified,  polarized,  played  the  very  devil  with  ; 
and  never  know  how.” — Dombey  6°  Son , Ch.  4. 

CAPTAIN  CUTTLE— His  observations  and 
characteristics. 

His  rooms  were  very  small,  and  strongly  im- 
pregnated with  tobacco-smoke,  but  snug  enough  ; 
everything  being  stowed  away,  as  if  there  were 
an  earthquake  regularly  every  half  hour. — Ch.  q. 

“ Sol  Gills  ! The  observation  as  I’m  a-going 
to  make  is  calc’lated  to  blow  every  stitch  of  sail 
as  you  can  carry,  clean  out  of  the  bolt-ropes, 
and  bring  you  on  your  beam  ends  with  a lurch. 
Not  one  of  them  letters  was  ever  delivered  to 
Ed’ard  Cuttle.  Not  one  o’  them  letters,”  re- 


peated the  Captain,  to  make  his  declaration  the 
more  solemn  and  impressive,  “ was  ever  deliver- 
ed unto  Ed’ard  Cuttle,  Mariner,  of  England, 
as  lives  at  home  at  ease,  and  doth  improve  each 
shining  hour  ! ” — Chah.  56. 

“ And  with  regard  to  old  Sol  Gills,”  here  the 
Captain  became  solemn,  “ who  I’ll  stand  by,  and 
not  desert  until  death  doe  us  part,  when  the 
stormy  winds  do  blow,  do  blow,  do  blow — over 
haul  the  Catechism,”  said  the  Captain  paren- 
thetically, “ and  there  you’ll  find  them  expres- 
sions— if  it  would  console  Sol  Gills  to  have  the 
opinion  of  a seafaring  man  as  has  got  a mind 
equal  to  any  undertaking  that  he  puts  it  along- 
side of,  and  as  was  all  but  smashed  in  his  ’pren- 
ticeship,  and  of  which  the  name  is  Bunsby,  that 
’ere  man  shall  give  him  such  an  opinion  in  his 
own  parlor  as’ll  stun  him.  Ah  ! ” said  Captain 
Cuttle,  vauntingly,  “ as  much  as  if  he’d  gone 
and  knocked  his  head  again  a door  ! ” — Ch.  23. 

“ My  lady  lass  ! ” said  the  Captain,  “ you’re  as 
safe  here  as  if  you  was  at  the  top  of  St.  Paul’s 
Cathedral,  with  the  ladder  cast  off.  Sleep  is  what 
you  want,  afore  all  other  things,  and  may  you 
be  able  to  show  yourself  smart  with  that  there 
balsam  for  the  still  small  woice  of  a wounded 
mind  ! When  there’s  anything  you  want,  my 
Heart’s  Delight,  as  this  here  humble  house  or' 
town  can  offer,  pass  the  word  to  Ed’ard  Cuttle, 
as’ll  stand  off  and  on  outside  that  door,  and  that 
there  man  will  wibrate  with  joy.” — Chap.  48. 


“ Wal’r  is  a lad  as’ll  bring  as  much  success  to 
that  ’ere  brig  as  a lad  is  capable  on.  Wal’r,” 
said  the  Captain,  his  eyes  glistening  with  the 
praise  of  his  young  friend,  and  his  hook  raised 
to  announce  a beautiful  quotation,  “ is  what  you 
may  call  a out’ard  and  visible  sign  of  a in’ard 
and  spirited  grasp,  and  when  found,  make  a note 
of.” — Chap.  23. 

Florence  had  no  words  to  answer  with.  She 
only  said,  “ Oh,  dear,  dear  Paul ! oh,  Walter  !” 

“ The  wery  planks  she  walked  on,”  murmured 
the  Captain,  looking  at  her  drooping  face,  “ was 
as  high  esteemed  by  Wal’r,  as  the  water  brooks 
is  by  the  hart  which  never  rejices  ! I see  him 
now,  the  wery  day  as  he  was  rated  on  them 
Dombey  books,  a speaking  of  her  with  his  face 
a glistening  with  doo — leastways  with  his  modest 
sentiments — like  a new  blowed  rose,  at  dinner. 
Well,  well  ! If  our  poor  Wal’r  was  here,  my 
lady  lass — or  if  he  could  be — for  he’s  drownded, 
an’t  he  ? ” — Chap.  49. 


“ But  the  ship’s  a good  ship,  and  the  lad’s  a 
good  lad  ; and  it  ain’t  easy,  thank  the  Lord,” 
the  Captain  made  a little  bow,  “ to  break  up 
hearts  of  oak,  whether  they’re  in  brigs  or  buz- 
zums.  Here  we  have  ’em  both  ways,  which  is 
bringing  it  up  with  a round  turn,  and  so  I ain’t 
a bit  afeard  as  yet C—Chap.  23. 

“ Half  a loaf’s  better  than  no  bread,  and  the 
same  remark  holds  good  with  crumbs.” — Ch.  to. 

“ Wal’r,  my  lad,”  observed  the  Captain  in  a 
deep  voice  : “ stand  by  ! ” 

At  the  same  time  the  Captain,  coming  a little 
further  in,  brought  out  his  wide  suit  of  blue,  his 
conspicuous  shirt-collar,  and  his  knobby  nose  in 


CAPTAIN  CUTTLE 


58 


CARDS 


full  relief,  and  stood  bowing  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and 
waving  his  hook  politely  to  the  ladies,  with  the 
hard  glazed  hat  in  his  one  hand,  and  a red 
equator  round  his  head,  which  it  had  newly  im- 
printed there. — Chap.  io. 

“Wal’r,  my  boy,"  replied  the  Captain,  “in 
the  Proverbs  of  Solomon  you  will  find  the  fol- 
lowing words,  * May  we  never  want  a friend  in 
need,  nor  a bottle  to  give  him  !’  When  found, 
make  a note  of.” — Chap.  15. 


“ Bunsby,”  said  the  Captain,  striking  home  at 
once,  “ here  you  are  ; a man  of  mind,  and  a man 
as  can  give  an  opinion.  Here’s  a young  lady  as 
wants  to  take  that  opinion,  in  regard  to  my 
friend  Wal’r  ; likewise  my  t’other  friend,  Sol 
Gills,  which  is  a character  for  you  to  come  within 
hail  of,  being  a man  of  science,  which  is  the  mo- 
ther of  inwention,  and  knows  no  law.’’ — Ch.  23. 


The  Captain,  pale  as  Florence,  pale  in  the 
very  knobs  upon  his  face,  raised  her  like  a baby, 
and  laid  her  on  the  same  old  sofa  upon  which 
she  had  slumbered  long  ago. 

“It’s  Heart’s  Delight!”  said  the  Captain, 
looking  intently  in  her  face.  “ It’s  the  sweet 
creetur  grow’d  a woman  ! ” 

Captain  Cuttle  was  so  respectful  of  her,  and 
had  such  a reverence  for  her  in  this  new  charac- 
ter, that  he  would  not  have  held  her  in  his  arms, 
while  she  was  unconscious,  for  a thousand 
pounds. 

“ My  Heart’s  Delight ! ” said  the  Captain, 
withdrawing  to  a little  distance,  with  the  great- 
est alarm  and  sympathy  depicted  on  his  coun- 
tenance. “ If  you  can  hail  Ned  Cuttle  with  a 
finger,  do  it ! ” 

But  Florence  did  not  stir. 

“ My  Heart’s  Delight  ! ” said  the  trembling 
Captain.  “ For  the  sake  of  Wal’r  drownded  in 
the  briny  deep,  turn  to,  and  histe  up  something 
or  another,  if  able.” — Dombey  Son , Ch.  48. 

CAPTAIN  CUTTLE  and  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

“We  had  some  words  about  the  swabbing  of 
these  here  planks,  and  she— in  short,”  said  the 
Captain,  eyeing  the  door,  and  relieving  himself 
with  a long  breath,  “ she  stopped  my  liberty.” 

“ Oh  ! I wish  she  had  me  to  deal  with  ! ” said 
Susan,  reddening  with  the  energy  of  the  wish, 
“ I’d  stop  her  ! ” 

“ Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear  ? ” rejoined 
the  Captain,  shaking  his  head  doubtfully,  but  re- 
garding the  desperate  courage  of  the  fair  aspirant 
with  obvious  admiration.  “ I don’t  know.  It’s 
difficult  navigation.  She’s  very  hard  to  carry  on 
with,  my  dear.  You  never  can  tell  how  she’ll 
head,  you  see.  She’s  full  one  minute,  and  round 
upon  you  next.  And  when  she  is  a tartar,”  said 
the  Captain,  with  the  perspiration  breaking  out 
upon  his  forehead — . There  was  nothing  but  a 
whistle  emphatic  enough  for  the  conclusion  of 
the  sentence,  so  the  Captain  whistled  tremu- 
lously.— Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  23. 

He  * * * $ $ 

Honest  Captain  Cuttle,  as  the  weeks  flew  over 
him  in  his  fortified  retreat,  by  no  means  abated 
any  of  his  prudent  provisions  against  surprise, 
because  of  the  non-appearance  of  the  enemy. 
The  ( aptain  argued  that  his  present  security  was 
too  profound  and  wonderful  to  endure  much 


longer  : he  knew  that  when  the  wind  stood  in  a 
fair  quarter,  the  weathercock  was  seldom  nailed 
there  ; and  he  was  too  well  acquainted  with  the 
determined  and  dauntless  character  of  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger,  to  doubt  that  that  heroic  woman  had  de- 
voted herself  to  the  task  of  his  discovery  and  cap- 
ture. Trembling  beneath  the  weight  of  these 
reasons,  Captain  Cuttle  lived  a very  close  and  re- 
tired life  ; seldom  stirring  abroad  until  after  dark  ; 
venturing  even  then  only  into  the  obscurest 
streets  ; never  going  forth  at  all  on  Sundays  ; 
and  both  within  and  without  the  walls  of  his 
retreat,  avoiding  bonnets,  as  if  they  were  worn 
by  raging  lions. 

The  Captain  never  dreamed  that  in  the  event 
of  his  being  pounced  upon  by  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
in  his  walks,  it  would  be  possible  to  offer  resist- 
ance. He  felt  that  it  could  not  be  done.  He 
saw  himself,  in  his  mind’s  eye,  put  meekly  in  a 
hackney-coach,  and  carried  off  to  his  old  lodg- 
ings. He  foresaw  that,  once  immured  there,  he 
was  a lost  man. 

****** 

“ Now,  my  lad,  stand  by  ! If  ever  I’m  took — ” 

“ Took,  Captain  ! ” interposed  Rob,  with  his 
round  eyes  wide  open. 

“Ah  ! ” said  Captain  Cuttle,  darkly,  “ if  ever  I 
goes  away,  meaning  to  come  back  to  supper,  and 
don’t  come  within  hail  again  twenty-four  hours 
arter  my  loss,  go  you  to  Brig  Place  and  whistle 
that  ’ere  tune  near  my  old  moorings — not  as  if 
you  was  a meaning  of  it,  you  understand,  but  as 
if  you’d  drifted  there,  promiscuous.  If  I answer 
in  that  tune,  you  sheer  off,  my  lad,  and  come 
back  four-and-twenty  hours  arterwards ; if  I 
answer  in  another  tune,  do  you  stand  off  and  on, 
and  wait  till  I throw'  out  further  signals.” 

Dombey  <2r*  Son,  Chap.  32. 

CAPTAIN  CUTTLE  and  Mr.  Toots. 

“ Mr.  Gills — ” 

“ Awast ! ” said  the  Captain.  “ My  name’s 
Cuttle.” 

Mr.  Toots  looked  greatly  disconcerted,  while 
the  Captain  proceeded  gravely. 

“ Cap’en  Cuttle  is  my  name,  and  England  is 
my  nation,  this  here  is  my  dwelling-place,  and 
blessed  be  creation — Job,”  said  the  Captain,  as 
an  index  to  his  authority. 

“ Oh  ! I couldn’t  see  Mr.  Gills,  could  I ?”  said 
Mr.  Toots  ; “because — ” 

“ If  you  could  see  Sol  Gills,  young  gen’l’m’n,” 
said  the  Captain,  impressively,  and  laying  his 
heavy  hand  on  Mr.  Toots’  knee,  “ old  Sol,  mind 
you — wdth  your  own  eyes — as  you  sit  there — you’d 
be  welcomer  to  me  than  a wind  astarn  to  a ship 
becalmed.  But  you  can’t  see  Sol  Gills.  And  whjr 
can’t  you  see  Sol  Gills  ? ” said  the  Captain,  ap- 
prised by  the  face  of  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was 
making  a profound  impression  on  that  gentle- 
man’s mind.  “ Because  he’s  inwisible.” 

Do?nbey  6°  Son,  Chap.  32. 

CARDS— A game  for  love. 

Two  people  who  cannot  afford  to  play  cards 
for  money,  sometimes  sit  down  to  a quiet  game 
for  love. — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  1. 

CARDS-Of  Callers. 

Next  day,  and  the  day  after,  and  every  day,  all 
graced  by  more  dinner  company,  cards  descend- 
ed on  Mr.  Dorrit,  like  theatrical  snow. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  16. 


CARES 


59 


CATACOMBS  OF  ROME 


CARES— Second-hand. 

The  confidential  bachek  r clerks  in  Tellson’s 
Bank  were  principally  occupied  with  the  cares 
of  other  people  ; and  perhaps  second-hand  cares, 
like  second-hand  clothes,  come  easily  off  and  on. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  4. 

CARES— The  oppressiveness  of. 

Although  a man  may  lose  a sense  of  his  own 
importance  when  he  is  a mere  unit  among  a busy 
throng,  all  utterly  regardless  of  him,  it  by  no 
means  follows  that  he  can  dispossess  himself, 
with  equal  facility,  of  a v.ery  strong  sense  of  the 
importance  and  magnitude  of  his  cares. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  16. 

CARPET-SHAKING— The  pleasures  of. 

It  is  not  half  as  innocent  a thing  as  it  looks, 
that  shaking  little  pieces  of  carpet — at  least, 
there  may  be  no  great  harm  in  the  shaking,  but 
the  folding  is  a very  insidious  process.  So  long 
as  the  shaking  lasts,  and  the  two  parties  are  kept 
the  carpet’s  length  apart,  it  is  as  innocent  an 
amusement  as  can  well  be  devised  ; but  when 
the  folding  begins,  and  the  distance  between 
them  gets  gradually  lessened  from  one-half  its 
former  length  to  a quarter,  and  then  to  an  eighth, 
and  then  to  a sixteenth,  and  then  to  a thirty- 
second,  if  the  carpet  be  long  enough  : it  becomes 
dangerous.  We  do  not  know,  to  a nicety,  how 
many  pieces  of  carpet  were  folded  in  this  instance  ; 
but  we  can  venture  to  state  that  as  many  pieces 
as  there  were,  so  many  times  did  Sam  kiss  the 
pretty  housemaid. — Pickwick , Chap.  39. 

CARVING— The  art  of. 

We  have  already  had  occasion  to  observe  that 
Mrs.  Chirrup  is  an  incomparable  housewife.  In 
all  the  arts  of  domestic  arrangement  and  man- 
agement, in  all  the  mysteries  of  confectionery- 
making, pickling,  and  preserving,  never  was  such 
a thorough  adept  as  that  nice  little  body.  She 
is,  besides,  a cunning  worker  in  muslin  and  fine 
linen,  and  a special  hand  at  marketing  to  the 
very  best  advantage.  But  if  there  be  one  branch 
of  housekeeping  in  which  she  excels  to  an  utter- 
ly unparalleled  and  unprecedented  extent,  it  is 
in  the  important  one  of  carving.  A roast  goose 
is  universally  allowed  to  be  the  great  stumbling- 
block  in  the  way  of  young  aspirants  to  perfection 
in  this  department  of  science  ; many  promising 
carvers,  beginning  with  legs  of  mutton,  and 
preserving  a good  reputation  through  fillets  of 
veal,  sirloins  of  beef,  quarters  of  lamb,  fowls, 
and  even  ducks,  have  sunk  before  a roast  goose, 
and  lost  ca'fete  and  character  forever.  To  Mrs. 
Chirrup  the  resolving  a goose  into  its  smallest 
component  parts  is  a pleasant  pastime — a prac- 
tical joke — a thing  to  be  done  in  a minute  or  so, 
without  the  smallest  interruption  to  the  conver- 
sation of  the  time.  No  handing  the  dish  over 
to  an  unfortunate  man  upon  her  right  or  left,  no 
wild  sharpening  of  the  knife,  no  hacking  and 
sawing  at  an  unruly  joint,  no  noise,  no  splash, 
no  heat,  no  leaving  off  in  despair  ; all  is  confi- 
dence and  cheerfulness.  The  dish  is  set  upon 
the  table,  the  cover  is  removed  ; for  an  instant, 
and  only  an  instant,  you  observe  that  Mrs.  Chir- 
rup’s attention  is  distracted  ; she  smiles,  but 
heareth  not.  You  proceed  with  your  story  ; 
meanwhile  the  glittering  knife  is  slowly  upraised, 
both  Mrs.  Chirrup’s  wrists  are  slightly  but  not  | 
ungracefully  agitated,  she  compresses  her  lips  for 


an  instant,  then  breaks  into  a smile,  and  all  is 
over.  The  legs  of  the  bird  slide  gently  down 
into  a pool  of  gravy,  the  wings  seem  to  melt  from 
the  body,  the  breast  separates  into  a row  of 
juicy  slices,  the  smaller  and  more  complicated 
parts  of  his  anatomy  are  perfectly  developed,  a 
cavern  of  stuffing  is  revealed,  and  the  goose  is 
gone  ! — C ketches  of  Couples. 

CAT— Mrs.  Pipchin  and  Paul. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  had  an  old  black  cat,  who  gen- 
erally lay  coiled  upon  the  centre  foot  of  the 
fender,  purring  egotistically,  and  winking  at  the 
fire  until  the  contracted  pupils  of  his  eyes  were 
like  two  notes  of  admiration.  The  good  old 
lady  might  have  been — n<?t  to  record  it  disre- 
spectfully—a writch,  and  Paul  and  the  cat  her 
two  familiars,  as  they  all  sat  by  the  fire  together. 
It  would  have  been  quite  in  keeping  with  the 
appearance  of  the  party  if  they  had  all  sprung 
up  the  chimney  in  a high  wind  one  night,  and 
never  been  heard  of  any  more. 

Dombey  dr3  Son , Chap.  45. 

CATACOMBS  OF  ROME-The  graves  of 
Martyrs. 

Below  the  church  of  San  Sebastiano,  two 
miles  beyond  the  gate  of  San  Sebastiano,  on  the 
Appian  Way,  is  the  entrance  to  the  Catacombs  of 
Rome — quarries  in  the  old  time,  but  afterwards 
the  hiding-places  of  the  Christians.  These  ghast- 
ly passages  have  been  explored  for  twenty  miles, 
and  form  a chain  of  labyrinths,  sixty  miles  in 
circumference. 

A gaunt  Franciscan  friar,  with  a wild  bright 
eye,  was  our  only  guide,  down  into  this  profound 
and  dreadful  place.  The  narrow  ways  and  open- 
ings hither  and  thither,  coupled  with  the  dead 
and  heavy  air,  soon  blotted  out,  in  all  of  us,  any 
recollection  of  the  track  by  which  we  had  come  ; 
and  I could  not  help  thinking,  “Good  Heaven, 
if,  in  a sudden  fit  of  madness,  he  should  dash 
the  torches  out,  or  if  he  should  be  seized  with  a 
fit,  what  would  become  of  us  !”  On  we  wandered, 
among  martyrs’  graves  : passing  great  subterra- 
nean vaulted  roads,  diverging  in  all  directions, 
and  choked  up  with  heaps  of  stones,  that  thieves 
and  murderers  may  not  take  refuge  there,  and 
form  a population  under  Rome  even  worse  than 
that  which  lives  between  it  and  the  sun.  Graves, 
graves,  graves  ; Graves  of  men,  of  women,  of 
their  little  children,  who  ran  crying  to  the  perse- 
cutors, “We  are  Christians  ! We  are  Christians  ! ” 
that  they  might  be  murdered  with  their  parents  ; 
Graves  with  the  palm  of  martyrdom  roughly  cut 
into  their  stone  boundaries,  and  little  niches, 
made  to  hold  a vessel  of  the  martyrs’  blood  ; 
Graves  of  some  who  lived  down  here,  for  years 
together,  ministering  to  the  rest,  and  preaching 
truth,  and  hope,  and  comfort,  from  the  rude 
altars,  that  bear  witness  to  their  fortitude  at  this 
hour  ; more  roomy  graves,  but  far  more  terrible, 
where  hundreds,  being  surprised,  were  hemmed 
in  and  walled  up  : buried  before  death,  and  killed 
by  slow  starvation. 

“ The  Triumphs  of  the  Faith  are  not  above 
ground  in  our  splendid  churches,”  said  the  friar, 
looking  round  upon  us,  as  we  stopped  to  rest  in 
one  of  the  low  passages,  with  bones  and  dust 
surrounding  us  on  every  side.  “ They  are  here  ! 
Among  the  Martyrs’  Graves  ! ” He  was  a gentle, 
earnest  man,  and  said  it  from  his  heart  ; but 
when  I thought  how  Christian  men  have  dealt 


CELLARS 


60 


CHAIR 


with  one  another  ; how,  perverting  our  most 
merciful  religion,  they  have  hunted  down  and 
tortured,  burnt  and  beheaded,  strangled,  slaugh- 
tered, and  oppressed  each  other  ; I pictured  to 
myself  an  agony  surpassing  any  that  this  Dust 
had  suffered  with  the  breath  of  life  yet  lingering 
in  it,  and  how  these  great  and  constant  hearts 
would  have  been  shaken — how  they  would  have 
quailed  and  drooped — if  a foreknowledge  of  the 
deeds  that  professing  Christians  would  commit 
in  the  Great  Name  for  which  they  died,  could 
have  rent  them  with  its  own  unutterable  anguish, 
on  the  cruel  wheel,  and  bitter  cross,  and  in  the 
fearful  fire. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

CELLARS— And  old  ledgers. 

Down  in  the  cellars,  as  up  in  the  bed-chambers, 
old  objects  that  he  well  remembered  were 
changed  by  age  and  decay,  but  were  still  in  their 
old  places  ; even  to  empty  beer-casks  hoary  with 
cobwebs,  and  empty  wine  bottles,  with  fur  and 
fungus  choking  up  their  throats.  There,  too, 
among  unused  bottle  racks  and  pale  slants  of 
light  from  the  yard  above,  was  the  strong  room, 
stored  with  old  ledgers  which  had  as  musty  and 
corrupt  a smell  as  if  they  were  regularly  bal- 
anced, in  the  dead  small  hours,  by  a nightly  re- 
surrection of  old  book-keepers. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  5. 

uEREMONY-A  frosty  (Mrs.  General). 

Mrs.  General  at  length  retired.  Her  retire- 
ment for  the  night  was  always  her  frostiest  cere- 
mony ; as  if  she  felt  it  necessary  that  the  human 
imagination  should  be  chilled  into  stone,  to  pre- 
vent its  following  her.  When  she  had  gone 
through  her  rigid  preliminaries,  amounting  to  a 
sort  of  genteel  platoon-exercise,  she  withdrew. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  15. 

CHAIR— Tom  Smart’s  vision. 

“ It  was  a good  large  room  with  big  closets,  and 
a bed  which  might  have  served  for  a whole  board- 
ing-school, to  say  nothing  of  a couple  of  oaken 
presses,  that  would  have  held  the  baggage  of  a 
small  army  ; but  what  struck  Tom’s  fancy  most 
was  a strange,  grim-looking,  high-backed  chair, 
carved  in  the  most  fantastic  manner,  with  a 
flowered  damask  cushion,  and  the  round  knobs 
at  the  bottom  of  the  legs  carefully  tied  up  in  red 
cloth,  as  if  it  had  got  the  gout  in  its  toes.  Of  any 
other  queer  chair,  Tom  would  only  have  thought 
it  was  a queer  chair,  and  there  would  have  been 
an  end  to  the  matter  ; but  there  was  something 
about  this  particular  chair,  and  yet  he  couldn’t 
tell  what  it  was,  so  odd  and  so  unlike  any  other 
piece  of  furniture  he  had  ever  seen,  that  it  seemed 
to  fascinate  him. 

*****  * 

“ In  about  half  an  hour,  Tom  woke  up,  with  a 
start,  from  a confused  dream  of  tall  men  and 
tumblers  of  punch  ; and  the  first  object  that  pre- 
sented itself  to  his  waking  imagination  was  the 
queer  chair. 

“ ‘ I won’t  look  at  it  any  more,’  said  Tom  to 
himself,  and  he  squeezed  his  eyelids  together, 
and  tried  to  persuade  himself  he  was  going  to 
sleep  again.  No  use  ; nothing  but  queer  chairs 
danced  before  his  eyes,  kicking  up  their  legs, 
jumping  over  each  other’s  backs,  and  playing  all 
kinds  of  antics. 

“ * 1 may  as  well  sec  one  real  chair,  as  two  or 
three  complete  sets  of  false  ones,’  said  Tom, 


bringing  out  his  head  from  under  the  bed- 
clothes. There  it  was,  plainly  discernible  by  the 
light  of  the  fire,  looking  as  provoking  as  ever. 

“Tom  gazed  at  the  chair ; and,  suddenly,  as 
he  looked  at  it,  a most  extraordinary  change 
seemed  to  come  over  it.  The  carving  of  the 
back  gradually  assumed  the  lineaments  and  ex- 
pression of  an  old,  shrivelled,  human  face  ; the 
damask  cushion  became  an  antique,  flapped 
waistcoat  ; the  round  knobs  grew  into  a couple 
of  feet,  encased  in  red  cloth  slippers  ; and  the 
old  chair  looked  like  a very  ugly  old  man,  of  the 
previous  century,  with  his  arms  a-kimbo.  Tom 
sat  up  in  bed,  and  rubbed  his  eyes  to  dispel  the 
illusion.  No.  The  chair  was  an  ugly  old  gen- 
tleman ; and  what  was  more,  he  was  winking  at 
Tom  Smart. 

“ Tom  was  naturally  a headlong,  careless  sort 
of  dog,  and  he  had  had  five  tumblers  of  hot 
punch  into  the  bargain  ; so,  although  he  was  a 
little  startled  at  first,  he  began  to  grow  rathei 
indignant  when  he  saw  the  old  gentleman  wink- 
ing and  leering  at  him  with  such  an  impudent 
air.  At  length  he  resolved  that  he  wouldn’t 
stand  it  ; and  as  the  old  face  still  kept  winking 
away  as  fast  as  ever,  Tom  said,  in  a very  angry 
tone  : 

“ ‘ What  the  devil  are  you  winking  at  me  for  ?’ 

“‘Because  I like  it,  Tom  Smart,’  said  the 
chair  ; or  the  old  gentleman,  whichever  you  like 
to  call  him.  He  stopped  winking  though,  when 
Tom  spoke,  and  began  grinning  like  a super- 
annuated monkey. 

“ ‘ How  do  you  know  my  name,  old  nut- 
cracker face  ? ’ inquired  Tom  Smart,  rather  stag- 
gered ; though  he  pretended  to  carry  it  off  so 
well. 

“ ‘ Come,  come,  Tom,’  said  the  old  gentleman, 
‘ that’s  not  the  way  to  address  solid  Spanish  Ma- 
hogany. Dam’me,  you  couldn’t  treat  me  with 
less  respect  if  I was  veneered.’  When  the  old 
gentleman  said  this,  he  looked  so  fierce  that  Tom 
began  to  grow  frightened. 

****** 

“ ‘ I have  been  a great  favorite  among  the  wo- 
men in  my  time,  Tom,’  said  the  profligate  old 
debauchee  ; ‘ hundreds  of  fine  women  have  sat 
in  my  Jap  for  hours  together.  What  do  you 
think  of  that,  you  dog,  eh  ? ’ The  old  gentleman 
was  proceeding  to  recount  some  other  exploits 
of  his  youth,  when  he  was  seized  with  such  a 
violent  lit  of  creaking  that  he  was  unable  to  pro- 
ceed. 

“‘Just  serves  you  right,  old  boy,’  thought 
Tom  Smart  ; but  he  didn’t  say  anything. 

“ ‘ Ah  ! ’ said  the  old  fellow,  ‘ I am  a good 
deal  troubled  with  this  now.  I am  getting  old, 
Tom,  and  have  lost  nearly  all  my  rails.  I have 
had  an  operation  performed,  too — a small  piece 
let  into  my  back — and  I found  it  a severe  trial, 
Tom.’ 

“ ‘ I dare  say  you  did,  sir,’  said  Tom  Smart. 

“ ‘ However,’  said  the  old  gentleman,  ‘ that’s 
not  the  point.  Tom  ! I want  you  to  marry  the 
widow.’ 

“ 1 Me,  sir  ! ’ said  Tom. 

“ ‘ You,’  said  the  old  gentleman. 

“ ‘ Bless  your  reverend  locks,’  said  Tom  — (he 
had  a few  scattered  horsehairs  left) — ‘ bless  your 
reverend  locks,  she  wouldn’t  have  me.’  And 
Tom  sighed  involuntarily  as  he  thought  of  the 
bar. 

****** 


CHARACTERS  AND 


61 


CHARACTERISTICS 


“‘You  may  say  that,  Tom,’  replied  the  old 
fellow,  with  a very  complicated  wink.  ‘ I am 
the  last  of  my  family,  Tom,’  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, with  a melancholy  sigh. 

“ ‘ Was  it  a large  one?  ’ inquired  Tom  Smart. 

“‘There  were  twelve  of  us,  Tom,’ said  the 
old  gentleman  ; 1 fine,  straight-backed,  hand- 
some fellows  as  you’d  wish  to  see.  None  of 
your  modern  abortions — all  with  arms,  and  with 
a degree  of  polish,  though  I say  it  that  should 
not,  which  would  have  done  your  heart  good  to 
behold.’ 

“‘And  what’s  become  of  the  others,  sir?’ 
asked  Tom  Smart. 

“ The  old  gentleman  applied  his  elbow  to  his 
eye  as  he  replied,  ‘ Gone,  Tom,  gone.  We  had 
hard  service,  Tom,  and  they  hadn’t  all  my  con- 
stitution. They  got  rheumatic  about  the  legs 
and  arms,  and  went  into  kitchens  and  other  hos- 
pitals ; and  one  of  ’em,  with  long  service  and 
hard  usage,  positively  lost  his  senses  ; he  got  so 
crazy  that  he  was  obliged  to  be  burnt.  Shock- 
ing thing  that,  Tom.’ 

& ❖ sK  * sK 

“ As  the  old  gentleman  solemnly  uttered  these 
■words,  his  features  grew  less  and  less  distinct, 
and  his  figure  more  shadowy.  A film  came  over 
Tom  Smart’s  eyes.  The  old  man  seemed  gradu- 
ally blending  into  the  chair,  the  damask  waist- 
coat to  resolve  into  a cushion,  the  red  slippe*? 
to  shrink  into  little  red  cloth  bags.  The  light 
faded  gently  away,  and  Tom  Smart  fell  back  on 
his  pillow,  and  dropped  asleep.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  14. 

CHARACTER— Simplicity  of  Capt.  Cuttle. 

Unlike  as  they  were  externally — and  there 
could  scarcely  be  a more  decided  contrast  than 
between  Florence  in  her  delicate  youth  and 
beauty,  and  Captain  Cuttle  with  his  nobby  face, 
his  great,  broad,  weather  beaten  person,  and  his 
gruff  voice — in  simple  innocence  of  the  world’s 
ways  and  the  world’s  perplexities  and  dangers, 
they  were  nearly  on  a level.  No  child  could 
have  surpassed  Captain  Cuttle  in  inexperience 
of  everything  but  wind  and  weather  ; in  sim- 
plicity, credulity,  and  generous  trustfulness. 
Faith,  hope,  and  charity,  shared  his  whole  na- 
ture among  them.  An  odd  sort  of  romance,  per- 
fectly unimaginative,  yet  perfectly  unreal,  and 
subject  to  no  considerations  of  worldly  prudence 
or  practicability,  was  the  only  partner  they  had 
in  his  character.  As  the  Captain  sat,  and  smoked, 
and  looked  at  Florence,  God  knows  what  im- 
possible pictures,  in  which  she  was  the  principal 
figure,  presented  themselves  to  his  mind.  Equally 
vague  and  uncertain,  though  not  so*  sanguine, 
were  her  own  thoughts  of  the  life  before  her  ; 
and  even  as  her  tears  made  prismatic  colors  in  the 
light  she  gazed  at,  so,  through  her  new  and  heavy 
grief,  she  already  saw  a rainbow  faintly  shining 
in  the  far-off  sky.  A wandering  princess  and  a 
good  monster  in  a story-book  might  have  sat  by 
the  fireside,  and  talked  as  Captain  Cuttle  and 
poor  Florence  thought — and  not  have  looked  very 
much  unlike  them. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  49. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  the  exercise  of  that  sur- 
prising talent  for  deep-laid  and  unfathomable 
scheming,  with  which  (as  is  not  unusual  in  men 
of  transparent  simplicity)  he  sincerely  believed 
himself  to  be  endowed  by  nature,  had  gone  to 
Mr.  Dombey’s  house  on  the  eventful  Sunday, 


winking  all  the  way  as  a vent  for  his  superfluous 
sagacity. — Dombey  & Son , Chap.  17. 

CHARACTERS  and  CHARACTERISTICS. 

ALLEN,  BEN — and  Bob  Sawyer. — Mr.  Ben- 
jamin Allen  was  a coarse,  stout,  thick-set  young 
man,  with  black  hair  cut  rather  short,  and  a 
white  face  cut  rather  long.  He  was  embellished 
with  spectacles,  and  wore  a white  neckerchief. 
Below  his  single-breasted  black  surtout,  which 
was  buttoned  up  to  his  chin,  appeared  the  usual 
number  of  pepper-and-salt  colored  legs,  termi- 
nating in  a pair  of  imperfectly  polished  boots. 
Although  his  coat  was  short  in  the  sleeves,  it 
disclosed  no  vestige  of  a linen  wristband  ; and 
although  there  was  quite  enough  of  his  face  to 
admit  of  the  encroachment  of  a shirt  collar,  it 
was  not  graced  by  the  smallest  approach  to  that 
appendage.  He  presented,  altogether,  rather  a 
mildewy  appearance,  and  emitted  a fragrant  odor 
of  full-flavored  Cubas. 

Mr.  Bob  Sawyer,  who  was  habited  in  a coarse 
blue  coat,  which,  without  being  either  a great- 
coat or  a surtout,  partook  of  the  nature  and 
qualities  of  both,  had  about  him  that  sort  of 
slovenly  smartness,  and  swaggering  gait,  which 
is  peculiar  to  young  gentlemen  who  smoke  in 
the  streets  by  day,  shout  and  scream  in  the  same 
by  night,  call  waiters  by  their  Christian  names, 
and  do  various  other  acts  and  deeds  of  an 
equally  facetious  description.  He  wore  a pair 
of  plaid  trousers,  and  a large,  rough,  double- 
breasted  waistcoat  ; out  of  doors,  he  carried  a 
thick  stick  with  a big  top.  He  eschewed  gloves, 
and  looked,  upon  the  whole,  something  like  a 
dissipated  Robinson  Crusoe. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  30. 

• BAGNET,  Mr. — Mr.  Bagnet  is  an  ex-artil- 
leryman, tall  and  upright,  with  shaggy  eyebrows, 
and  whiskers  like  the  fibres  of  a cocoanut,  not  a 
hair  upon  his  head,  and  a torrid  complexion. 
His  voice,  short,  deep,  and  resonant,  is  not  at  all 
unlike  the  tones  of  the  instrument  to  which  he 
is  devoted.  Indeed,  there  may  be  generally  ob- 
served in  him  an  unbending,  unyielding,  brass 
bound  air,  as  if  he  were  himself  the  bassoon  of 
the  human  orchestra. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  27. 

BANTAM,  ANGELO  CYRUS.-  A charming 
young  man  of  not  much  more  than  fifty,  dressed 
in  a very  bright  blue  coat  with  resplendent  but- 
tons, black  trousers,  and  the  thinnest  possible 
pair  of  highly-polished  boots.  A gold  eye-glass 
was  suspended  from  his  neck  by  a short,  broad, 
black  ribbon  ; a gold  snuff-box  was  lightly 
clasped  in  his  left  hand  ; gold  rings  innumerable 
glittered  on  his  fingers  ; and  a large  diamond 
pin  set  in  gold  glistened  in  his  shirt-frill.  He 
had  a gold  watch,  and  a gold  curb-chain  with 
large  gold  seals  ; and  he  carried  a pliant  ebony 
cane  with  a heavy  gold  top.  His  linen  was  of 
the  very  whitest,  finest,  and  stiffest ; his  wig  of 
the  glossiest,  blackest,  and  curliest.  His  snuff 
was  princes’  mixture  ; his  scent  bouquet  du  roi. 
H is  features  were  contracted  into  a perpetual 
smile  : and  his  teeth  were  in  such  perfect  order 
that  it  was  difficult  at  a small  distance  to  tell  the 
real  from  the  false. 

“ Mr.  Pickwick,”  said  Mr.  Dowler ; “ my 
friend,  Angelo  Cyrus  Bantam,  Esquire,  M.  C., 
Bantam,  Mr.  Pickwick.  Know  each  other.” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  35. 


CHARACTERS  AND 


62 


CHARACTERISTICS 


BITZER. — Sissy,  being  at  the  corner  of  a row 
on  the  sunny  side,  came  in  for  the  beginning  of 
a sunbeam,  of  which  Bitzer,  being  at  the  corner 
of  a row  on  the  other  side,  a few  rows  in  ad- 
vance, caught  the  end.  But,  whereas  the  girl 
was  so  dark-eyed  and  dark-haired,  that  she 
seemed  to  receive  a deeper  and  more  lustrous 
color  from  the  sun,  when  it  shone  upon  her,  the 
boy  was  so  light-eyed  and  light-haired,  that  the 
selfsame  rays  appeared  to  draw  out  of  him  what 
little  color  he  ever  possessed.  His  cold  eyes 
would  hardly  have  been  eyes,  but  for  the  short 
ends  of  lashes  which,  by  bringing  them  into  im- 
mediate contrast  with  something  paler  than 
themselves,  expressed  their  form.  His  short- 
cropped  hair  might  have  been  a mere  continu- 
ation of  the  sandy  freckles  on  his  forehead  and 
face.  His  skin  was  so  unwholesomely  deficient 
in  the  natural  tinge,  that  he  looked  as  though,  if 
he  were  cut,  he  would  bleed  white. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

BLIMBER , Doctor. — The  Doctor  was  a port- 
ly gentleman  in  a suit  of  black,  with  strings  at  his 
knees,  and  stockings  below  them.  He  had  a 
bald  head,  highly  polished  ; a deep  voice  ; and 
a chin  so  very  double,  that  it  was  a wonder  how 
he  ever  managed  to  shave  into  the  creases.  He 
had  likewise  a pair  of  little  eyes  that  were  al- 
ways half  shut  up,  and  a mouth  that  was  al- 
ways half  expanded  into  a grin,  as  if  he  had, 
that  moment,  posed  a boy,  and  were  waiting  to 
.convict  him  from  his  own  lips.  Insomuch,  that 
when  the  Doctor  put  his  right  hand  into  the 
breast  of  his  coat,  and  with  his  other  hand  be- 
hind him,  and  a scarcely  perceptible  wag  of 
his  head,  made  the  commonest  observation  to  a 
nervous  stranger,  it  was  like  a sentiment  from 
the  sphinx,  and  settled  his  business. 

Dojnbey  & Con,  Chap.  ir. 

BOYTHORN. — “ You  know  my  old  opinion 
of  him,”  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  lightly  appealing 
to  us.  “ An  amiable  bull,  who  is  determined  to 
make  every  color  scarlet  ! ” 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  43. 

BOUJVDERB  Y,  Mr.— A bully  of  humility.— 
Mr.  Bounderby  was  as  near  being  Mr.  Grad- 
grind’s  bosom  friend,  as  a man  perfectly  devoid 
of  sentiment  can  approach  that  spiritual  rela- 
tionship towards  another  man  perfectly  devoid 
of  sentiment.  So  near  was  Mr.  Bounderby — or 
if  the  reader  should  prefer  it,  so  far  off. 

He  was  a rich  man  : banker,  merchant,  manu- 
facturer, and  what  not.  A big,  loud  man,  with  a 
stare,  and  a metallic  laugh.  A man  made  out 
of  a coarse  material,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
stretched  to  make  so  much  of  him.  A man 
with  a great  puffed  head  and  forehead,  swelled 
veins  in  li is  temples,  and  such  a strained  skin  to 
his  face  that  it  seemed  to  hold  his  eyes  open,  and 
lift  his  eyebrows  up.  A man  with  a pervading 
appearance  on  him  of  being  inflated  like  a bal- 
loon, and  ready  to  start.  A man  who  could 
never  sufficiently  vaunt  himself  a self-made 
man.  A man  who  was  always  proclaiming, 
through  that  brassy  speaking-trumpet  of  a voice 
of  h is,  his  old  ignorance  ami  his  old  poverty.  A 
man  who  was  the  Bully  of  humility. 

A year  or  two  younger  than  his  eminently 
practical  friend,  Mr.  Bounderby  looked  older; 
his  seven  or  eight  and  forty  might  have  had  the 


seven  or  eight  added  to  it  again,  without  sur- 
prising anybody.  He  had  not  much  hair.  One 
might  have  fancied  he  had  talked  it  off;  and 
that  what  was  left,  all  standing  up  in  disorder, 
was  in  that  condition  from  being  constantly 
blown  about  by  his  windy  boastfulness. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  4. 

BRASS,  SAMP  SOM  (the  Lawyer).—' The  le- 
gal gentleman,  whose  melodious  name  was  Brass, 
might  have  called  it  comfort  also  but  for  two 
drawbacks  ; one  was,  that  he  could  by  no  exer- 
tion sit  easy  in  his  chair,  the  seat  of  which  was 
very  hard,  angular,  slippery,  and  sloping  ; the 
other,  that  tobacco-smoke  always  caused  him 
great  internal  discomposure  and  annoyance.  But 
as  he  was  quite  a creature  of  Mr.  Quilp’s,  and 
had  a thousand  reasons  for  conciliating  his  good 
opinion,  he  tried  to  smile,  and  nodded  his  ac- 
quiescence with  the  best  grace  he  could  assume. 

This  Brass  was  an  attorney  of  no  very  good 
repute,  from  Bevis  Marks  in  the  city  of  London  ; 
he  was  a tall,  meagre  man,  with  a nose  like  a 
wen,  a protruding  forehead,  retreating  eyes,  and 
hair  of  a deep  red.  He  wore  a long  black  sur- 
tout  reaching  nearly  to  his  ankles,  short  black 
trousers,  high  shoes,  and  cotton  stockings  of  a 
bluish  gray.  He  had  a cringing  manner,  but  a 
very  harsh  voice  ; and  his  blandest  smiles  were 
so  extremely  forbidding  that  to  have  had  his 
company  under  the  least  repulsive  circumstan- 
ces, one  would  have  wished  him  to  be  out  of 
temper  that  he  might  only  scowl. 

Old  Cuiiosity  Shop,  Chap.  11. 

V BUN SB  Y.  — Immediately  there  appeared, 
coming  slowly  up  above  the  bulk-head  of  the 
cabin,  another  bulk-head — human,  and  very 
large — with  one  stationary  eye  in  the  mahogany 
face,  and  one  revolving  one,  on  the  principle  of 
some  light-houses.  This  head  was  decorated 
with  shaggy  hair,  like  oakum,  which  had  no  gov- 
erning inclination  towards  the  north,  east,  west, 
or  south,  but  inclined  to  all  four  quarters  of  the 
compass,  and  to  every  point  upon  it.  The  head 
was  followed  by  a perfect  desert  of  chin,  and  by 
a shirt-collar  and  neckerchief,  and  by  a dread- 
nought pilot-coat,  and  by  a pair  of  dreadnought 
pilot-trousers,  whereof  the  waistband  was  so  very 
broad  and  high,  that  it  became  a succedaneum 
for  a waistcoat ; being  ornamented  near  the 
wearer’s  breast-bone  with  some  massive  wooden 
buttons,  like  backgammon  men.  As  the  lower 
portions  of  these  pantaloons  became  revealed, 
Bunsby  stood  confessed  ; his  hands  in  their 
pockets,  which  were  of  vast  size  ; and  his  gaze 
directed,  not  to  Captain  Cuttle  or  the  ladies,  but 
the  masthead. 

The  profound  appearance  of  this  philosopher, 
who  was  bulky  and  strong,  and  on  whose  ex- 
tremely red  face  an  expression  of  taciturnity  sat 
enthroned,  not  inconsistent  with  his  character,  in 
which  that  quality  was  proudly  conspicuous,  al- 
most daunted  Captain  Cuttle,  though  on  familiar 
terms  with  him.  'Whispering  to  Florence  that 
Bunsby  had  never  in  his  life  expressed  surprise, 
and  was  considered  not  to  know  what  it  meflit, 
the  Captain  watched  him  as  he  eyed  his  mast- 
head, and  afterwards  swept  the  horizon  ; and 
when  the  re'volving  eye  seemed  to  be  coming 
round  in  his  direction,  said  : 

“ Bunsby,  my  lad,  how  fares  it  ? ” 

A deep,  gruff,  husky  utterance,  which  seemed 


CHARACTERS  AND 


63 


CHARACTERISTICS 


to  have  no  connection  with  Bunsby,  and  certain- 
ly had  not  the  least  effect  upon  his  face,  replied, 
“ Aye,  aye,  shipmet,  how  goes  it  ? ” At  the  same 
time  Bunsby’s  right  hand  and  arm,  emerging 
from  a pocket,  shook  the  Captain’s,  and  went 
back  again. 

“ Bunsby,”  said  the  Captain,  striking  home  at 
once,  “ here  you  are  ; a man  of  mind,  and  a man 
as  can  give  an  opinion.  Here’s  a young  lady  as 
wants  to  take  that  opinion,  in  regard  to  my 
friend  Wal’r  ; likewise  my  t’other  friend,  Sol 
Gills,  which  is  a character  for  you  to  come  with- 
in hail  of,  being  a man  of  science,  which  is  the 
mother  of  inwention,  and  knows  no  law.  Buns- 
by, will  you  wear,  to  oblige  me,  and  come  along 
with  us  ? ” 

The  great  commander,  who  seemed  by  the  ex- 
pression of  his  visage  to  be  always  on  the  look- 
out for  something  in  the  extremest  distance,  and 
to  have  no  ocular  knowledge  of  anything  within 
ten  miles,  made  no  reply  whatever. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  23. 

CALTON , Mr.,  a superannuated  beau. — Mr. 
Calton  was  a superannuated  beau — an  old  boy. 
He  used  to  say  of  himself  that  although  his  fea- 
tures were  not  regularly  handsome,  they  were 
striking.  They  certainly  were.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  look  at  his  face  without  being  reminded 
of  a chubby  street-door  knocker,  half-lion,  half- 
monkey ; and  the  -comparison  might  be  extended 
to  his  whole  character  and  conversation.  He 
had  stood  still,  while  everything  else  had  been 
moving.  He  never  originated  a conversation, 
or  started  an  idea  ; but  if  any  commonplace 
topic  were  broached,  or,  to  pursue  the  compari- 
son, if  anybody  lifted  him  rip,  he  would  hammer 
away  with  surprising  rapidity.  He  had  the  tic- 
doloreux  occasionally,  and  then  he  might  be  said 
to  be  muffled,  because  he  did  not  make  quite  as 
much  noise  as  at  other  times,  when  he  would  go 
on  prosing,  rat-tat-tat,  the  same  thing  over  and 
over  again. 

Tales. — The  Boarding-House,  Chap.  1. 

CARKER,  SENIOR. — Mr.  Carker  was  a gen- 
tleman thirty-eight  or  forty  years  old,  of  a florid 
complexion,  and  with  two  unbroken  rows  of  glis- 
tening teeth,  whose  regularity  and  whiteness 
were  quite  distressing.  It  was  impossible  to  es- 
cape the  observation  of  them,  for  he  showed 
them  whenever  he  spoke  ; and  bore  so  wide  a 
smile  upon  his  countenance  (a  smile,  however, 
very  rarely,  indeed,  extending  beyond  his  mouth), 
that  there  was  something  in  it  like  the  snarl  of  a 
cat.  He  affected  a stiff  white  cravat,  after  the 
example  of  his  principal,  and  was  alwa) 
buttoned  up  and  tightly  dressed. 

* * * * tr-  * 

The  stiffness  and  nicety  of  Mr.  Carker’s  dress, 
and  a certain  arrogance  of  manner,  either  natural 
to  him  or  imitated  from  a pattern  not  far  off, 
gave  great  additional  effect  to  his  humility.  He 
seemed  a man  who  would  contend  against  the 
power  that  vanquished  him,  if  he  could,  but  who 
was  utterly  borne  down  by  the  greatness  and  su- 
periority of  Mr  Dombey. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  76. 

Hs  Hs  Hi  * * * 

Although  it  is  not  among  the  instincts,  wild  or 
domestic,  of  the  cat  tribe,  to  play  at  cards,  feline 
from  sole  to  crown  was  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager, 
as  he  basked  in  the  strip  of  summer  light1  and 


warmth  that  shone  upon  his  table  and  the 
ground  as  if  they  were  a crooked  dial-plate,  and 
himself  the  only  figure  on  it.  With  hair  and 
whiskers  deficient  in  color  at  all  times,  but  fee- 
bler than  common  in  the  rich  sunshine,  and 
more  like  the  coat  of  a sandy  tortoise-shell  cat  ; 
with  long  nails,  nicely  pared  and  sharpened  ; 
with  a natural  antipathy  to  any  speck  of  dirt, 
which  made  him  pause  sometimes  and  watch  the 
falling  motes  of  dust,  and  rub  them  off  his  smooth 
white  hand  or  glossy  linen ; Mr.  Carker  the 
Manager,  sly  of  manner,  sharp  of  tooth,  soft  of 
foot,  watchful  of  eye,  oily  of  tongue,  cruel  of 
heart,  nice  of  habit,  sat  with  a dainty  steadfast- 
ness and  patience  at  his  work,  as  if  he  were 
waiting  at  a mouse’s  hole. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  22. 

The  Captain  said  “ Good  day  ! ” and  walked 
out  and  shut  the  door  ; leaving  Mr.  Carker  still 
reclining  against  the  chimney-piece.  In  whose 
sly  look  and  watchful  manner  ; in  whose  false 
mouth,  stretched  but  not  laughing  ; in  whose 
spotless  cravat  and  very  whiskers  ; even  in  whose 
silent  passing  of  his  soft  hand  over  his  white 
linen  and  his  smooth  face,  there  was  something 
desperately  cat-like. 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  17. 

CHEER  YBLE  BRO  TITERS  -The.— He 
was  a sturdy  old  fellow  in  a broad-skirted  blue 
coat,  made  pretty  large,  to  fit  easily,  and  with  no 
particular  waist  ; his  bulky  legs  clothed  in  drab 
breeches  and  high  gaiters,  and  his  head  protected 
by  a low-crowned  broad-brimmed  white  hat,  such 
as  a wealthy  grazier  might  wear.  He  wore  his 
coat  buttoned  ; and  his  dimpled  double-chin 
rested  in  the  folds  of  a white  neckerchief — not 
one  of  your  stiff-starched  apoplectic  cravats,  but 
a good,  easy,  old-fashioned  white  neck-cloth  that 
a man  might  go  to  bed  in  and  be  none  the  worse 
for.  But  what  principally  attracted  the  attention 
of  Nicholas,  was  the  old  gentleman’s  eye — never 
was  such  a clear,  twinkling,  honest,  merry,  happy 
eye,  as  that.  And  there  he  stood,  looking  a lit- 
tle upward,  with  one  hand  thrust  into  the  breast 
of  his  coat,  and  the  other  playing  with  his  old- 
fashioned  gold  watch-chain  ; his  head  thrown  a 
little  on  one  side,  and  his  hat  a little  more  on 
one  side  than  his  head  (but  that  was  evidently 
accident  ; not  his  ordinary  way  of  wearing  it), 
with  such  a pleasant  smile  playing  about  his 
mouth,  and  such  a comical  expression  of  mingled 
slyness,  simplicity,  kind-heartedness,  and  good- 
humor,  lighting  up  his  jolly  old  face,  that  Nicho- 
las would  have  been  content  to  have  stood  there, 
and  looked  at  him  until  evening,  and  to  have  for- 
gotten, meanwhile,  that  there  was  such  a thing 
as  a soured  mind  or  a crabbed  countenance  to 
be  met  with  in  the  whole  wide  world. 

^ & * * * 

Still,  the  old  gentleman  stood  there,  glancing 
from  placard  to  placard,  and  Nicholas  could  not 
forbear  raising  his  eyes  to  his  face  again.  Grafted 
upon  the  quaintness  and  oddity  of  his  appear- 
ance, was  something  so  indescribably  engaging, 
and  bespeaking  so  much  worth,  and  there  were 
so  many  little  lights  hovering  about  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  and  eyes,  that  it  was  not  a mere 
amusement,  but  a positive  pleasure  and  delight 
to  look  at  him. 

* # ■ * * * * 

Both  the  brothers,  it  may  be  here  remarked 


characters  and 


04 


CHARACTERISTICS 


had  a very  emphatic  and  earnest  delivery  ; both  | 
had  lost  nearly  the  same  teeth,  which  imparted 
the  same  peculiarity  to  their  speech  ; and  both 
spoke  as  it,  besides  possessing  the  utmost  seren- 
ity of  mind  that  the  kindliest  and  most  unsus- 
pecting nature  could  bestow,  they  had,  in  col- 
lecting the  plums  from  Fortune’s  choicest  pud- 
ding, retained  a few  for  present  use,  and  kept 
them  in  their  mouths. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  35. 

CIIIVERY,  JOHN. — Young  John  issued 
forth  on  his  usual  Sunday  errand  ; not  empty- 
handed,  but  with  his  offering  of  cigars.  He 
was  neatly  attired  in  a plum-colored  coat,  with 
as  large  a collar  of  black  velvet  as  his  fig- 
ure could  carry  ; a silken  waistcoat,  bedecked 
with  golden  sprigs  ; a chaste  neckerchief  much 
in  vogue  at  that  day,  representing  a preserve  of 
lilac  pheasants  on  a buff  ground  ; pantaloons  so 
highly  decorated  with  side  stripes,  that  each  leg 
was  a three-stringed  lute  ; and  a hat  of  state, 
very  high  and  hard.  When  the  prudent  Mrs. 
Chivery  perceived  that  in  addition  to  these 
adornments  her  John  carried  a pair  of  white  kid 
gloves,  and  a cane  like  a little  finger-post,  sur- 
mounted by  an  ivory  hand  marshalling  him  the 
way  that  he  should  go  ; and  when  she  saw  him, 
in  his  heavy  marching  order,  turning  the  corner 
to  the  right,  she  remarked  to  Mr.  Chivery,  who 
was  at  home  at  the  time,  that  she  thought  she 
knew  which  way  the  wind  blew. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  18. 

CILOLLOP , Mr. — An  American. — Mr.  Chol- 
lop  was,  of  course,  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  in  the  country  : but  he  really  was  a notorious 
person  besides.  He  was  usually  described  by 
his  friends,  in  the  South  and  West,  as  “ a splendid 
sample  of  our  na-tive  raw  material,  sir,”  and 
was  much  esteemed  for  his  devotion  to  rational 
Liberty  ; for  the  better  propagation  whereof  he 
usually  carried  a brace  of  revolving  pistols  in  his 
coat  pocket,  with  seven  barrels  a piece.  He  also 
carried,  amongst  other  trinkets,  a sword-stick, 
which  he  called  his  “ Tickler and  a great 
knife,  which  (for  he  was  a man  of  a pleasant 
turn  of  humor)  he  called  “ Ripper,”  in  allusion 
to  its  usefulness  as  a means  of  ventilating  the 
stomach  of  any  adversary  in  a close  contest.  He 
had  used  these  weapons  with  distinguished  effect 
in  several  instances,  all  duly  chronicled  in  the 
newspapers;  and  was  greatly  beloved  for  the 
gallant  manner  in  which  he  had  “jobbed  out” 
the  eye  of  one  gentleman,  as  he  was  in  the  act 
of  knocking  at  his  own  street  door. 

Mr.  Chollop  was  a man  of  a roving  disposition  ; 
and  in  any  less  advanced  community,  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  a violent  vagabond.  But 
his  fine  qualities  being  perfectly  understood  and 
appreciated  in  those  regions  where  his  lot  was 
cast,  and  where  he  had  many  kindred  spirits  to 
consort  with,  he  may  be  regarded  as  having 
been  born  under  a fortunate  star,  which  is  not 
always  the  case  with  a man  so  much  before  the 
age  in  which  lie  lives.  Preferring,  with  a view 
to  the  gratification  of  his  tickling  and  ripping 
fancies,  to  dwell  upon  the  outskirts  of  society, 
and  in  the  more  remote  towns  and  cities,  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  emigrating  from  place  to  place, 
and  establishing  in  each  some  business — usually 
a newspaper — which  he  presently  sol  cl  : for  the 
most  part  closing  the  bargain  by  challenging, 


stabbing,  pistolling,  or  gouging,  the  new  editor, 
before  he  had  quite  taken  possession  of  the  prop- 
erty. 

He  had  come  to  Eden  on  a speculation  of  this 
kind,  but  had  abandoned  it,  and  was  about  to 
leave.  He  always  introduced  himself  to  strangers 
as  a worshipper  of  Freedom  ; was  the  consistent 
advocate  of  Lynch  law,  and  slavery  ; and  inva- 
riably recommended,  both  in  print  and  speech, 
the  “ tarring  and  feathering  ” of  any  unpopular 
person  who  differed  from  himself.  He  called 
this  “planting  the  standard  of  civilization  in  the 
wilder  gardens  of  My  country.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  33. 

“ CIIUFFE  F,”  the  Old  Clerk.—1'  I've  lost  my 
glasses,  Jonas,”  said  old  Anthony. 

“Sit  down  without  your  glasses,  can’t  you?" 
returned  his  son.  “You  don’t  eat  or  drink  out 
of  ’em,  I think  ; and  where’s  that  sleepy-headed 
old  Chuffey  got  to ! Now,  stupid.  Oh ! you 
know  your  name,  do  you  ? ” 

It  would  seem  that  he  didn’t,  for  he  didn’t 
come  until  the  father  called.  As  he  spoke,  the 
door  of  a small  glass  office,  which  was  par  i- 
tioned  off  from  the  rest  of  the  room,  was  slowly 
opened,  and  a little  blear-eyed,  weazen-faced, 
ancient  man  came  creeping  out.  He  was  of  a 
remote  fashion,  and  dusty,  like  the  rest  of  the 
furniture  ; he  was  dressed  in  a decayed  suit  of 
black  ; with  breeches  garnished  at  the  knees 
with  rusty  wisps  of  ribbon,  the  very  paupers  of 
shoe-strings  ; on  the  lower  portion  of  his  spindle 
legs  were  dingy  worsted  stockings  of  the  same 
color.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  put  away 
and  forgotten  half  a century  before,  and  some- 
body had  just  found  him  in  a lumber  closet. 

Such  as  he  was,  he  came  slowly  creeping  on 
towards  the  table,  until  at  last  he  crept  into  the 
vacant  chair,  from  which,  as  his  dim  faculties  be-  | 
came  conscious  of  the  presence  of  strangers,  and 
those  strangers  ladies,  he  rose  again,  apparently 
intending  to  make  a bow.  But  he  sat  down  once 
more,  without  having  made  it,  and  breathing  on 
his  shrivelled  hands  to  warm  them,  remained 
with  his  poor  blue  nose  immovable  about  his 
plate,  looking  at  nothing,  with  eyes  that  saw 
nothing,  and  a face  that  meant  nothing.  Take 
him  in  that  state,  and  he  was  an  embodiment  of 
nothing.  Nothing  else. 

RIartin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  II. 

CPE  A KLE,  Mr. — Mr.  Creakle’s  face  was 
fiery,  and  his  eyes  were  small,  and  deep  in  his 
head  ; he  had  thick  veins  in  his  forehead,  a little 
nose,  and  a large  chin.  He  was  bald  on  the  top 
of  his  head  ; and  had  some  thin  wet-looking 
hair  that  was  just  turning  gray,  brushed  across 
each  temple,  so  that  the  two  sides  interlaced  on 
his  forehead.  But  the  circumstance  about  him 
which  impressed  me  most,  was  that  he  had  no 
voice,  but  spoke  in  a whisper.  The  exertion 
this  cost  him,  or  the  consciousness  of  talking  in 
that  feeble  way,  made  his  angry  face  so  much 
more  angry,  and  his  thick  veins  so  much  thicker, 
when  he  spoke,  that  I am  not  surprised,  on  look- 
ing back,  at  this  peculiarity  striking  me  as  his 
chief  one. — David  Copperjield , Chap.  6. 

CURIOUS  MAN — A. — Thc-e  was  a man  on 
board  this  boat,  with  a light,  fresh-colored  face, 
and  a pepper-and-salt  suit  of  clothes,  who  was 
the  most  inquisitive  fellow  that  can  possibly  be 


CHARACTEBS  AND 


65 


CHARACTERISTICS 


imagined.  He  never  spoke  otherwise  than  in- 
terrogatively. He  was  an  embodied  inquiry. 
Sitting  down  or  standing  up,  still  or  moving, 
walking  the  deck  or  taking  his  meals,  there  he 
was,  with  a great  note  of  interrogation  in  each 
eye,  two  in  his  cocked  ears,  two  more  in  his 
turned-up  nose  and  chin,  at  least  half  a dozen 
more  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  the 
largest  one  of  all  in  his  hair,  which  was  brushed 
pertly  off  his  forehead  in  a flaxen  clump.  Every 
button  in  his  clothes  said,  “Eh?  What’s  that? 
Did  you  speak  ? Say  that  again,  will  you  ?”  He 
was  always  wide  awake,  like  the  enchanted  bride 
who  drove  her  husband  frantic  ; always  restless, 
always  thirsting  for  answers,  perpetually  seeking 
and  never  finding.  There  never  was  such  a 
curious  man. — American  Notes , Chap.  io. 

CUTTLE , CAPTAIN.— But  an  addition  to 
the  little  party  now  made  its  appearance,  in  the 
shape  of  a gentleman  in  a wide  suit  of  blue,  with 
a hook  instead  of  a hand  attached  to  his  right 
wrist  ; very  bushy  black  eyebrows  ; and  a thick 
stick  in  his  left  hand  covered  all  over  (like  his 
nose)  with  knobs.  He  wore  a loose  black  silk 
handkerchief  round  his  neck,  and  such  a very 
large,  coarse  shirt-collar,  that  it  looked  like  a 
small  sail.  He  was  evidently  the  person  for 
whom  the  spare  wdne-glass  was  intended,  and 
evidently  knew  it  ; for  having  taken  off  his  rough 
outer  coat,  and  hung  up,  on  a particular  peg  be- 
hind the  door,  such  a hard  glazed  hat  as  a sym- 
pathetic person’s  head  might  ache  at  the  sight 
of,  and  which  left  a red  rim  round  his  own  fore- 
head as  if  he  had  been  wearing  a tight  basin,  he 
brought  a chair  to  where  the  clean  glass  was, 
and  sat  himself  down  behind  it.  He  was  usu- 
ally addressed  as  Captain,  this  visitor ; and  had 
been  a pilot,  or  a skipper,  or  a privateer’s-man, 
or  all  three,  perhaps  ; and  was  a very  salt-looking 
man  indeed. 

His  face,  remarkable  for  a brown  solidity, 
brightened  as  he  shook  hands  with  uncle  and 
nephew ; but  he  seemed  to  be  of  a laconic  dis- 
position, and  merely  said : 

“ How  goes  it  ?” 

“ All  well,”  said  Mr.  Gills,  pushing  the  bottle 
towards  him. 

He  took  it  up,  and  having, surveyed  and  smelt 
it,  said  with  extraordinary  expression  : 

“ The?" 

“ The ,”  returned  the  instrument  maker. 

Upon  that  he  whistled  as  he  filled  his  glass, 
and  seemed  to  think  they  were  making  holiday 

indeed. 

“Wal’r!”he  said,  arranging  his  hair  (which 
was  thin)  with  his  hook,  and  then  pointing  it  at 
the  instrument-maker,  “ Look  at  him  ! Love  ! 
Honor  ! And  Obey  ! Overhaul  your  catechism 
till  you  find  that  passage,  arid  when  found  turn 
the  leaf  down.  Success,  my  boy  ! ” 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  4. 

DENNIS,  The  Executioner. — The  man  who 
now  confronted  Gashford  was  a squat,  thick-set 
personage,  with  a low,  retreating  forehead,  a 
coarse  shock  head  of  hair,  and  eyes  so  small  and 
near  together,  that  his  broken  nose  alone  seemed 
to  prevent  their  meeting  and  fusing  into  one  of 
the  usual  size.  A dingy  handkerchief,  twisted 
like  a cord  about  his  neck,  left  its  great  veins 
exposed  to  view,  and  they  were  swollen  and 
starting,  as  though  with  gulping  down  strong 


passions,  malice,  and  ill-will.  His  dress  was  of 
threadbare  velveteen1 — a faded,  rusty,  whitened 
black,  like  the  ashes  of  a pipe  or  a coal-fire  after 
a day’s  extinction  ; discolored  with  the  soils  of 
many  a stale  debauch,  and  reeking  yet  with  pot- 
house odors.  In  lieu  of  buckles  at  his  knees,  he 
wore  unequal  loops  of  packthread  : and  in  his 
grimy  hands  he  held  a knotted  stick,  the  knob  of 
which  was  carved  into  a rough  likeness  of  his 
own  vile  face.  Such  was  the  visitor  who  doffed 
his  three-cornered  hat  in  Gashford’s  presence, 
and  waited,  leering,  for  his  notice. 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  37. 

DISMAL  JEMMY. — It  was  a care-worn 
looking  man,  whose  sallow  face,  and  deeply- 
sunken  eyes,  were  rendered  still  more  striking 
than  nature  had  made  them,  by  the  straight 
black  hair  which  hung  in  matted  disorder  half- 
way down  his  face.  His  eyes  were  almost  unnat- 
urally bright  and  piercing  ; his  cheek-bones  were 
high  and  prominent  ; and  his  jaws  were  so  long 
and  lank,  that  an  observer  would  have  supposed 
that  he  was  drawing  the  flesh  of  his  face  in,  for 
' a moment,  by  some  contraction  of  the  muscles, 
if  his  half-opened  mouth  and  immovable  ex- 
pression had  not  announced  that  it  was  his  or- 
dinary appearance.  Round  his  neck  he  wore  a 
green  shawl,  with  the  large  ends  straggling  over 
his  chest,  and  rnnkir  g their  appearance  occasion- 
ally beneath  the  worn  button-holes  of  his  old 
waistcoat.  His  upper  garment  was  a long  black 
surtout  ; and  below  it  he  wore  wide  drab  trou- 
sers, and  large  boots,  running  rapidly  to  seed. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  3. 

DINGWALL,  CORNELIUS  BROOK— 
an  official. — Cornelius  Brook  Dingwall,  Esq., 
M.P.,  was  very  haughty,  solemn,  and  portentous. 
He  had,  naturally,  a somewhat  spasmodic  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  which  was  not  rendered 
the  less  remarkable  by  his  wearing  an  extremely 
stiff  cravat.  He  was  wonderfully  proud  of  the 
M.P.  attached  to  his  name,  and  never  lost  an 
opportunity  of  reminding  people  of  his  dignity. 
He  had  a great  idea  of  his  own  abilities,  which 
must  have  been  a great  comfort  to  him,  as  no 
one  else  had;  and  in  diplomacy,  on  a small 
scale,  in  his  own  family  arrangements,  he  con- 
sidered himself  unrivalled.  He  was  a county 
magistrate,  and  discharged  the  duties  of  his 
station  with  all  due  justice  and  impartiality  ; 
frequently  committing  poachers,  and  occasion- 
ally committing  himself.  Miss  Brook  Dingwall 
was  one  of  that  numerous  class  of  young  ladies, 
who,  like  adverbs,  may  be  known  by  their  an- 
swering to  a commonplace  question,  and  doing 
nothing  else. — Tales,  Chap.  3. 

LITTLE  DORRIT’S  UNCLE.— lie  stoop- 
ed a good  deal,  and  plodded  along  in  a slow, 
preoccupied  manner,  which  made  the  bustling 
London  thoroughfares  no  very  safe  resort  for 
him.  He  was  dirtily  and  meanly  dressed,  in  a 
threadbare  coat,  once  blue,  reaching  to  his  an- 
kles and  buttoned  to  his  chin,  where  it  vanished 
in  a pale  ghost  of  a velvet  collar.  A piece  of 
red  cloth  with  which  that  phantom  had  been 
stiffened  in  its  lifetime  was  now  laid  bare,  and 
poked  itself  up,  at  the  back  of  the  old  man’s 
neck,  into  a confusion  of  gray  hair  and  rusty 
stock  and  buckle  which  altogether  nearly  poked 
his  hat  off.  A greasy  hat  it  was,  and  a napless : 


CHARACTERS  AND 


66 


CHARACTERISTICS 


impending  over  his  eyes,  cracked  and  crumpled 
at  the  brim,  and  with  a wisp  of  pocket  handker- 
chief dangling  out  below  it.  His  trousers  were 
so  long  and  loose,  and  his  shoes  so  clumsy  and 
large,  that  he  shuffled  like  an  elephant : though 
how  much  of  this  was  gait,  and  how  much  trail 
ing  cloth  and  leather,  no  one  could  have  told. 
Under  one  arm  he  carried  a limp  and  worn-out 
case,  containing  some  wind-instrument ; in  the 
same  hand  he  had  a pennyworth  of  snuff  in  a 
little  packet  of  whitey-brown  paper,  from  which 
he  slowly  comforted  his  poor  old  blue  nose  with  a 
lengthened-out  pinch,  as  Arthur  Clennam  looked 
at  him. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  8. 

There  was  a ruined  uncle  in  the  family  group 
— ruined  by  his  brother,  the  Father  of  the 
Marshalsea,  and  knowing  no  more  how  than 
his  miner  did,  but  accepting  the  fact  as  an 
inevitable  certainty — on  whom  her  protection 
devolved.  Naturally  a retired  and  simple  man, 
he  had  shown  no  particular  sense  of  being  ruined, 
at  the  time  when  that  calamity  fell  upon  him, 
further  than  that  he  left  off  washing  himself  when 
the  shock  was  announced,  and  never  took  to  that 
luxury  any  more.  He  had  been  a very  indiffer- 
ent musical  amateur  in  his  better  days  ; and 
when  he  fell  with  his  brother,  resorted  for  sup- 
port to  playing  a clarionet  as  dirty  as  himself  in 
a small  Theatre  Orchestra.  It  was  the  theatre 
in  which  his  niece  became  a dancer  ; he  had  been 
a fixture  there  a long  time  when  she  took  her 
poor  station  in  it ; and  he  accepted  the  task  of 
serving  as  her  escort  and  guardian,  just  as  he 
would  have  accepted  an  illness,  a legacy,  a feast, 
starvation — anything  but  soap. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  7. 

DO  YCE,  the  Inventor. — He  was  not  much  to 
look  at,  either  in  point  of  size  or  in  point  of 
dress  ; being  merely  a short,  square,  practical- 
looking  man,  whose  hair  had  turned  gray,  and 
in  whose  face  and  forehead  there  were  deep 
lines  of  cogitation,  which  looked  as  though  they 
were  carved  in  hard  wood.  Fie  was  dressed  in 
decent  black,  a little  rusty,  and  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a sagacious  master  in  some  handicraft. 
He  had  a spectacle-case  in  his  hand,  which  he 
turned  over  and  over  while  he  was  thus  in  ques- 
tion, with  a certain  free  use  of  the  thumb  that 
is  never  seen  but  in  a hand  accustomed  to  tools. 
****** 

“ This  Doyce,”  said  Mr.  Meagles,  “ is  a smith 
and  engineer.  Fie  is  not  in  a large  way,  but  he 
is  well  known  as  a very  ingenious  man.  A 
dozen  years  ago,  he  perfected  an  invention  (in- 
volving a very  curious  secret  process)  of  great 
importance  to  his  country  and  his  fellow-crea- 
tures I won’t  say  how  much  money  it  cost  him, 
or  how  many  years  of  his  life  he  had  been  about 
it,  but  he  brought  it  to  perfection  a dozen  years 
ago.  Wasn’t  it  a dozen?”  said  Mr.  Meagles, 
addressing  Doyce.  “ He  is  the  most  exasper- 
ating man  in  the  world  ; he  never  complains  ! ” 

“ Yes.  Rather  better  than  twelve  years  ago.” 

“Rather  better?”  said  Mr.  Meagles,  “you 
mean  rather  worse.  Well,  Mr.  Clennam.  He 
addresses  himself  to  the  Government.  The 
moment  lie  addresses  himself  to  the  Govern- 
ment, he  becomes  a public  offender  ! Sir,”  said 
Mr.  Meagles,  in  danger  of  making  himself  ex- 
ivelj  hot  again,  " h<  1 ea  le » to  be  an  innocent 
citizen,  and  becomes  a culprit.  He  is  treated, 


from  that  instant,  as  a man  wh'o  has  done  some 
infernal  action.  He  is  a man  to  be  shirked,  put 
off,  brow-beaten,  sneered  at,  handed  over  by  this 
highly-connected  young  or  old  gentleman  to  that 
highly-connected  young  or  old  gentleman,  anu 
dodged  back  again  ; he  is  a man  with  no  rights 
in  his  own  time,  or  his  own  property;  a mere 
outlaw,  whom  it  is  justifiable  to  get  rid  of  any- 
how ; a man  to  be  worn  out  by  all  possible 
means.” 

It  was  not  so  difficult  to  believe,  after  the  morn- 
ing’s experience,  as  Mr.  Meagles  supposed. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  10. 

DKUMMLE , BENTLE  Y.— Bentley  Drum- 
mle,  who  was  so  sulky  a fellow  that  he  even 
took  up  a book  as  if  its  writer  had  done  him  an 
injury,  did  not  take  up  an  acquaintance  in  a more 
agreeable  spirit.  Heavy  in  figure,  movement, 
and  comprehension — in  the  sluggish  complexion 
of  his  face,  and  in  the  large  awkward  tongue 
that  seemed  to  loll  about  in  his 'mouth  as  he 
himself  lolled  about  in  a room — he  was  idle, 
proud,  niggardly,  reserved,  and  suspicious.  He 
came  of  rich  people  down  in  Somersetshire,  who 
had  nursed  this  combination  of  qualities  until 
they  made  the  discovery  that  it  was  just  of  age 
and  a blockhead. — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  25. 

Drummle,  an  old-looking  young  man  of  a 
heavy  order  of  architecture,  was  whistling. 
Startop,  younger  in  years  and  appearance,  was 
reading  and  holding  his  head,  as  if  he  thought 
himself  in  danger  of  exploding  it  with  too 
strong  a charge  of  knowledge. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  23. 

DURDLES. — In  a suit  of  coarse  flannel,  with 
horn  buttons,  a yellow  neckerchief  with  draggled 
ends,  an  old  hat  more  russet-colored  than  black, 
and  laced  boots  of  the  hue  of  his  stony  calling, 
Durdles  leads  a hazy,  gypsy  sort  of  life,  carry- 
ing his  dinner  about  with  him  in  a small  bundle, 
and  sitting  on  all  manner  of  tombstones  to  dine. 
This  dinner  of  Durdles’s  has  become  quite  a 
Cloisterham  institution  ; not  only  because  of  his 
never  appearing  in  public  without  it,  but.  be- 
cause of  its  having  been,  on  certain  renowned 
occasions,  taken  into  custody  along  with  Dur- 
dles (as  drunk  and  incapable),  and  exhibited  be- 
fore the  Bench  of  Justices  at  the  Town  Hall. 
These  occasions,  however,  have  been  few  and 
far  apart,  Durdles  being  as  seldom  drunk  as 
sober.  For  the  rest,  he  is  an  old  bachelor,  and 
he  lives  in  a little  antiquated  hole  of  a house 
that  was  never  finished,  supposed  to  be.  built,  so 
far,  of  stones  stolen  from  the  city  wall.  To  this 
abode  there  is  an  approach,  ankle-deep  in  stone- 
chips,  resembling  a petrified  grove  of  tombstones, 
urns,  draperies,  and  broken  columns,  in  all 
stages  of  sculpture.  Herein,  two  journeymen 
incessantly  chip,  while  other  two  journeymen, 
who  face  each  other,  incessantly  saw  stone,  dip 
ping  as  regularly  in  and  out  of  their  sheltering 
sentry  boxes,  as  if  they  were  mechanical  figures 
emblematical  of  Time  and  Death. 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  4. 

ELAM  WELL,  Mr.  (a  Social  Pretender).— 
Mr.  Flamwell  was  one  of  those  gentlemen  of 
remarkably  extensive  information  whom  one  oc- 
casionally meets  in  society,  who  pretend  to 
know  everybody,  but  in  reality  know  nobody. 


CHARACTERS  AND 


67 


CHARACTERISTICS 


I At  Malderton’s,  where  any  stories  about  great 
people  were  received  with  a greedy  ear,  he  was 
1 an  especial  favorite  ; and,  knowing  the  kind  of 
people  he  had  to  deal  with,  he  carried  his  pas- 
sion of  claiming  acquaintance  with  everybody, 
to  the  most  immoderate  length.  He  had  rather 
a singular  way  of  telling  his  greatest  lies  in  a 
parenthesis,  and  with  an  air  of  self-denial,  as  if 
he  feared  being  thought  egotistical. 

Tales , Chap.  5. 

FLINTWITCII,  JEREMIAH .—His  neck 
was  so  twisted,  that  the  knotted  ends  of  his 
white  cravat  usually  dangled  under  one  ear  ; his 
natural  acerbity  and  energy,  always  contending 
with  a second  nature  of  habitual  repression,  gave 
his  features  a swollen  and  suffused  look  ; and  al- 
together, he  had  a weird  appearance  of  having 
hanged  himself  at  one  time  or  other,  and  of  hav- 
ing gone  about  ever  since, halter  and  all,  exactly 
as  some  timely  hand  had  cut  him  down. 

* * * * h*  ❖ 

His  head  was  awry,  and  he  had  a one-sided, 
crab-like  way  with  him,  as  if  his  foundations 
had  yielded  at  about  the  same  time  with  those 
of  the  house,  and  he  ought  to  have  been  propped 
up  in  a similar  manner. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

FOGG , Mr.  (Lawyei\ — “ Take  a seat,  sir,” 
said  Fogg  ; “ there  is  the  paper,  sir  ; my  partner 
will  be  here  directly,  and  we  can  converse  about 
this  matter,  sir.” 

Mr.  Pickwick  took  a seat  and  the  paper,  but, 
instead  of  reading  the  latter,  peeped  over  the  top 
of  it,  and  took  a survey  of  the  man  of  business, 
who  was  an  elderly,  pimply-faced,  vegetable-diet 
sort  of  man,  in  a black  coat,  dark  mixture  trou- 
sers, and  small  black  gaiters  ; a kind  of  being 
who  seemed  to  be  an  essential  part  of  the  desk 
at  which  he  was  writing,  and  to  have  as  much 
thought  or  sentiment. — Pickwick,  Chap.  20. 

GARGER  Y,  JOE.— Presently  I heard  Joe 
on  the  staircase.  I knew  it  was  Joe,  by  his 
clumsy  manner  of  coming  up-stairs — his  state 
boots  being  always  too  big  for  him — and  by  the 
time  it  took  him  to  read  the  names  on  the  other 
floors  in  the  course  of  his  accent.  When  at  last 
he  stopped  outside  our  door,  I could  hear  his 
finger  tracing  over  the  painted  letters  of  my 
name,  and  I afterward  distinctly  heard  him 
breathing  in  at  the  keyhole.  Finally,  he  gave  a 
faint  single  rap,  and  Pepper — such  was  the  com- 
promising name  of  the  avenging  boy — announced 
“Mr.  Gargery!”  I thought  he  never  would 
have  done  wiping  his  feet,  and  that  I must  have 
gone  out  to  lift  him  off  the  mat,  but  at  last  he 
came  in. 

“ Joe,  how  are  you,  Joe  ? ” 

“ Pip,  how  air  you,  Pip  ? ” 

With  his  good  honest  face  all  glowing  and 
shining,  and  his  hat  put  down  on  the  floor  be- 
tween us,  he  caught  both  my  hands  and  worked 
them  straight  up  and  down,  as  if  I had  been  the 
last-patented  Pump. 

“I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Joe.  Give  me  your 
fiat.” 

But  Joe,  taking  it  up  carefully  with  both  hands, 
like  a bird’s-nest  with  eggs  in  it,  wouldn’t  hear 
of  parting  with  that  piece  of  property,  and  per- 
sisted in  standing  talking  over  it  in  a most  un- 
comfortable way. 


“Which  you  have  that  growed,”  said  Joe 
“ and  that  swelled,  and  that  gentlefolked  Joe 
considered  a little  before  he  discovered  this 
word  ; “ as  to  be  sure  you  are  a honor  to  your 
king  and  country.” 

“ And  you,  Joe,  look  wondei-fully  well.” 

“ Thank  God,”  said  Joe,  “ Pm  ekerval  to  most. 
And  your  sister,  she’s  no  worse  than  she  were. 
And  Biddy,  she’s  ever  right  and  ready.  And  all 
friends  is  no  backerder,  if  not  no  forarder.” 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  27. 

GA SHFORD. — Gashford,  the  secretary,  was 
taller,  angularly  made,  high-shouldered,  bony, 
and  ungraceful.  His  dress,  in  imitation  of 
his  superior,  was  demure  and  staid  in  the  ex- 
treme ; his  manner,  formal  and  constrained. 
This  gentleman  had  an  overhanging  brow,  great 
hands  and  feet  and  ears,  and  a pair  of  eyes  that 
seemed  to  have  made  an  unnatural  retreat  into 
his  head,  and  to  have  dug  themselves  a cave  to 
hide  in.  His  manner  was  smooth  and  humble, 
but  very  sly  and  slinking.  He  wore  the  aspect 
of  a man  who  was  always  lying  in  wait  for 
something  that  wouldFt  come  to  pass  ; but  he 
looked  patient — very  patient — and  fawned  like 
a spaniel  dog.  E^en  now,  while  he  warmed 
and  rubbed  his  hands  before  the  blaze,  he  had 
the  air  of  one  who  only  presumed  to  enjoy  it  in 
his  degree  as  a commoner  ; and  though  he  knew 
his  lord  was  not  regarding  him,  he  looked  into 
his  face  from  time  to  time,  and  with  a meek  and 
deferential  manner,  smiled  as  if  for  practice. 

Barnaby  Badge,  Chap.  35. 

There  was  a remarkable  contrast  between  this 
man’s  occupation  at  the  moment,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance,  which  was  singularly 
repulsive  and  malicious.  His  beetling  brow  al- 
most obscured  his  eyes  ; his  lip  was  curled  con- 
temptuously ; his  very  shoulders  seemed  to  sneer 
in  stealthy  whisperings  with  his  great  flapped 
ears. — Barnaby  Radge , Chap.  36. 

GEORGE , Mr.,  the  Trooper. — “And  how 
does  the  world  use  you,  Mr.  George  ? ” Grand- 
father Smallweed  inquires,  slowly  rubbing  his 
hands. 

“ Pretty  much  as  usual.  Like  a football.” 

He  is  a swarthy  brown  man  of  fifty  ; well- 
made,  and  good-looking  ; with  crisp  dark  hair, 
bright  eyes,  and  a broad  chest.  His  sinewy  and 
powerful  hands,  as  sunburnt  as  his  face,  have 
evidently  been  used  to  a pretty  rough  life.  What 
is  curious  about  him  is,  that  he  sits  forward  on 
his  chair  as  if  he  were,  from  long  habit,  allow- 
ing space  for  some  dress  or  accoutrements  that 
he  has  altogether  laid  aside.  His  step,  too,  is 
measured  and  heavy,  and  would  go  well  with 
a weighty  clash  and  jingle  of  spurs.  He  is 
close-shaved  now,  but  his  mouth  is  set  as  if  his 
upper  lip  had  been  for  years  familiar  with  a great 
moustache  ; and  his  manner  of  occasionally  lay- 
ing the  open  palm  of  his  broad  brown  hand 
upon  it,  is  to  the  same  effect.  Altogether,  one 
might  guess  Mr.  George  to  have  been  a trooper 
once  upon  a time. 

A special  contrast  Mr.  George  makes  to  the 
Smallweed  family.  Trooper  was  never  yet  bil- 
leted upon  a household  more  unlike  him.  It  is 
a broadsword  to  an  oyster-knife.  His  developed 
figure,  and  their  stunted  forms  ; his  large  man- 
ner, filling  any  amount  of  room,  and  their  little 
narrow  pinched  ways  ; his  sounding  voice,  and 


CHARACTERS  AND 


CHARACTERISTICS 


08 


their  sharp  spare  tones  ; are  in  the  strongest  and 
the  strangest  opposition.  As  he  sits  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  grim  parlor,  leaning  a little  forward, 
with  his  hands  upon  his  thighs  and  his  elbows 
squared,  he  looks  as  though,  if  he  remained 
there  long,  he  would  absorb  into  himself  the 
whole  family  and  the  whole  four-roomed  house, 
extra  little  back-kitchen  and  all. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  21. 

GORDON,  LORD. — The  lord,  I he  great  per- 
sonage, who  did  the  Maypole  so  much  honor, 
was  about  the  middle  height,  of  a slender  make, 
and  sallow  complexion,  with  an  aquiline  nose, 
and  long  hair  of  a reddish  brown,  combed  per- 
fectly straight  and  smooth  about  his  ears,  and 
slightly  powdered,  but  without  the  faintest  ves- 
tige of  a curl.  He  was  attired,  under  his  great- 
coat, in  a full  suit  of  black,  quite  free  from  any 
ornament,  and  of  the  most  precise  and  sober  cut. 
The  gravity  of  his  dress,  together  with  a cer- 
tain lankness  of  cheek  and  stiffness  of  deport- 
ment, added  nearly  ten  years  to  his  age,  but  his 
figure  was  that  of  one  not  yet  past  thirty.  As 
he  stood  musing  in  the  red  glow  of  the  fire,  it 
was  striking  to  observe  his  very  bright  large  eye, 
which  betrayed  a restlessness  of  thought  and 
purpose,  singularly  at  variance  with  the  studied 
composure  and  sobriety  of  his  mien,  and  with 
his  quaint  and  sad  apparel.  It  had  nothing 
harsh  or  cruel  in  its  expression  ; neither  had  his 
face,  which  was  thin  and  mild,  and  wore  an  air 
of  melancholy  ; but  it  was  suggestive  of  an  in- 
definable uneasiness,  which  infected  those  who 
looked  upon  him,  and  filled  them  with  a kind 
of  pity  for  the  man  ; though  why  it  did  so,  they 
would  have  had  some  trouble  to  explain. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  35. 

GREWGIOUS,  Mr. — Mr.  Grewgious  had 
been  well  selected  for  his  trust,  as  a man  of  in- 
corruptible integrity,  but  certainly  for  no  other 
appropriate  quality  discernible  on  the  surface. 
He  was  an  arid,  sandy  man,  who,  if  he  had  been 
put  into  a grinding-mill,  looked  as  if  he  would 
have  ground  immediately  into  high-dried  snuff. 
He  had  a scanty  flat  crop  of  hair,  in  color  and 
consistency  like  some  very  mangy  yellow  fur  tip- 
pet ; it  was  so  unlike  hair,  that  it  must  have  been 
a wig,  but  for  the  stupendous  improbability  of 
anybody’s  voluntarily  sporting  such  a head.  The 
little  play  of  feature  that  his  face  presented  was 
cut  deep  into  it,  in  a few  hard  curves  that  made 
it  more  like  work  ; and  he  had  certain  notches 
in  his  forehead,  which  looked  as  though  Nature 
had  been  about  to  touch  them  into  sensibility  or  re- 
finement when  she  had  impatiently  thrown  away 
the  chisel,  and  said,  “ I really  cannot  be  wor- 
ried to  finish  off  this  man  ; let  him  go  as  he  is.” 

With  too  great  length  of  throat  at  his  upper 
end,  and  too  much  ankle-bone  and  heel  at  his 
lower  ; with  an  awkward  and  hesitating  man- 
ner ; with  a shambling  walk,  and  with  what  is 
called  a near  sight — which  perhaps  prevented 
his  observing  how  much  white  cotton  stocking 
he  displayed  to  the  public  eye,  in  contrast  with 
his  black  suit, — Mr.  Grewgious  still  had  some 
strange  capacity  in  him  of  making  on  the  whole 
an  agreeable  impression. 

Edwin  Drood , Chap.  9. 

GR/DE,  AR 17/ UR  ( the  Usurer).—' flic  per- 
son who  made  this  reply  was  a little  old  man, 


of  about  seventy  or  seventy-five  years  of  age,  of 
a very  lean  figure,  much  bent,  and  slightly  twist- 
ed. He  wore  a gray  coat,  with  a very  narrow 
collar,  an  old-fashioned  waistcoat  of  ribbed  black 
silk,  and  such  scanty  trousers  as  displayed  his 
shrunken  spindle-shanks  in  their  full  ugliness. 
The  only  articles  of  display  or  ornament  in  his 
dress,  were  a steel  watch  chain  to  which  were 
attached  some  large  gold  seals ; and  a black 
ribbon  into  which,  in  compliance  with  an  old 
fashion  scarcely  ever  observed  in  these  days,  his 
gray  hair  was  gathered  behind.  His  nose  and 
chin  were  sharp  and  prominent,  his  jaws  had 
fallen  inwards  from  loss  of  teeth,  his  face  was 
shrivelled  and  yellow,  save  where  the  cheeks 
were  streaked  with  the  color  of  a dry  winter 
apple  ; and  where  his  beard  had  been,  there  lin- 
gered yet  a few  gray  tufts  which  seemed,  like 
the  ragged  eyebrows,  to  denote  the  badness  of 
the  soil  from  which  they  sprung.  The  whole  air 
and  attitude  of  the  form  was  one  of  stealthy, 
cat-like  obsequiousness  ; the  whole  expression 
of  the  face  was  concentrated  in  a wrinkled  leer, 
compounded  of  cunning,  lecherousness,  slyness, 
and  avarice. 

Such  was  old  Arthur  Gride,  in  whose  face 
there  was  not  a wrinkle,  in  whose  dress  there 
was  not  one  spare  fold  or  plait,  but  expressed 
the  most  covetous  and  griping  penury,  and  suffi- 
ciently indicated  his  belonging  to  that  class  of 
which  Ralph  Nickleby  was  a member.  Such 
was  old  Arthur  Gride,  as  he  sat  in  a low  chair 
looking  up  into  the  face  of  Ralph  Nickleby,  who, 
lounging  on  the  tall  office-stool,  with  his  arms 
upon  his  knees,  looked  down  into  his;  a match 
for  him,  on  whatever  errand  he  had  come. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  47. 

HEEP , URIAH. — The  low  arched  door  then 
opened,  q,nd  the  face  came  out.  It  was  quite  as 
cadaverous  as  it  had  looked  in  the  window,  though 
inVheygrain  of  it  there  was  that  tinge  of  red 
whirls  sometimes  to  be  observed  in  the  skins 
of  rea-haired  people.  It  belonged  to  a red- 
haired  person — a youth  of  fifteen,  as  I take  it 
now,  but  looking  much  older — whose  hair  was 
cropped  as  close  as  the  closest  stubble  ; who  had 
hardly  any  eyebrows,  and  no  eyelashes,  and  eyes 
of  a red-brown,  so  unsheltered  and  unshaded, 
that  I remember  wondering  how  he  went  to 
sleep.  He  was  high-shouldered  and  bony ; 
dressed  in  decent  black,  with  a white  wisp  of  a 
neck-cloth  ; buttoned  up  to  the  throat  ; and  had 
a long,  lank,  skeleton  hand,  which  particularly 
attracted  my  attention,  as  he  stood  at  the  pony’s 
head,  rubbing  his  chin  with  it,  and  looking  up  at 
us  in  the  chaise. — David  Copperfield , Chap.  15. 

I turned  away  without  any  ceremony  ; and  left 
him  doubled  up  in  the  middle  of  the  garden,  like 
a scarecrow  in  want  of  support. 

David  Copperjield , Chap.  42. 

JAGGERS,  Mr.  {Lawyer).  — Mr.  Jaggers 
never  laughed  ; but  he  wore  great  bright  creak- 
ing boots  ; and,  in  poising  himself  on  those 
boots,  with  his  large  head  bent  down  and  his 
eyebrows  joined  together,  awaiting  an  answer, 
he  sometimes  caused  the  boots  to  creak,  as  if 
they  laughed  in  a dry  and  suspicious  way.  As 
he  happened  to  go  out  now,  and  as  Wemmick 
was  brisk  and  talkative,  I said  to  Wemmick 
that  I hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  Mr.  Jaggers’s 
manner. 


CHARACTERS  AND 


69 


CHARACTERISTICS 


“ Tell  him  that,  and  he’ll  take  it  as  a compli- 
ment,” answered  Wemmick  ; “he  don’t  mean 
that  you  should  know  what  to  make  of  it — Oh  ! ” 
for  1 looked  surprised,  “ it’s  not  personal  ; it’s 
professional  ; only  professional.” 

Wemmick  was  at  his  desk,  lunching  — and 
crunching — on  a dry,  hard  biscui't  ; pieces  of 
which  lie  threw  from  time  to  time  into  his  slit  of 
a mouth,  as  if  he  were  posting  them. 

“Always  seems  tome,”  said  Wemmick,  “as 
if  he  had  set  a man-trap  and  was  watching  it. 
Suddenly — click — you’re  caught ! ” 

Without  remarking  that  man-traps  were  not 
among  the  amenities  of  life,  I said  I supposed  he 
was  very  skillful  ? 

“ Deep,”  said  Wemmick,  “ as  Australia.” 
Pointing  with  his  pen  at  the  office  floor,  to  ex- 
press that  Australia  was  understood,  for  the  pur- 
poses of  the  figure,  to  be  symmetrically  on  the 
opposite  spot  of  the  globe.  “ If  there  was  any- 
thing deeper,”  added  Wemmick,  bringing  his 
pen  to  paper,  “ he’d  be  it.” 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  24. 

He  was  a burly  man  of  an  exceedingly  dark 
complexion,  with  an  exceedingly  large  head  and 
a corresponding  large  hand.  He  took  my  chin 
in  his  large  hand  and  turned  up  my  face  to  have 
a look  at  me  by  the  light  of  the  candle.  He 
was  prematurely  bald  on  the  top  of  his  head, 
and  had  bushy  black  eyebrows  that  wouldn’t  lie 
down,  but  stood  up  bristling.  His  eyes  were  set 
very  deep  in  his  head,  and  were  disagreeably 
sharp  and  suspicious.  He  had  a large  watch- 
chain,  and  strong  black  dots  where  his  beard 
and  whiskers  would  have  been  if  he  had  let 
them. — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  ii. 

JORKINS , the  Silent  Partner. — I was  quite 
dismayed  by  the  idea  of  this  terrible  Jorkins. 
3 Jut  I found  out  afterwards  that  he  was  a mild 
man  of  a heavy  temperament,  whose  place  in 
the  business  was  to  keep  himself  in  the  back- 
ground, and  be  constantly  exhibited  by  name  as 
the  most  obdurate  and  ruthless  of  men.  If  a 
clerk  wanted  his  salary  raised,  Mr.  Jorkins 
wouldn’t  listen  to  such  a proposition.  If  a client 
were  slow  to  settle  his  bill  of  costs,  Mr.  Jorkins 
was  resolved 'to  have  it  paid  ; and  however  pain- 
ful these  things  might  be  (and  always  were)  to 
the  feelings  of  Mr.  Spenlow,  Mr.  Jorkins  would 
have  his  bond.  The  heart  and  hand  of  the 
good  angel  Spenlow  would  have  been  always 
open,  but  for  the  restraining  demon  Jorkins.  As 
I have  grown  older,  I think  I have  had  experi- 
ence of  some  other  houses  doing  business  on  the 
principle  of  Spenlow  and  Jorkins  ! 

David  Copper  field.  Chap.  23. 

JINGLE. — He  was  about  the  middle  height, 
but  the  thinness  of  his  body,  and  the  length  of 
his  legs,  gave  him  the  appearance  of  being  much 
taller.  The  green  coat  had  been  a smart  dress 
garment  in  the  days  of  swallow-tails,  but  had 
evidently  in  those  times  adorned  a much  shorter 
man  than  the  stranger,  for  the  soiled  and  faded 
sleeves  scarcely  reached  to  his  wrists.  It  was 
buttoned  closely  up  to  his  chin,  at  the  imminent 
hazard  of  splitting  the  back  ; and  an  old  stock, 
without  a vestige  of  shirt  collar,  ornamented  his 
neck.  His  scanty  black  trousers  displayed  here 
and  there  those  shiny  patches  which  bespeak 


long  service,  and  were  strapped  very  tightly  over 
a pair  of  patched  and  mended  shoes,  as  if  to 
conceal  the  dirty  white  stockings,  which  were 
nevertheless  distinctly  visible.  His  long  black 
hair  escaped  in  negligent  waves  from  beneath 
each  side  of  his  old  pinched-up  hat ; and  glimps- 
es of  his  bare  wrists  might  be  observed  be- 
tween the  tops  of  his  gloves,  and  the  cuffs  of 
his  coat-sleeves.  His  face  was  thin  and  hag- 
gard ; but  an  indescribable  air  of  jaunty  impu- 
dence and  perfect  self-possession  pervaded  the 
whole  man. — Pickwick,  Chap.  2. 

K1 T TERBELL,  Mr.—“  How  are  you?” 
said  little  Kitterbell,  in  a greater  bustle  than 
ever,  bolting  out  of  the  little  back  parlor  with  a 
cork-screw  in  his  hand,  and  various  particles  of 
sawdust,  looking  like  so  many  inverted  commas, 
on  his  inexpressibles. — Tales , Chap.  11. 

If  ROOK. — Turning  towards  the  door,  he  now 
caught  sight  of  us.  He  was  short,  cadaverous, 
and  withered  ; with  his  head  sunk  sideways  be- 
tween his  shoulders,  and  the  breath  issuing  in 
visible  smoke  from  his  mouth,  as  if  he  were  on 
fire  within.  His  throat,  chin,  and  eyebrows 
were  so  frosted  with  white  hairs,  and  so  gnarled 
with  veins  and  puckered  skin,  that  he  looked, 
from  his  breast  upward,  like  some  old  root  in  a 
fall  of  snow. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  5. 

LILLY  VICK,  Mr. — The  features  of  Mr. 
Lillyvick  they  were,  but  strangely  altered.  If 
ever  an  old  gentleman  had  made  a point  of  ap- 
pearing in  public,  shaved  close  and  clean,  that 
old  gentleman  was  Mr.  Lillyvick.  If  ever  a col- 
lector had  borne  himself  like  a collector,  and 
assumed  before  all  men  a solemn  and  portentous 
dignity,  as  if  he  had  the  world  on  his  books  and 
it  was  all  two  quarters  in  arrear,  that  collector 
was  Mr.  Lillyvick.  And  now,  there  he  sat,  with 
the  remains  of  a beard  at  least  a week  old,  en- 
cumbering his  chin  ; a soiled  and  crumpled 
shirt-frill  crouching,  as  it  were,  upon  his  breast, 
instead  of  standing  boldly  out ; a demeanor  so 
abashed  and  drooping,  so  despondent,  and  ex- 
pressive of  humiliation,  grief,  and  shame  ; that 
if  the  souls  of  forty  unsubstantial  housekeepers, 
all  of  whom  had  had  their  water  cut  off  for  non- 
payment of  the  rate,  could  have  been  concen- 
trated in  one  body,  that  one  body  could  hardly 
have  expressed  such  mortification  and  defeat  as 
were  now  expressed  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Lilly- 
vick, the  collector. 

Newman  Noggs  uttered  his  name,  and  Mr. 
Lillyvick  groaned  ; then  coughed  to  hide  it.  But 
the  groan  was  a full-sized  groan  ; and  the  cough 
was  but  a wheeze. 

“Is  anything  the  matter?”  said  Newman 
Noggs. 

“Matter,  sir!”  cried  Mr.  Lillyvick.  “The 
plug  of  life  is  dry,  sir,  and  but  the  mud  is  left.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  52. 

LLRRIPER,  Mr. — My  poor  Lirriper  was  a 
handsome  figure  of  a man,  with  a beaming  eye, 
and  a voice  as  mellow  as  a musical  instrument 
made  of  honey  and  steel,  but  he  had  ever  been 
a free  liver,  being  in  the  commercial  travelling 
line  and  travelling  what  he  called  a limekiln 
road — “ a dry  road,  Emma,  my  dear,”  my  poor 
Lirriper  says  to  me,  “ where  I have  to  lay  the 
dust  with  one  drink  or  another  all  day  long  and 


CHARACTERS  AND 


70 


CHARACTERISTICS 


‘.lie  night,  and  it  wears  me,  Emma"— and 
this  led  to  his  running  through  a good  deal  and 
might  have  run  through  the  turnpike,  too,  when 
that  dreadful  horse  that  never  would  stand  still 
for  a single  instant  set  off ; but  for  its  being 
night,  the  gate  shut  and  consequently  took  his 
wheel,  my  poor  Lirriper,  and  the  gig  smashed  to 
atoms  and  never  spoke  afterwards.  He  was  a 
handsome  figure  of  a man,  and  a man  with  a 
jovial  heart  and  a sweet  temper  ; but  if  they  had 
come  up  then,  they  never  could  have  given  you 
the  mellowness  of  his  voice,  anil  indeed,  I con- 
sider photographs  wanting  in  mellowness  as  a 
general  rule,  and  making  you  look  like  a new- 
ploughed  field. 

Mrs.  Lirriper' s Lodgings , Chap.  i. 

LOBI.E  K,  the  Sailor.  — - He  was  a jolly 
favored  man,  with  tawny  hair  and  whiskers,  and 
a big  red  face.  He  was  the  dead  image  of 
the  sun  in  old  woodcuts,  his  hair  and  whiskers 
answering  for  rays  all  round  him.  Resplendent 
in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  he  was  a shining  sight, 
with  a man-of-war’s  man’s  shirt  on — or  off,  ac- 
cording to  opinion — and  his  arms  and  breast 
tattooed  all  sorts  of  patterns.  Lobley  seemed  to 
take  it  easily,  and  so  did  Mr.  Tartar  ; yet  their 
oars  bent  as  they  pulled,  and  the  boat  bounded 
under  them. — Edwin  Drood , Chap.  22. 

LO  IV R Y,  Mr .,  the. Bank  ?r. — Very  orderly  and 
methodical  he  looked,  with  a hand  on  each  knee, 
and  a loud  watch  ticking  a sonorous  sermon 
under  his  flapped  waistcoat,  as  though  it  pitted 
its  gravity  and  longevity  against  the  levity  and 
evanescence  of  the  brisk  fire.  He  had  a good 
leg,  and'  was  a little  vain  of  it,  for  his  brown 
stockings  fitted  sleek  and  close,  and  were  of  a 
fine  texture  ; his  shoes  and  buckles,  too,  though 
plain,  were  trim.  He  wore  an  odd  little  sleek 
crisp  flaxen  wig,  setting  very  close  to  his  head  : 
which  wig,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  was  made  of 
hair,  but  which  looked  far  more  as  though  it 
were  spun  from  filaments  of  silk  or  glass.  His 
linen,  though  not  of  a fineness  in  accordance 
with  his  stockings,  was  as  white  as  the  tops  of 
the  waves  that  broke  upon  the  neighboring 
beach,  or  the  specks  of  sail  that  glinted  in  the 
sunlight  far  at  sea.  A face  habitually  sup- 
pressed and  quieted,  was  still  lighted  up  under 
the  quaint  wig  by  a pair  of  moist,  bright  eyes, 
that  it  must  have  cost  their  owner,  in  years  gone 
by,  some  pains  to  drill  to  the  composed  and 
reserved  expression  of  Tellson’s  Bank.  He  had 
a healthy  color  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  face,  though 
lined,  bore  few  traces  of  anxiety.  But  perhaps 
the  confidential  bachelor  clerks  in  Tellson’s 
Bank  were  principally  occupied  with  the  cares 
of  other  people  ; and  perhaps  second-hand 
cares,  like  second-hand  clothes,  come  easily  off 
and  on. — Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  4. 

MICA  IVBER,  Mr.  — The  counting-house 
clock  was  at  half-past  twelve,  and  there  was  gen- 
eral preparation  for  going  to  dinner,  when  Mr. 
Quinion  tapped  at  the  counting-house  window, 
and  beckoned  me  to  go  in.  I went  in,  and  found 
there  a stoutish,  middle-aged  person,  in  a brown 
surtout  and  black  tights  and  shoes,  with  no  more 
hair  upon  his  head  (which  was  a large  one,  and 
very  shining)  than  there  is  upon  an  egg,  and 
with  a v :ry  er'eu  . ■ f ice,  which  he  turned  full 

upon  me.  Hi*  cknhci  were  shabby,  but  he  had 


an  imposing  shirt-collar  on.  He  carried  a jaunty 
sort  of  a stick,  with  a large  pair  of  rusty  tassels 
to  it  ; and  a quizzing-glass  hung  outside  his  coat, 
—lor  ornament,  I afterwards  found,  as  he  very 
seldom  looked  through  it,  and  couldn’t  see  any- 
thing when  Re  did. 

“ This,"  said  Mr.  Quinion,  in  allusion  to  my- 
self, “ is  he.” 

“This,”  said  the  stranger,  with  a certain  con- 
descending roll  in  his  voice,  and  a certain  inde- 
scribable air  of  doing  something  genteel,  which 
impressed  me  very  much,  “ is  Master  Copper- 
field.  I hope  I see  you  well,  sir?” 

****** 

“ This  is  Mr.  Micawber,”  said  Mr.  Quinion  to 
me. 

“ Ahem  ! ” said  the  stranger,  “ that  is  my 
name.” 

“ Mr.  Micawber,”  said  Mr.  Quinion,  “ is  known 
to  Mr.  Murdstone.  He  takes  orders  for  us  on 
commission,  when  lie  can  get  any.  He  has  been 
written  to  by  Mr.  Murdstone,  on  the  subject  of 
your  lodgings,  and  he  will  receive  you  as  a 
lodger.” 

“ My  address,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  “ is  Wind- 
sor Terrace,  City  Road.  I — in  short,”  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  with  the  same  genteel  air,  and  in  an- 
other burst  of  confidence — “ I live  there.” 

I made  him  a bow. 

“ Under  the  impression,”  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
“ that  your  peregrinations  in  this  metropolis 
have  not  as  yet  been  extensive,  and  that  you 
might  have  some  difficulty  in  penetrating  the 
arcana  of  the  Modern  Babylon  in  the  direction 
of  the  City  Road — in  short,”  said  Mr.  Micawber. 
in  another  burst  of  confidence,  “ that  you  might 
lose  yourself — I shall  be  happy  to  call  this  even- 
ing, and  install  you  in  the  knowledge  of  the  near- 
est way.” — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  11. 

MINNS,  Mr.  AUGUSTUS  {Bachelor).— 
Mr.  Augustus  Minns  was  a bachelor,  of  about 
forty,  as  he  said — of  about  eight-and-forty,  as  his 
friends  said.  He  was  always  exceedingly  clean, 
precise,  and  tidy;  perhaps  somewhat  priggish, 
and  the  most  retiring  man  in  the  world.  He 
usually  wore  a brown  frock-coat  without  a wrin- 
kle, light  inexplieables  without  a spot,  a neat 
neckerchief  with  a remai'kably  neat  tie,  and  boots 
without  a fault  ; moreover,  he  always  carried  a 
brown  silk  umbrella  with  an  ivory  handle.  He 
was  a clerk  in  Somerset  House,  or,  as  he  said 
himself,  he  held  “ a responsible  situation  under 
Government.”  He  had  a good  and  increasing 
salary,  in  addition  to  some  10,000/.  of  his  own 
(invested  in  the  funds),  and  he  occupied  a first- 
floor  in  Tavistock  Street,  Covent  Garden,  where 
he  had  resided  for  twenty  years,  having  been  in 
the  habit  of  quarrelling  with  his  landlord  the 
whole  time  ; regularly  giving  notice  of  his  in- 
tention to  quit  on  the  first  day  of  every  quarter, 
and  as  regularly  countermanding  it  on  the  sec- 
ond. There  were  two  classes  of  created  objects 
which  he  held  in  the  deepest  and  most  unmin- 
gled horror  ; these  were  dogs  and  children.  He 
was  not  unamiable,  but  he  could,  at  any  time, 
have  viewed  the  execution  of  a dog,  or  the  as- 
sassination of  an  infant,  with  the  liveliest  satis- 
faction. Their  habits  were  at  variance  with  his 
love  of  order,  and  his  love  of  order  was  as  pow- 
erful as  his  love  of  life. — Tales , Chap.  2. 


CH  All  ACTEHS  AND 


71 


CHARACTERISTICS 


MON  SEIGNEUR. — He  was  a man  of  about 
sixty,  handsomely  dressed,  haughty  in  manner, 
and  with  a face  like  a fine  mask.  A face  of  a 
transparent  paleness  ; every  feature  in  it  clearly 
defined,  one  set  expression  on  it.  The  nose, 
beautifully  formed  otherwise,  was  very  slightly 
pinched  at  the  top  of  each  nostril.  In  those  two 
compressions,  or  dints,  the  only  little  change 
that  the  face  ever  showed,  resided.  They  per- 
sisted in  changing  color  sometimes,  and  they 
would  be  occasionally  dilated  and  contracted  by 
something  like  a faint  pulsation  ; then,  they  gave 
a look  of  treachery  and  cruelty  to  the  whole 
countenance.  Examined  with  attention,  its  ca- 
pacity of  helping  such  a look  was  to  be  found  in 
the  line  of  the  mouth,  and  the  lines  of  the  orbits 
of  the  eyes,  being  much  too  horizontal  and  thin  ; 
still,  in  the  effect  the  face  made,  it  was  a hand- 
some face,  and  a remarkable  one. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  7. 

MURDSTONE,  Mr.— He  had  that  kind  of 
shallow  black  eye — I want  a better  word  to  ex- 
press an  eye  that  has  no  depth  in  it  to  be  looked 
into — which,  when  it  is  abstracted,  seems,  from 
some  peculiarity  of  light,  to  be  disfigured,  for  a 
moment  at  a time,  by  a cast.  Several  times  when 
I glanced  at  him,  I observed  that  appearance 
with  a sort  of  awe,  and  wondered  what  he  was 
thinking  about  so  closely.  His  hair  and  whiskers 
weVe  blacker  and  thicker,  looked  at  so  near,  than 
even  I had  given  them  credit  for  being.  A 
squareness  about  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  and 
the  dotted  indication  of  the  strong  black  beard 
he  shaved  close  every  day,  reminded  me  of  the 
wax-work  that  had  travelled  into  our  neighbor- 
hood some  half-a-year  before.  This,  his  regular 
eyebrows,  and  the  rich  white,  and. black,  and 
brown,  of  his  complexion — confound  his  com- 
plexion, and  his  memory  ! — made  me  think  him, 
in  spite  of  my  misgivings,  a very  handsome  man. 

I have  no  doubt  that  my  poor  dear  mother 
thought  him  so  too. 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  2. 

NADGE  TT,  The  Secret  Man. — He  was  the 
man  at  a pound  a week  who  made  the  inquiries. 
It  was  no  virtue  or  merit  in  Nadgett  that  he 
transacted  all  his  Anglo-Bengalee  business  se- 
cretly and  in  the  closest  confidence  : for  he  was 
born  to  be  a secret.  He  was  a short,  dried-up, 
withered  old  man,  who  seemed  to  have  secreted 
his  very  blood  ; ' for  nobody  would  have  given 
him  credit  for  the  possession  of  six  ounces 
of  it  in  his  whole  body.  How  he  lived  was  a 
secret  ; where  he  lived  was  a secret  ; and  even 
what  he  was,  was  a secret.  In  his  musty  old 
pocket-book  he  carried  contradictory  cards,  in 
some  of  which  he  called  himself  a coal-merchant, 
in  others  a wine-merchant,  in  others  a commission 
agent,  in  others  a collector,  in  others  an  account- 
ant ; as  if  he  really  didn’t  know  the  secret  him- 
self. He  was  always  keeping  appointments  in 
the  City,  and  the  other  man  never  seemed  to 
come.  He  would  sit  on  ’Change  for  hours,  look- 
ing at  everybody  who  walked  in  and  out,  and 
would  do  the  like  at  Garraway’s,  and  in  other 
business  coffee-houses,  in  some  of  which  he  would 
be  occasionally  seen  drying  a very  damp  pocket- 
handkerchief  before  the  fire,  and  still  looking 
over  his  shoulder  for  the  man  who  never  appear- 
ed. He  was  mildewed,  threadbare,  shabby  ; al- 
ways had  flue  upon  his  legs  and  back  ; and  kept  | 


his  linen  so  secret  by  buttoning  up  and  wrapping 
over,  that  he  might  have  had  none — perhaps  he 
hadn’t.  He  carried  one  stained  beaver  glove, 
which  he  dangled  before  him  by  the  forefinger 
as  he  walked  or  sat  ; but  even  its  fellow  was  a 
secret.  Some  people  said  he  had  been  a bank- 
rupt, others  that  he  had  gone  an  infant  into  an 
ancient  Chancery  suit  which  was  still  depending, 
but  it  was  all  a secret.  He  carried  bits  of  seal- 
ing-wax and  a hieroglyphical  old  copper  seal  in 
his  pocket,  and  often  secretly  indited  letters  in 
corner  boxes  of  the  trysting-piaces  before  men- 
tioned ; but  they  never  appeared  to  go  to  any- 
body, for  he  would  put  them  into  a secret  place 
in  his  coat,  and  deliver  them  to  himself  weeks 
afterwards,  very  much  to  his  own  surprise,  quite 
yellow.  He  was  that  sort  of  man  that  if  he  had 
died  worth  a million  of  money,  or  had  died 
worth  twopence  halfpenny,  everybody  would 
have  been  perfectly  satisfied,  and  would  have 
said  it  was  just  as  they  expected.  And  yet  he 
belonged  to  a class  ; a race  peculiar  to  the  City  ; 
who  are  secrets  as  profound  to  one  another,  as 
they  are  to  the  rest  of  mankind. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  27. 

NO  A KE  S,  PER  C Y — a “ Society"  Man.— Mr. 
Percy  Noakes  was  a law-student,  inhabiting  a 
set  of  chambers  on  the  fourth  floor,  in  one  of 
those  houses  in  Gray’s  Inn  Square  which  com- 
mand an  extensive  view  of  the  gardens,  and  their 
usual  adjuncts — flaunting  nursery-maids,  and 
town-made  children,  with  parenthetical  legs. 
Mr.  Peixy  Noakes  was  what  is  generally  termed 
— “ a devilish  good  fellow.”  He  had  a large 
circle  of  acquaintance,  and  seldom  dined  at  his 
own  expense.  He  used  to  talk  politics  to  papas, 
flatter  the  vanity  of  mammas,  do  the  amiable  to 
their  daughters,  make  pleasure  engagements  with 
their  sons,  and  romp  with  the  younger  branches. 
Like  those  paragons  of  perfection,  advertising 
footmen  out  of  place,  he  was  always  “ willing  to 
make  himself  generally,  useful.”  If  any  old 
lady,  whose  son  was  in  India,  gave  a ball,  Mr. 
Percy  Noakes  was  master  of  the  ceremonies  ; if 
any  young  lady  made  a stolen  match,  Mr.  Percy 
Noakes  gave  her  away  ; if  a juvenile  wife  pre- 
sented her  husband  with  a blooming  cherub,  Mr. 
Percy  Noakes  was  either  godfather,  or  deputy 
godfather  ; and  if  any  member  of  a friend’s  fam- 
ily died,  Mr.  Percy  Noakes  was  invariably  .to  be 
seen  in  the  second  mourning  coach,  with  a white 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  sobbing — to  use  his 
own  appropriate  and  expressive  description — 
“ like  winkin’  ! ” 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  that  these  numer- 
ous avocations  were  rather  calculated  to  inter- 
fere with  Mr.  Percy  Noakes’s  professional  stud- 
ies. Mr.  Percy  Noakes  was  perfectly  aware  of 
the  fact,  and  had,  therefore,  after  mature  1‘eflec- 
tion,  made  up  his  mind  not  to  study  at  all — a 
laudable  determination,  to  which  he  adhered 
in  the  most  praiseworthy  manner.  His  sitting- 
room  presented  a strange  chaos  of  dress-gloves, 
boxing-gloves,  caricatures,  albums,  invitation- 
cards,  foils,  cricket-bats,  card  board  drawings, 
paste,  gum,  and  fifty  other  miscellaneous  articles, 
heaped  together  in  the  strangest  confusion.  He 
was  always  making  something  for  somebody,  or 
planning  some  party  of  pleasure,  which  was  his 
great  forte.  He  invariably  spoke  with  astonish- 
ing rapidity  ; was  smart,  spoffish,  and  eight-and- 
1 twenty. — Tales , Chap.  7. 


CHARACTERS  AND 


72 


CHARACTERISTICS 


NOGGS , NEWMAN.— The  clerk  got  off 
the  high  stool  (to  which  he  had  communicated  a 
high  polish  by  countless  gettings  off  and  on), 
and  presented  himself  in  Mr.  Nickleby’s  room. 
He  was  a tall  man  of  middle  age,  with  two  gog- 
gle-eyes, whereof  one  was  a fixture,  a rubicund 
nose,  a cadaverous  face,  and  a suit  of  clothes  (if 
the  term  be  allowable  when  they  suited  him  not 
at  all)  much  the  worse  for  wear,  very  much  loo 
small,  and  placed  upon  such  a short  allowance 
of  buttons  that  it  was  marvellous  how  he  con- 
trived to  keep  them  on. 

* * * * * * 

Noggs  gave  a peculiar  grunt,  as  was  his  cus- 
tom at  the  end  of  all  disputes  with  his  master,  to 
imply  that  he  (Noggs)  triumphed  ; and  (as  he 
rarely  spoke  to  anybody  unless  somebody  spoke 
to  him)  fell,  into  a grim  silence,  and  rubbed  his 
hands  slowly  over  each  other : cracking  the 
joints  of  his  fingers,  and  squeezing  them  into  all 
possible  distortions.  The  incessant  performance 
of  this  routine  on  every  occasion,  and  the  com- 
munication of  a fixed  and  rigid  look  to  his  un- 
affected eye,  so  as  to  make  it  uniform  with  the  I 
other,  and  to  render  it  impossible  for  anybody  to 
determine  where  or  at  what  he  was  looking, 
were ‘two  among  the  numerous  peculiarities  of 
Mr.  Noggs,  which  struck  an  inexperienced  ob- 
server at  first  sight. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  2. 

PANCKS. — He  was  dressed  in  black,  and 
rusty  iron  gray  ; had  jet-black  beads  of  eyes  ; a 
scrubby  little  black  chin  ; wiry  black  hair  striking 
out  from  his  head  in  prongs,  like  forks  or  hair- 
pins ; and  a complexion  that  was  very  dingy  by 
nature,  or  very  dirty  by  art,  or  a compound  by 
nature  and  art.  He  had  dirty  hands  and  dirty 
broken  nails,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  been  in 
the  coals  ; he  was  in  a perspiration,  and  snorted 
and  sniffed  and  puffed  and  blew,  like  a little 
laboring  steam-engine. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  13. 

PINCH , TOM. — An  ungainly,  awkward- 
looking  man,  extremely  short-sighted,  and  pre- 
maturely bald,  availed  himself  of  this  permission  ; 
and  seeing  that  Mr.  Pecksniff  sat  with  his  back 
towards  him,  gazing  at  the  fire,  stood  hesitating, 
with  the  door  in  his  hand.  He  was  far  from 
handsome,  certainly  ; and  was  dressed  in  a snuff- 
colored  suit,  of  an  uncouth  make  at  the  best, 
which,  being  shrunk  with  long  wear,  was  twisted 
and  tortured  into  all  kinds  of  odd  shapes  ; but 
notwithstanding  his  attire,  and  his  clumsy  figure, 
which  a great  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  and  a ludi- 
crous habit  he  had  of  thrusting  his  head  forward, 
by  no  means  redeemed,  one  would  not  have  been 
disposed  (unless. Mr.  Pecksniff  said  so)  to  con- 
sider him  a bad  fellow  by  any  means.  lie  was 
perhaps  about  thirty,  but  he  might  have  been 
almost  any  age  between  sixteen  and  sixty  ; being 
one  of  those  strange  creatures  who  never  decline 
into  an  ancient  appearance,  but  look  their  oldest 
when  they  are  very  young,  and  get  it  over  at 
once. — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  2. 

PIPKIN , NA  THAN  I EL.-—  Nathaniel  Pip- 
kin was  a harmless,  inoffensive,  good-natured 
being,  with  a turned  up  nose,  and  rather  turned- 
in  legs  ; a cast  in  liis  eye,  and  a halt  in  his  gait  ; 
and  lie  divided  his  lime  between  the  church  and 
his  school,  verily  believing  that  thCVc  existed  not, 


on  the  face  of  the  earth,  so  clever  a man  as  the 
curate,  so  imposing  an  apartment  as  the  vestry- 
room,  or  so  well-ordered  a seminary  as  his  own. 
Once,  and  only  once,  in  his  life,  Nathaniel  Pip- 
kin had  seen  a bishop — a real  bishop,  with  his 
arms  in  lawn  sleeves,  and  his  head  in  a wig.  lie 
had  seen  him  walk,  and  heard  him  talk,  at  a con- 
firmation, on  which  momentous  occasion  Na- 
thaniel Pipkin  was  so  overcome  with  reverence 
and  awe,  when  the  aforesaid  bishop  laid  his 
hand  on  his  head,  that  he  fainted  right  clean 
away,  and  was  borne  out  of  church  in  the  arms 
of  the  beadle. — Pickwick , Chap.  17. 

POGRAM , ELIJAH , M.C.  — Among  the 
passengers  on  board  the  steamboat,  there  was  a 
faint  gentleman  sitting  on  a low  camp-stool,  with 
his  legs  on  a high  barrel  of  flour,  as  if  he  were 
looking  at  the  prospect  with  his  ankles  ; who  at- 
tracted their  attention  speedily. 

He  had  straight  black  hair,  parted  up  the  mid- 
dle of  his  head,  and  hanging  down  upon  his 
coat  ; a little  fringe  of  hair  upon  his  chin  ; wore 
no  neck-cloth  ; a white  hat  ; a suit  of  black,  long 
in  the  sleeves,  and  short  in  the  legs  ; soiled 
brown  stockings,  and  laced  shoes.  His  com- 
plexion, naturally  muddy,  was  rendered  muddier 
by  too  strict  an  economy  of  soap  and  water  ; and 
the  same  observation  will  apply  to  the  washable 
part  of  his  attire,  which  he  might  have  changed- 
with  comfort  to  himself  and  gratification  to  his 
friends.  He  was  about  five  and  thirty  ; was 
crushed  and  jammed  up  in  a heap,  under  the 
shade  of  a large  green  cotton  umbrella ; and 
ruminated  over  his  tobacco-plug  like  a cow. 

He  was  not  singular,  to  be  sure,  in  these  re- 
spects ; for  every  gentleman  on  board  appeared 
to  have  had  a difference  with  his  laundress,  and 
to  have  left  off  washing  himself  in  early  youth. 
Every  gentleman,  too,  was  perfectly  stopped  up 
with  tight  plugging,  and  was  dislocated  in  the 
greater  part  of  his  joints.  But  about  this  gentle- 
man there  was  a peculiar  air  of  sagacity  and 
wisdom,  which  convinced  Martin  that  he  was  no 
common  character  ; and  this  turned  out  to  be 
the  cas e. — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  34. 

POTT,  the  Editor. — This  was  a tall,  thin  man, 
with  sandy-colored  head  inclined  to  baldness, 
and  a face  in  which  solemn  importance  was 
blended  with  a look  of  unfathomable  profundity. 

1 le  was  dressed  in  along  brown  surtout,  with  a 
black  cloth  waistcoat  and  drab  trousers.  A 
double  eye-glass  dangled  at  his  waistcoat  ; and 
on  his  head  he  wore  a very  low-crowned  hat 
with  a broad  brim.  The  new-comer  was  intro- 
duced to  Mr.  Pickwick  as  Mr.  Pott,  the  editor 
of  the  Eatanswill  Gazette. 

Pickwick , Chap.  13. 

P UMBLE CLI 0 OK. — “ Mrs.  Joe,”  said  Uncle 
Pumblechook  : a large,  hard  breathing,  middle- 
aged,  slow  man,  with  a mouth  like  a fish,  dull 
staring  eyes,  and  sandy  hair  standing  upright  on 
his  head,  so  that  he  looked  as  if  he  had  just  been 
all  but  choked,  and  had  that  moment  come  to. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  4. 

The  mere  sight  of  the  torment,  with  his 
fishy  eyes  and  mouth  open,  his  sandy  hair  in- 
quisitively on  end,  and  his  waistcoat  heaving 
with  windy  arithmetic,  made  me  vicious  in  my 
leticencc. — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  9. 


CHARACTERS  AND 


73 


CHARACTERISTICS 


QUILP.—  YYit  child  was  closely  followed  by 
an  elderly  man  of  remarkably  hard  features  and 
forbidding  aspect,  and  so  low  in  stature  as  to  be 
quite  a dwarf,  though  his  head  and  face  were 
large  enough  for  the  body  of  a giant.  His  black 
eyes  were  restless,  sly,  and  cunning  ; his  mouth 
and  chin,  bristly  with  the  stubble  of  a coarse, 
hard  beard  ; and  his  complexion  was  one  of  that 
kind  which  never  looks  clean  or  wholesome. 
But  what  added  most  to  the  grotesque  expression 
of  his  face,  was  a ghastly  smile,  which,  appear- 
ing to  be  the  mere  result  of  habit,  and  to  have 
no  connection  with  any  mirthful  or  complacent 
feeling,  constantly  revealed  the  few  discolored 
fangs  that  were  yet  scattered  in  his  mouth,  and 
gave  him  the  aspect  of  a panting  dog.  His  dress 
consisted  of  a large  high-crowned  hat,  a worn 
dark  suit,  a pair  of  capacious  shoes,  and  a dirty 
white  neckerchief,  sufficiently  limp  and  crumpled 
to  disclose  the  greater  portion  of  his  wiry  throat. 
Such  hair  as  he  had  was  of  a grizzled  black,  cut 
short  and  straight  upon  his  temples,  and  hang- 
ing in  a frowsy  fringe  about  his  ears.  His  hands, 
which  were  of  a rough,  coarse  grain,  were  very 
dirty  ; his  finger-nails  were  crooked,  long,  and 
yellow. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  3. 

RUDGE,  BARNAB  Y {Idiot). — As  he  stood, 
at  that  moment,  half  shrinking  back  and  half 
bending  forward,  both  his  face  and  figure  were 
full  in  the  strong  glare  of  the  link,  and  as  dis- 
tinctly revealed  as  though  it  had  been  broad 
day.  He  was  about  three-and-twenty  years  old, 
and  though  rather  spare,  of  a fair  height  and 
strong  make.  His  hair,  of  which  he  had  a great 
profusion,  was  red,  and,  hanging  in  disorder 
about  his  face  and  shoulders,  gave  to  his  restless 
looks  an  expression  quite  unearthly — enhanced 
by  the  paleness  of  his  complexion,  and  the  glassy 
lustre  of  his  large  protruding  eyes.  Startling  as 
his  aspect  was,  the  features  were  good,  and  there 
was  something  even  plaintive  in  his  wan  and 
haggard  aspect.  But  the  absence  of  the  soul  is 
far  more  terrible  in  a living  man  than  in  a dead 
one  ; and  in  this  unfortunate,  being  its  noblest 
powers  were  wanting. 

His  dress  was  of  green,  clumsily  trimmed  here 
and  there — apparently  by  his  own  hands — with 
gaudy  lace  ; brightest  where  the  cloth  was  most 
worn  and  soiled,  and  poorest  where  it  was  the 
best.  A pair  of  tawdry  ruffles  dangled  at  his 
wrists,  while  his  throat  was  nearly  bare.  He  had 
ornamented  his  hat  with  a cluster  of  peacock’s 
feathers,  but  they  were  limp  and  broken,  and 
now  trailed  negligently  down  his  back.  Girt  to 
his  side  was  the  steel  hilt  of  an  old  sword  with- 
out blade  or  scabbard  ; and  some  parti-colored 
ends  of  ribands  and  poor  glass  toys  completed 
the  ornamental  portion  of  his  attire.  The  flut- 
tered and  confused  disposition  of  all  the  motley 
scraps  that  formed  his  dress,  bespoke,  in  a 
scarcely  less  degree  than  his  eager  and  unsettled 
manner,  the  disorder  of  his  mind,  and  by  a gro- 
tesque contrast  set  off  and  heightened  the  more 
impressive  wildness  of  his  face. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  3. 

RUGG,  Mr.  and  Miss. — In  the  society  of  Mr. 
Rugg,  who  had  a round  white  visage,  as  if  all 
his  blushes  had  been  drawn  out  of  him  long 
ago,  and  who  had  a ragged  yellow  head  like  a 
worn-out  hearth-broom  ; and  in  the  society  of 
Miss  Rugg,  who  had  little  nankeen  spots,  like 


shirt  buttons,  all  over  her  face,  and  whose  own 
yellow  tresses  were  rather  scrubby  than  luxuri- 
ant ; * * — Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  25. 

SCROOGE,  the  Miser. — Oh  ! But  he  was  a 
tight-fisted  hand  at  the  grindstone,  Scrooge ! a 
squeezing,  wrenching,  grasping,  scraping,  clutch- 
ing, covetous,  old  sinner  ! Hard  and  sharp  as  flint, 
from  which  no  steel  had  ever  struck  out  generous 
fire  ; secret,  and  self-contained,  and  solitary  as  an 
oyster.  The  cold  within  him  froze  his  old  fea- 
tures, nipped  his  pointed  nose,  shrivelled  his 
cheek,  stiffened  his  gait ; made  his  eyes  red,  his 
thin  lips  blue  ; and  spoke  out  shrewdly  in  his 
grating  voice.  A frosty  rime  was  on  his  head, 
and  on  his  eyebrows,  and  his  wiry  chin.  He 
carried  his  own  low  temperature  always  about 
with  him  ; he  iced  his  office  in  the  dog  days, 
and  didn’t  thaw  it  one  degree  at  Christmas. 

External  heat  and  cold  had  little  influence  on 
Scrooge.  No  warmth  could  warm,  no  wintry, 
weather  chill  him.  No  wind  that  blew  was  bit- 
terer than  he,  no  falling  snow  was  more  intent 
upon  its  purpose,  no  pelting  rain  less  open  to 
entreaty.  Foul  weather  didn’t  know  where  to 
have  him.  The  heaviest  rain,  and  snow,  and 
hail,  and  sleet,  could  boast  of  the  advantage 
over  him  in  only  one  respect.  They  often 
“ came  down  ” handsomely,  and  Scrooge  never 
did.  , 

Nobody  ever  stopped  him  in  the  street  to  say, 
with  gladsome  looks,  “ My  dear  Scrooge,  how 
are  you?  When  will  you  come  to  see  me?” 
No  beggars  implored  him  to  bestow  a trifle,  no 
children  asked  him  what  it  was  o’clock,  no  man 
or  woman  ever  once  in  all  his  life  inquired  the 
way  to  such  and  such  a place,  of  Scrooge.  Even 
the  blind  men’s  dogs  appeared  to  know  him  ; and 
when  they  saw  him  coming  on,  would  tug  their 
owners  into  doorways  and  up  courts ; and  then 
would  wag  their  tails  as  though  they  said,  “No 
eye  at  all  is  better  than  an  evil  eye,  dark  mas- 
ter ! ” — Christmas  Carol,  Stave  I. 

SLAMMER,  Dr. — One  of  the  most  popular 
personages,  in  his  own  circle,  present,  was  a little 
fat  man,  with  a ring  of  upright  black  hair  round 
his  head,  and  an  extensive  bald  plain  on  the  top 
of  it — Doctor  Slammer,  surgeon  to  the  97th. 
The  Doctor  took  snuff  with  everybody,  chatted 
with  everybody,  laughed,  danced,  made  jokes, 
played  whist,  did  everything,  and  was  every- 
where. To  these  pursuits,  multifarious  as  they 
were,  the  little  Doctor  added  a more  important 
one  than  any — he  was  indefatigable  in  paying 
the  most  unremitting  and  devoted  attention  to  a 
little  old  widow,  whose  rich  dress  and  profusion 
of  ornament  bespoke  her  a most  desirable  ad- 
dition to  a limited  income. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  2. 

SLOPP  Y. — “ Is  he  called  by  his  right  name  ? ” 

“ Why,  you  see,  speaking  quite  correctly,  he 
has  no  right  name.  I always  understood  he 
took  his  name  from  being  found  on  a Sloppy 
night.” 

“ He  seems  an  amiable  fellow.” 

“ Bless  you,  sir,  there’s  not  a bit  of  him,”  re- 
turned Betty,  “ that’s  not  amiable.  So  you  may 
judge  how  amiable  he  is,  by  running  your  eye 
along  his  height.” 

Of  an  ungainly  make  was  Sloppy.  Too  much 
of  him  longwise,  too  little  of  him  broadw;se, 


CHARACTERS  AND 


74 


CHARACTERISTICS 


and  too  many  sharp  angles  of  him  anglewise. 
One  of  those  shambling  male  human  creatures, 
born  to  be  indiscreetly  candid  in  the  revelation 
of  buttons ; every  button  he  had  about  him 
glaring  at  the  public  to  a quite  preternatural  ex- 
tent. A considerable  capital  of  knee  and  elbow 
and  wrist  and  ankle  had  Sloppy,  and  he  didn’t 
know  how  to  dispose  of  it  to  the  best  advan- 
tage, but  was  always  investing  it  in  wrong  se- 
curities, and  so  getting  himself  into  embarrassed 
circumstances.  Full-Private  Number  One  in  the 
Awkward  Squad  of  the  rank  and  file  of  life,  was 
Sloppy,  and  yet  had  his  glimmering  notions  of 
standing  true  to  the  Colors. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  16. 

SLYME , CHEVY. — He  might  have  added 
that  he  hated  two  sorts  of  men  ; all  those  who 
did  him  favors,  and  all  those  who  were  better 
off  than  himself  ; as  in  either  case  their  position 
was  an  insult  to  a man  of  his  stupendous  merits. 
But  he  did  not ; for  with  the  apt  closing  words 
above  recited,  Mr.  Slyme — of  too  haughty  a 
stomach  to  work,  to  beg,  to  borrow,  or  to  steal  ; 
yet  mean  enough  to  be  worked  or  borrowed, 
begged  or  stolen  for,  by  any  catspaw  that  would 
serve  his  turn  ; too  insolent  to  lick  the  hand  that 
fed  him  in  his  need,  yet  cur  enough  to  bite  and 
tear  it  in  the  dark- — with  these  apt  closing  words, 
Mr.  Slyme  fell  forward  with  his  head  upon  the 
table,  and  so  declined  into  a sodden  sleep. 

“Was  there  ever,”  cried  Mr.  Tigg,  joining  the 
young  men  at  the  door,  and  shutting  it  carefully 
behind  him,  “ such  an  independent  spirit  as  is 
possessed  by  that  extraordinary  creature  ? Was 
there  ever  such  a Roman  as  our  friend  Chiv  ? 
Was  there  ever  a man  of  such  a purely  classical 
turn  of  thought,  and  of  such  a toga-like  sim- 
plicity of  nature  ? Was  there  ever  a man  with 
such  a flow  of  eloquence?  Might  he  not,  gents 
both,  I ask,  have  sat  upon  a tripod  in  the-ancient 
times,  and  prophesied  to  a perfectly  unlimited 
extent,  if  previously  supplied  with  gin-and-water 
at  the  public  cost  ? ” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  7. 

SMALL  WEED,  Grandfather , {Usurer). — 
The  father  of  this  pleasant  grandfather,  of  the 
neighborhood  of  Mount  Pleasant,  was  a horny- 
skinned,  two-legged,  money-getting  species  of 
spider,  who  spun  webs  to  catch  unwary  flies,  and 
retired  into  holes  until  they  were  entrapped. 
The  name  of  this  old  pagan’s  God  was  Com- 
pound Interest.  He  lived  for  it,  married  it, 
died  of  it.  Meeting  with  a heavy  loss  in  an  honest 
little  enterprise,  in  which  all  the  loss  was  in- 
tended to  have  been  on  the  other  side,  he  broke 
something — something  necessary  to  his  exist- 
ence ; therefore  it  couldn’t  have  been  his  heart — 
and  made  an  end  of  his  career.  As  his  charac- 
ter was  not  good,  and  he  had  been  bred  at  a 
Charity  School,  in  a complete  course,  according 
to  question  and  answer,  of  those  ancient  people 
the  Amorites  and  Hittites,  he  was  frequently 
quoted  as  an  example  of  the  failure  of  educa- 
tion. 

II is  spirit  shone  through  his  son,  to  whom  he 
had  always  preached  of  “ going  out  ” early  in 
life,  and  whom  he  made  a clerk  in  a sharp 
scrivener’s  office  at  twelve  years  old.  There, 
the  young  gentleman  improved  his  mind,  which 
was  of  a lean  and  anxious  character  ; and,  de- 
veloping the  family  gifts,  gradually  elevated 


himself  into  the  discounting  profession.  Going 
out  early  in  life,  and  marrying  late,  as  his  father 
had  done  before  him,  he,  too,  begat  a lean  and 
anxious-minded  son  ; who,  in  his  turn,  going  out 
early  in  life  and  marrying  late,  became  the  father 
of  Bartholomew  and  Judith  Small  weed,  twins. 
During  the  whole  time  consumed  in  the  slow 
growth  of  this  family-tree,  the  house  of  Small- 
weed,  always  early  to  go  out  and  late  to  marry, 
has  strengthened  itself  in  its  practical  character, 
has  discarded  all  amusements,  discountenanced 
all  story  books,  fairy  tales,  fictions,  and  fables, 
and  banished  all  levities  whatsoever.  Hence 
the  gratifying  fact,  that  it  has  had  no  child  born 
to  it,  and  that  the  complete  little  men  and 
women  whom  it  has  produced,  have  been  ob- 
served to  bear  a likeness  to  old  monkeys  with 
something  depressing  on  their  minds. 

****** 

Grandfather  Smallweed  has  been  gradually 
sliding  down  in  his  chair  since  his  last  adjust- 
ment, and  is  now  a bundle  of  clothes,  with  a 
voice  in  it  calling  for  Judy. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  2T. 

SNITCHEY  [Lawyer). — A cold,  hard,  dry 
man,  dressed  in  gray  and  white,  like  a flint  ; with 
small  twinkles  in  his  eyes,  as  if  something  struck 
sparks  out  of  them.  The  three  natural  king- 
doms, indeed,  had  each  a fanciful  representative 
among  this  brotherhood  of  disputants ; for 
Snitchey  was  like  a magpie  or  a raven  (only  not 
so  sleek),  and  the  Doctor  had  a streaked  face 
like  a winter-pippin,  with  here  and  there  a dim- 
ple to  express  the  peckings  of  the  birds,  and  a 
very  little  bit  of  pigtail  behind  that  stood  for  the 
stalk. — Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  1. 

SNAGSB  Y,  Mr.  and  Mrs. — In  his  lifetime, 
and  likewise  in  the  periorl  of  Snagsby’s  “ time  ” 
of  seven  long  years,  there  dwelt  with  Peffer,  in 
the  same  law-stationering  premises,  a niece — a 
short,  shrewd  niece,  something  too  violently  com- 
pressed about  the  waist,  and  with  a sharp  nose 
like  a sharp  autumn  evening,  inclining  to  be 
frosty  towards  the  end.  The  Cook’s-Courtiers 
had  a rumor  flying  among  them,  that  the  mother 
of  this  niece  did,  in  her  daughter’s  childhood, 
moved  by  too  jealous  a solicitude  that  her  figure 
should  approach  perfection,  lace  her  up  every 
morning  with  her  maternal  foot  against  the  bed- 
post for  a stronger  hold  and  purchase  ; and  fur- 
ther, that  she  exhibited  internally  pints  of  vine- 
gar and  lemon-juice  ; which  acids,  they  held,  had 
mounted  to  the  nose  and  temper  of  the  patient. 
With  whichsoever  of  the  many  tongues  of  Rumor 
this  frothy  report  originated,  it  either  never 
reached,  or  never  influenced,  the  ears  of  young 
Snagsby  ; who,  having  wooed  and  won  its  fair 
subject  on  his  arrival  at  man’s  estate,  entered 
into  two  partnerships  at  once.  So  now,  in  Cook’s 
Court.  Cursitor  Street,  Mr.  Snagsby  and  the  niece 
are  one  ; and  the  niece  still  cherishes  her  figure 
— which,  however  tastes  may  differ,  is  unques- 
tionably so  far  precious,  that  there  is  mighty  little 
of  it. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Snagsby  are  not  only  one  bone 
and  one  flesh,  but,  to  the  neighbors’^  thinking, 
one  voice  too.  That  voice,  appearing  to  proceed 
from  Mrs.  .Snagsby  alone,  is  heard  in  Cook’s 
Court  very  often.  Mr.  Snagsby,  otherwise  than 
as  he  finds  expression  through  these  dulcet 
tones,  is  rarely  heard.  He  is  a mild,  bald,  timid 


CHARACTERS  AND 


75 


CHARACTERISTICS 


man,  with  a shining  head,  and  a scrubby  clump 
of  black  hair  sticking  out  at  the  back.  He  tends 
to  meekness  and  obesity.  As  he  stands  at  his 
door  in  Cook’s  Court,  in  his  gray  shop-coat  and 
black  calico  sleeves,  looking  up  at  the  clouds  ; or 
stands  behind  his  desk  in  his  dark  shop,  with  a 
heavy  flat  ruler,  snipping  and  slicing  at  sheep- 
skin, in  company  with  his  two  ’prentices  ; he  is 
emphatically  a retiring  and  unassuming  man. 
From  beneath  his  feet,  at  such  times,  as  from  a 
shrill  ghost  unquiet  in  its  grave,  there  frequently 
arise  complainings  and  lamentations  in  the  voice 
already  mentioned  ; and  haply,  on  some  occa- 
sions, when  these  reach  a sharper  pitch  than 
usual,  Mr.  Snagsby  mentions  to  the  ’prentices, 
“ I think  my  little  woman  is  a-giving  it  to  Ous- 
ter ! ” 

* * * ❖ ^ 

Rumor,  always  flying,  bat-like,  about  Cook’s 
Court,  and  skimming  in  and  out  at  everybody’s 
windows,  does  say  that  Mrs.  Snagsby  is  jealous 
and  inquisitive  ; and  that  Mr.  Snagsby  is  some- 
times worried  out  of  house  and’ home,  and  that 
if  he  had  the  spirit  of  a mouse  he  wouldn’t  stand 
it.  It  is  even  observed  that  the  wives  who  quote 
him  to  their  self-willed  husbands  as  a shining 
example,  in  reality  look  down  upon  him  ; and 
that  nobody  does  so  with  greater  supercilious- 
ness than  one  particular  lady,  whose  lord  is  more 
than  suspected  of  laying  his  umbrella  on  h.er  as 
an  instrument  of  correction.  But  these  vague 
whisperings  may  arise  from  Mr.  Snagsby’s  being, 
in  his  way,  rather  a meditative  and  poetical  man  ; 
loving  to  walk  in  Staple  Inn  in  the  summer 
time,  and  to  observe  how  countrified  the  spar- 
rows and  the  leaves  are  ; also  to  lounge  about 
the  Rolls  Yard  of  a Sunday  afternoon,  and  to 
remark  (if  in  good  spirits)  that  there  were  old 
times  once,  and  that  you’d  find  a stone  coffin  or 
two,  now,  under  that  chapel,  he’ll  be  bound,  if 
you  was  to  dig  for  it.  He  solaces  his  imagina- 
tion, too,  by  thinking  of  the  many  Chancellors 
and  Vices,  and  Masters  of  the  Rolls,  who  are  de- 
ceased ; and  he  gets  such  a flavor  of  the  country 
out  of  telling  the  two  ’prentices  how  he  has 
heard  say  that  a b’rook  “ as  clear  as  crystial  ” once 
ran  right  down  the  middle  of  Holborn,  when 
Turnstile  really  was  a turnstile,  leading  slap 
away  into  the  meadows — gets  such  a flavor  of 
the  country  out  of  this,  that  he  never  wants  to 
go  there. — Bleak  House , Chap.  io. 

SOWERBERR  Y ( the  Undertaker).  — Mr. 
Sowerberry  was  a tall,  gaunt,  large-jointed  man, 
attired  in  a suitpf  threadbare  black,  with  darned 
cotton  stockings  of  the  same  color,  and  shoes  to 
answer.  His  features  were  not  naturally  intended 
to  wear  a smiling  aspect,  but  he  was  in  general 
rather  given  to  professional  jocosity.  His  step 
was  elastic,  and  his  face  betokened  inward  pleas- 
antry.— Oliver  Twist , Chap.  4. 

SPENLOW  ( the  Lawyer ) — He  was  a little 
light-haired  gentleman,  with  undeniable  boots, 
and  the  stiffest  of  white  cravats  and  shirt- collars. 
He  was  buttoned  up  mighty  trim  and  tight,  and 
must  have  taken  a great  deal  of  pains  with  his 
whiskers,  which  were  accurately  curled.  His 
gold  watch-chain  was  so  massive,  that  a fancy 
came  across  me,  that  he  ought  to  have  a sinewy 
golden  arm,  to  draw  it  out  with,  like  those  which 
are  put  up  over  the  gold  beaters’  shops.  He  was 
got  up  with  such  care,  and  was  so  stiff,  that  he 


could  hardly  bend  himself ; being  obliged,  when 
he  glanced  at  some  papers  on  his  desk,  after  sit 
ting  down  in  his  chair,  to  move  his  whole  body, 
from  the  bottom  of  his  spine,  like  Punch. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  23. 

SQUEERS  ( Schoolmaster ). — Mr.  . Squeers’s 
appearance  was  not  pi'epossessing.  He  had  but 
one  eye,  and  the  popular  prejudice  runs  in  favor 
of  two.  The  eye  he  had  was  unquestionably 
useful,  but  decidedly  not  ornamental ; being  of 
a greenish  gray,  and  in  shape  resembling  the 
fan-light  of  a street  door.  The  blank  side  of  his 
face  was  much  wrinkled  and  puckered  up,  which 
gave  him  a very  sinister  appearance,  especially 
when  he  smiled,  at  which  times  his  expression 
bordered  closely  on  the  villanous.  Plis  hair  was 
very  flat  and  shiny,  save  at  the  ends,  where  it 
was  brushed  stiffly  up  from  a low  protruding 
forehead,  which  assorted  well  with  his  harsh 
voice  and  coarse  manner.  He  was  about  two  or 
three  and  fifty,  and  a trifle  below  the  middle 
size  ; he  wore  a white  neckerchief  with  long 
ends,  and  a suit  of  scholastic  black  ; but  his 
coat-sleeves  being  a great  deal  too  long,  and  his 
trousers  a great  deal  too  short,  he  appeared  ill 
at  ease  in  his  clothes,  and  as  if  he  were  in  a per- 
petual state  of  astonishment  at  finding  himself 
so  respectable. — Nicholas  Nicklel>y>  Chap.  4. 

SQUOD,  PHIL. — “Shut  up  shop,  Phil  ! ” 

As  Phil  moves  about  to  execute  this  order,  it 
appears  that  he  is  lame,  though  able  to  move 
very  quickly.  On  the  speckled  side  of  his  face 
he  has  no  eyebrow,  and  on  the  other  side  he  has 
a bushy  black  one,  which  want  of  uniformity 
gives  him  a very  singular  and  rather  sinister  ap- 
pearance. Everything  seems  to  have  happened 
to  his  hands  that  could  possibly  take  place,  con- 
sistently with  the  retention  of  all  the  fingers  ; 
for  they  are  notched,  and  seamed,  and  crumpled 
all  over.  He  appears  to  be  very  strong,  and 
lifts  heavy  benches  about  as  if  he  had  no  idea 
what  weight  wras.  He  has  a curious  way  of 
limping  round  the  gallery  with  his  shoulder 
against  the  wall,  and  tacking  off  at  objects  he 
wants  to  lay  hold  of,  instead  of  going  straight  to 
them,  which  has  left  a smear  all  round  the  four 
walls,  conventionally  called  “ Phil’s  mark.” 

❖ * * * ❖ * 

The  little  man  is  dressed  something  like  a 
gunsmith,  in  a green  baize  apron  and  cap  ; and 
his  face  and  hands  are  dirty  with  gunpowder, 
and  begrimed  with  the  loading  of  guns.  As  he 
lies  in  the  light,  before  a glaring  white  target, 
the  black  upon  him  shines  again.  Not  far  off  is 
the  strong,  rough,  primitive  table,  with  a vice 
upon  it,  at  which  he  has  been  working.  He  is 
a little  man  with  a face  all  crushed  together,  who 
appears,  from  a certain  blue  and  speckled  ap- 
pearance that  one  of  his  cheeks  presents,  to  have 
been  blown  up,  in  the  w'ay  of  business,  at  some 
odd  time  or  times. — Bleak  House , Chap.  21. 

STIGGLNS  {the  Reverend  Shepherd). — “ Now, 
then  ! ” said  a shrill  female  voice  the  instant 
Sam  thrust  his  head  in  at  the  door,  “ what  do 
you  want,  young  man  ? ” 

Sam  looked  round  in  the  direction  whence  the 
voice  proceeded.  It  came  from  a rather  stout 
lady  of  comfortable  appearance,  who  was  seated 
beside  the  fire-place  in  the  bar,  blowing  the  fire 
to  make  the  kettle  boil  for  tea.  She  was  not 


CHARACTERS  AND 


76 


CHARACTERISTICS 


alone  ; for  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire-place, 
sitting  bolt  upright  in  a high-backed  chair,  was  a 
man  in  threadbare  black  clothes,  with  a back 
almost  as  long  and  stiff  as  that  of  the  chair 
itself,  who  caught  Sam’s  most  particular  and 
especial  attention  at  once. 

He  was  a prim-faced,  red  nosed  man,  with  a 
long,  thin  countenance,  and  a semi-rattlesnake 
sort  of  eye — rather  sharp,  but  decidedly  bad. 
He  wore  very  short  trousers,  and  black  cotton 
stockings,  which,  like  the  rest  of  his  apparel, 
were  particularly  rusty.  His  looks  were  starched, 
but  his  white  neckerchief  was  not,  and  its  long 
limp  ends  straggled  over  Jiis  closely-buttoned 
waistcoat  in  a very  uncouth  and  unpicturesque 
fashion.  A pair  of  old,  worn  beaver  gloves,  a 
broad-brimmed  hat,  and  a faded  green  umbrella, 
with  plenty  of  whalebone  sticking  through  the 
bottom,  as  if  to  counterbalance  the  want  of  a 
handle  at  the  top,  lay  on  a chair  beside  him,  and, 
being  disposed  in  a very  tidy  and  careful  man- 
ner, seemed  to  imply  that  the  red-nosed  man, 
whoever  he  was,  had  no  intention  of  going 
away  in  a hurry. 

To  do  the  red-nosed  man  justice,  he  would 
have  been  very  far  from  wise  if  he  had  enter- 
tained any  such  intention  ; for,  to  judge  from  all 
appearances,  he  must  have  been  possessed  of  a 
most  desirable  circle  of  acquaintance,  if  he  could 
have  reasonably  expected  to  be  more  comfortable 
anywhere  else.  The  fire  was  blazing  brightly 
under  the  influence  of  the  bellows,  and  the  ket- 
tle was  singing  gaily  under  the  influence  of  both. 
A small  tray  of  tea-things  was  arranged  on  the 
table,  a plate  of  hot  buttered  toast  was  gently 
simmering  before  the  fire,  and  the  red  nosed 
man  himself  was  busily  engaged  in  converting  a 
large  slice  of  bread  into  the  same  agreeable 
edible,  through  the  instrumentality  of  a long 
brass  toasting-fork.  Beside  him  stood  a glass  of 
reeking  hot  pine-apple  rum  and  water,  with  a 
slice  of  lemon  in  it  ; and  every  time  the  red- 
nosed man  stopped  to  bring  the  round  of  toast 
to  his  eye,  with  the  view  of  ascertaining  how  it 
got  on,  he  imbibed  a drop  or  two  of  the  hot 
pine-apple  rum  and  water,  and  smiled  upon  the 
rather  stout  lady,  as  she  blew  the  fire. 

Pickwick , Chap.  27. 

STRYVER  (Lawyer). — So,  he  pushed  open 
the  door  with  the  weak  rattle  in  its  throat, 
stumbled  down  the  two  steps,  got  past  the  two 
ancient  cashiers,  and  shouldered  himself  into  the 
musty  back  closet  where  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  great 
books  ruled  for  figures,  with  perpendicular  iron 
bars  to  his  window  as  if  that  were  ruled  for  fig- 
ures too,  and  everything  under  the  clouds  were 
a sum. 

“ Halloa  ! ” said  Mr.  Stryver.  “ How  do  you 
do  ? I hope  you  are  well ! ” 

It  was  Stryver’s  grand  peculiarity  that  he  al- 
ways seemed  too  big  for  any  place,  or  space.  He 
was  so  much  too  big  for  Tcllson’s,  that  old  clerks 
in  distant  corners  looked  up  with  looks  of  re- 
monstrance, as  though  he  squeezed  them  against 
the  wall.  The  House  itself,  magnificently  read- 
ing the  paper  quite  in  the  far-off  perspective, 
lowered  displeased,  as  if  the  Stryver  head  had 
been  butted  into  its  responsible  waistcoat. 

Tale  of  7 'wo  Cities , Chap . 12. 

SI'RONG , Dr. — Doctor  Strong  looked  almost 
as  rusty,  to  my  thinking,  as  the  tall  iron  rails 


and  gates  outside  the  house  ; and  almost  as  stiff 
and  heavy  as  the  great  stone  urns  that  flanked 
them,  and  were  set  up,  on  the  top  of  the  red- 
brick wall,  at  regular  distances  all  round  the 
court,  like  sublimated  slyttles,  for  Time  to  play 
at.  He  was  in  his  library  (I  mean  Doctor  Strong 
was),  with  his  clothes  not  particularly  well- 
brushed,  and  his  hair  not  particularly  well- 
combed  ; his  knee-smalls  unbraced  ; his  long 
black  gaiters  unbuttoned  ; and  his  shoes  yawn- 
ing like  two  caverns  on  the  hearth-rug.  'fum- 
ing upon  me  a lustreless  eye,  that  reminded  me 
of  a long-forgotten  blind  old  horse  who  once 
used  to  crop  the  grass,  and  tumble  over  the 
graves,  in  Blunderstone  churchyard,  he  said  he 
was  glad  to  see  me  ; and  then  he  gave  me  his 
hand  ; which  I didn’t  know  what  to  do  with,  as 
it  did  nothing  for  itself. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  16. 

SWIVELLER , DICK. — It  was  perhaps  not 
very  unreasonable  to  suspect  from  what  had  al- 
ready passed,  that  Mr.  Swiveller  was  not  quite 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  powerful  sun- 
light to  which  he  had  made  allusion  ; but  if  no 
such  suspicion  had  been  awakened  by  his  speech, 
his  wiry  hair,  dull  eyes,  and  sallow  face,  would 
still  have  been  strong  witnesses  against  him. 
His  attire  was  not,  as  he  had  himself  hinted, 
remarkable  for  the  nicest  arrangement,  but  was 
in  a state  of  disorder  which  strongly  induced 
the  idea  that  he  had  gone  to  bed  in  it.  It  con- 
sisted of  a brown  body-coat  with  a great  many 
brass  buttons  up  the  front,  and  only  one  behind  ; 
a bright  check  neckerchief,  a plaid  waistcoat, 
soiled  white  trousers,  and  a very  limp  hat,  worn 
with  the  wrong  side  foremost,  to  hide  a hole  in 
the  brim.  The  breast  of  his  coat  was  ornamented 
with  an  outside  pocket  from  which  there  peeped 
forth  the  cleanest  end  of  a very  large  and  very 
ill-favored  handkerchief ; his  dirty  wristbands 
were  pulled  down  as  far  as  possible  and  ostenta- 
tiously folded  back  over  his  cuffs  ; he  displayed 
no  gloves,  and  carried  a yellow  cane  having  at 
the  top  a bone  hand  with  the  semblance  of  a 
ring  on  its  little  finger  and  a black  ball  in  its 
grasp.  With  all  these  personal  advantages  (to 
which  may  be  added  a strong  savor  of  tobacco- 
smoke,  and  a prevailing  greasiness  of  appear- 
ance) Mr.  Swiveller  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  and  occasionally 
pitching  his  voice  to  the  needful  key,  obliged  the 
company  with  a few  bars  of  an  intensely  dismal 
air,  and  then,  in  the  middle  of  a note,  relapsed 
into  his  former  silence. 

Old  Cunosity  Shop , Chap.  2. 

TACKLE  TON. — He  didn’t  look  much  like 
a Bridegroom,  as  he  stood  in  the  Carrier’s  kit- 
chen, with  a twist  in  his  dry  face,  and  a screw 
in  his  body,  and  his  hat  jerked  over  the  bridge 
of  his  nose,  and  his  hands  tucked  down  into  the 
bottoms  of  his  pockets,  and  his  whole  sarcastic 
ill-conditioned  self  peering  out  of  one  little  cor- 
ner of  one  little  eye,  like  the  concentrated  es- 
sence of  any  number  of  ravens.  But,  a Bride- 
groom he  designed  to  be. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  1. 

TAPPER  TIT,  SIMON. — Sim,  as  he  was 
called  in  the  locksmith’s  family,  or  Mr.  Simon 
Tappertit,  as  he  called  himself,  and  required  all 
men  to  style  him  out  of  doors,  on  holidays,  and 


CHARACTEItS  AND 


77 


CHASA  3TEHI3TIC3 


Sundays  out — was  an  old-fashioned,  thin-faced, 
sleek-haired,  sharp-nosed,  small  eyed  little  fel- 
low, very  little  more  than  five  feet  high,  and 
thoroughly  convinced  in  his  own  mind  that  he 
was  above  the  middle  size  ; rather  tall,  in  fact, 
than  otherwise.  Of  his  figure,  which  was  well 
enough  formed,  though  somewhat  of  the  leanest, 
he  entertained  the  highest  admiration  ; and  with 
his  legs,  which,  in  knee-breeches,  were  perfect 
curiosities  of  littleness,  he  was  enraptured  to  a 
degree  amounting  to  enthusiasm.  He  also  had 
some  majestic,  shadowy  ideas,  which  had  never 
been  quite  fathomed  by  his  intimate  friends, 
concerning  the  power  of  his  eye.  Indeed,  he 
had  been  known  to  go  so  far  as  to  boast  that  he 
could  utterly  quell  and  subdue  the  haughtiest 
beauty  by  a simple  process,  which  he  termed 
“ eyeing  her  over  ; ” but  it  must  be  added,  that 
neither  of  this  faculty,  nor  of  the  power  he  claim- 
ed to  have,  through  the  same  gift,  of  vanquishing 
and  heaving  down  dumb  animals,  even  in  a rabid 
state,  had  he  ever  furnished  evidence  which  could 
be  deemed  quite  satisfactory  and  conclusive. 

It  may  be  inferred  from  these  premises,  that 
in  the  small  body  of  Mr.  Tappertit  there  was 
locked  up  an  ambitious  and  aspiring  soul.  As 
certain  liquors,  confined  in  casks  too  cramped 
in  their  dimensions,  will  ferment,  and  fret,  and 
chafe  in  their  imprisonment,  so  the  spiritual  es- 
sence or  soul  of  Mr.  Tappertit.  would  sometimes 
fume  within  that  previous  cask,  his  body,  until, 
with  great  foam  and  froth  and  splutter,  it  would 
force  a vent,  and  carry  all  before  it.  It  was  his 
custom  to  remark,  in  reference  to  any  one  of 
these  occasions,  that  his  soul  had  got  into  his 
head  ; and  in  this  novel  kind  of  intoxication, 
many  scrapes  and  mishaps  befell  him,  which  he 
had  frequently  concealed  with  no  small  difficulty 
from  his  worthy  master. 

Sim  Tappertit,  among  the  other  fancies  upon 
which  his  before-mentioned  soul  was  for  ever 
feasting  and  regaling  itself  (and  which  fancies, 
like  the  liver  of  Prometheus,  grew  as  they  were 
fed  upon),  had  a mighty  notion  of  his  order  ; and 
had  been  heard  by  the  servant-maid  openly  ex- 
piessing  his  regret  that  the  ’prentices  no  longer 
carried  clubs  wherewith  to  mace  the  citizens  ; 
that  was  his  strong  expression. 

* * * * * * 

In  respect  of  dress  and  personal  decoration, 
Sim  Tappertit  was  no  less  of  an  adventurous 
and  enterprising  character.  He  had  been  seen 
beyond  dispute  to  pull  off  ruffles' of  the  finest 
quality  at  the  corner  of  the  street  on  Sunday 
night,  and  to  put  them  carefully  in  his  pocket 
before  returning  home  ; and  it  was  quite  notori- 
ous that  on  all  great  holiday  occasions  it  was  his 
habit  to  exchange  his  plain  steel  knee-buckles 
for  a pair  of  glittering  paste,  under  cover  of  a 
friendly  post,  planted  most  conveniently  in  that 
same  spot.  Add  to  this,  that  he  was  in  years 
just  twenty,  in  his  looks  much  older,  and  in  con- 
ceit at  least  two  hundred  ; that  he  had  no  ob- 
jection to  be  jested  with,  touching  his  admira- 
tion of  his  master’s  daughter  ; and  had  even, 
when  called  upon  at  a certain  obscure  tavern  to 
pledge  the  lady  whom  he  honored  with  his  love, 
toasted  with  many  winks  and  leers,  a fair  crea- 
ture whose  Christian  name,  he  said,  began  with  a 
P — I — and  as  much  is  known  of  Sim  Tappertit, 
who  has  by  this  time  followed  the  locksmith  in  to 
breakfast,  as  is  necessary  to  be  known  in  making 
his  acquaintance. — Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  4. 


TIBBS , Mr.  and  Mrs. — Mrs.  Tibbs  was 
somewhat  short  of  stature,  and  Mr.  Tibbs  was 
by  no  means  a large  man.  He  had,  moreover, 
very  short  legs,  but,  by  way  of  indemnification, 
his  face  was  peculiarly  long.  He  was  to  his 
wife  what  the  o is  in  90 — he  was  of  some  impor- 
tance with  her — he  was  nothing  without  her. 
Mrs.  Tibbs  was  always  talking.  Mr.  Tibbs 
rarely  spoke  ; but,  if  it  were  at  any  time  possible 
to  put  in  a word  when  he  should  have  said 
nothing  at  all,  he  had  that  talent.  Mrs.  Tibbs 
detested  long  stories,  and  Mr.  Tibbs  had  one, 
the  conclusion  of  which  had  never  been  heard 
by  his  most  intimate  friends.  It  always  began, 
“ I recollect  when  I was  in  the  volunteer  corps, 
in  eighteen  hundred  and  six,” — but,  as  he  spoke 
very  slowly  and  softly,  and  his  better  half  very 
quickly  and  loudly,  he  rarely  got  beyond  the 
introductory  sentence.  He  was  a melancholy 
specimen  of  the  story-teller.  He  was  the  wan- 
dering jew  of  Joe  Millerism. 

Tales.  The  Boarding-House , Chap.  1. 

TIGG,  MONTAGUE.— Mr.  Pecksniff  found 
himself  immediately  collared  by  something  which 
smelt  like  several  damp  umbrellas,  a barrel  of 
beer,  a cask  of  warm  brandy-and-water,  and  a 
small  parlor-full  of  stale  tobacco-smoke  mixed  ; 
and  was  straightway  led  down  stairs  into  the 
bar  from  which  he  had  lately  come,  where  he 
found  himself  standing  opposite  to,  and  in  the 
grasp  of,  a perfectly  strange  gentleman  of  still 
stranger  appearance,  who,  with  his  disengaged 
hand,  rubbed  his  own  head  very  hard,  and 
looked  at  him,  Pecksniff,  with  an  evil  counte- 
nance. 

The  gentleman  was  of  that  order  of  appear- 
ance which  is  currently  termed  shabby-genteel, 
though  in  respect  of  his  dress  he  can  hardly  be 
said  to  have  been  in  any  extremities,  as  his  fin- 
gers were  a long  way  out  of  his  gloves,  and  the 
soles  of  his  feet  were  at  an  inconvenient  dis- 
tance from  the  upper  leather  of  his  boots.  His 
nether  garments  were  of  a bluish  gray — violent  in 
its  colors  once,  but  sobered  now  by  age  and  din- 
giness— and  were  so  stretched  and  strained  in  a 
tough  conflict  between  his  braces  and  his  straps, 
that  they  appeared  every  moment  in  danger  of 
flying  asunder  at  the  knees.  His  coat,  in  color 
blue  and  of  a military  cut,  was  buttoned  and 
frogged  up  to  his  chin.  His  cravat  was,  in  hue 
and  pattern,  like  one  of  those  mantles  which 
hair-dressers  are  accustomed  to  wrap  about  their 
clients,  during  the  progress  of  the  professional 
mysteries.  His  hat  had  arrived  at  such  a pass 
that  it  would  have  been  hard  to  determine 
whether  it  was  originally  white  or  black.  But 
he  wore  a moustache — a shaggy  moustache,  too  ; 
nothing  in  the  meek  and  merciful  way,  but  quite 
in  the  fierce  and  scornful  style  ; the  regular  Sa- 
tanic sort  of  thing — and  he  wore,  besides,  a vast 
quantity  of  unbrushed  hair.  He  was  very  dirty 
and  very  jaunty  ; very  bold  and  very  mean  ; 
very  swaggering  and  very  slinking  ; very  much 
like  a man  who  might  have  been  something  bet- 
ter, and  unspeakably  like  a man  who  deserved 
to  be  something  worse. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  4. 

TIGG  ( the  Financier *.) — The  appearance  of 
Mr.  Bailey’s  governor  as  he  drove  along,  fully 
justified  that  enthusiastic  youth’s  description  of 
him  to  the  wondering  Poll.  He  had  a world 


C H AH  A.  CTE  R 3 AND 


73 


CHARACTERISTIC! 


of  jet-black  shining  hair  upon  his  head,  upon 
his  cheeks,  upon  his  chin,  upon  his  upper  lip. 
His  clothes,  symmetrically  made,  were  of  the 
newest  fashion  and  the  costliest  kind.  Flowers 
of  gold  and  blue,  and  green  and  blushing  red, 
were  on  his  waistcoat ; precious  chains  and  jew- 
els sparkled  on  his  breast  ; his  fingers,  clogged 
with  brilliant  rings,  were  as  unwieldy  as  summer 
flies  but  newly  rescued  from  a honey-pot.  The 
daylight  mantled  in  his  gleaming  hat  and  boots 
as  in  a polished  glass.  And  yet,  though  changed 
his  name,  and  changed  his  outward  surface,  it 
was  Tigg.  Though  turned  and  twisted  upside 
down,  and  inside  out,  as  great  men  have  been 
sometimes  known  to  be  ; though  no  longer  Mon- 
tague Tigg,  but  Tigg  Montague  ; still  it  was 
Tigg  ; the  same  Satanic,  gallant,  military  Tigg. 
The  brass  was  burnished,  lacquered,  newly- 
stamped  ; yet  it  was  the  true  Tigg  metal  not- 
withstanding.— Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap . 27. 

TOODLE , Mr. — He  was  a strong,  loose, 
round  shouldered,  shuffling,  shaggy  fellow,  on 
whom  his  clothes  sat  negligently  ; with  a good 
deal  of  hair  and  whisker,  deepened  in  its  natural 
tint,  perhaps,  by  smoke  and  coal-dust ; hard 
knotty  hands  ; and  a square  forehead,  as  coarse 
in  grain  as  the  bark  of  an  oak. 

****** 

He  was  dressed  in  a canvas  suit  abundantly 
besmeared  with  coal-dust  and  oil,  and  had  cin- 
ders in  his  whiskers,  and  a smell  of  half-slaked 
ashes  all  over  him.  He  was  not  a bad-looking 
fellow,  nor  even  what  could  be  fairly  called  a 
dirty  looking  fellow,  in  spite  of  this  ; and,  in 
short,  he  was  Mr.  Toodle,  professionally  clothed. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  2. 

TOOTS,  Mr. — There  young  Toots  was,  pos- 
sessed of  the  gruffest  of  voices  and  the  shrillest 
of  minds ; sticking  ornamental  pins  into  his 
shirt,  and  keeping  a ring  in  his  waistcoat  pocket 
to  put  on  his  little  finger  by  stealth,  when  the 
pupils  went  out  walking  ; constantly  falling  in 
love  by  sight  with  nurserymaids,  who  had  no 
idea  of  his  existence;  and  looking- at  the  gas- 
lighted  world  over  the  little  iron  bars  in  the 
left-hand  corner  window  of  the  front  three  pairs 
of  stairs,  after  bed-time,  like  a greatly  overgrown 
cherub  who  had  sat  up  aloft  much  too  long. 

Dojnbey  & Son,  Chap.  11. 

TOTTLE,  WATICINS  [a  Bachelor).— Mr. 
Watkins  Tottle  was  a rather  uncommon  com- 
pound of  strong  uxorious  inclinations,  and  an 
unparalleled  degree  of  anti-connubial  timidity. 
Fie  was  about  fifty  years  of  age  ; stood  four  feet 
six  inches  and  three-quarters  in  his  socks — for 
he  never  stood  in  stocking  at  all — plump,  clean, 
and  rosy.  lie  looked  something  like  a vignette 
to  one  of  Richardson’s  novels,  and  had  a clean- 
crava/idi  formality  of  manner,  and  kitchen- 
pokcrness  of  carriage,  which  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son  himself  might  have  envied.  lie  lived  on  an 
annuity,  which  was  well  adapted  to  the  indi- 
vidual who  received  it,  in  one  respect — it  was 
rather  small.  He  received  it  in  periodical 
payments  on  every  alternate  Monday  ; but  he 
ran  himself  out,  about  a day  after  the  expiration 
of  the  first  week,  as  regularly  as  an  eight-day 
clock  ; and  then,  lo  make  the  comparison  com- 
plele,  his  landlady  wound  him  up,  and  he  went 
ou  with  a regular  tick. 


Mr.  Watkins  Tottle  had  long  lived  in  a state 
of  single  blessedness,  as  bachelors  say,  or  single 
cursedness,  as  spinsters  think  ; but  the  idea  of 
matrimony  had  never  ceased  to  haunt  him. 

Tales , Chap.  10. 

7'UGGSES,  7'he. — Once  upon  a time,  there 
dwelt,  in  a narrow  street  on  the  Surrey  side  of 
the  water,  within  three  minutes’  walk  of  old 
London  Bridge,  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs — a little  dark- 
faced man,  with  shiny  hair,  twinkling  eyes,  short 
legs,  and  a body  of  very  considerable  thickness, 
measuring  from  the  centre  button  of  his  waist- 
coat in  front  to  the  ornamental  buttons  of  his 
coat  behind.  The  figure  of  the  amiable  Mrs. 
Tuggs,  if  not  perfectly  symmetrical,  was  decided- 
ly comfortable  ; and  the  form  of  her  only  daugh- 
ter, the  accomplished  Miss  Charlotte  Tuggs,  was 
fast  ripening  into  that  state  of  luxuriant  plump- 
ness which  had  enchanted  the  eyes,  and  capti- 
vated the  heart,  of  Mr.  Joseph  Tuggs  in  his 
earlier  days.  Mr.  Simon  Tuggs,  his  only  son, 
and  Miss  Charlotte  Tuggs’s  only  brother,  was  as 
differently  formed  in  body,  as  he  was  differently 
constituted  in  mind,  from  the  remainder  of  his 
family.  There  was  that  elongation  in  his 
thoughtful  face,  and  that  tendency  to  weakness 
in  his  interesting  legs,  which  tell  so  forcibly  of  a 
great  mind  and  romantic  disposition.  The 
slightest  traits  of  character  in  such  a being  pos- 
sess no  mean  interest  to  speculative  minds.  He 
usually  appeared  in  public  in  capacious  shoes, 
with  black  cotton  stockings  ; and  was  observed 
to  be  particularly  attached  to  a black  glazed 
stock,  without  tie  or  ornament  of  any  descrip- 
tion.— Tales,  Chap.  4. 

TURVEYDROP  (. Deportment ).— Just  then, 
there  appeared  from  a side-door  old  Mr.  Turvey- 
drop,  in  the  full  lustre  of  his  Deportment. 

He  was  a fat  old  gentleman,  with  a false  com- 
plexion, false  teeth,  false  whiskers,  and  a wig. 
He  had  a fur  collar,  and  he  had  a padded  breast 
to  his  coat,  which  only  wanted  a star  or  a broad 
blue  ribbon  to  be  complete.  He  was  pinched 
in,  and  swelled  out,  and  got  up,  and  strapped 
down,  as  much  as  he  could  possibly  bear.  He 
had  such  a neckcloth  on  (puffing  his  very  eyes 
out  of  their  natural  shape),  and  his  chin  and  even 
his  ears  so  sunk  into  it,  that  it  seemed  as  though 
he  must  inevitably  double  up,  if  it  were  cast 
loose.  He  had,  under  his  arm,  a hat  of  great 
size  and  weight,  shelving  downward  from  the 
crown  to  the  brim  ; and  in  his  hand  a pair  of 
white  gloves,  with  which  he  flapped  it,  as  he 
stood  poised  on  one  leg,  in  a high  shouldered, 
round-elbowed  state  of  elegance  not  to  be  sur- 
passed. He  had  a cane,  he  had  an  eye-glass,  he 
had  a snuff-box,  he  had  rings,  he  had  wristbands, 
he  had  everything  but  any  touch  of  nature ; he 
was  not  like  youth,  he  was  not  like  age,  he  was 
not  like  anything  in  the  world  but  a model  of 
Deportment. 

“ Father  ! A visitor.  Miss  Jellyby’s  friend, 
Miss  Summerson.” 

“Distinguished,”  said  Mr.  Turveydrop,  “ by 
Miss  Summerson’s  presence.”  As  he  bowed  to 
me  in  that  tight  state,  I almost  believe  I saw 
creases  come  into  the  whites  of  his  eyes. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  14. 

VAGABOND,  A. — This  last  man  was  an  ad- 
mirable specimen  of  a class  of  gentry  which 


CHARACTERS  AND 


79 


CHARACTERISTICS 


never  can  be  seen  in  full  perfection  but  in  such 
places  ; they  may  be  met  with,  in  an  imperfect 
state,  occasionally  about  stable-yards  and  pub- 
lic-houses ; but  they  never  attain  their  full  bloom 
except  in  these  hot-beds,  which  would  almost 
seem  to  be  considerately  provided  by  the  Legis- 
lature for  the  sole  purpose  of  rearing  them. 

He  was  a tall  fellow,  with  an  olive  complexion, 
long  dark  hair,  and  very  thick  bushy  whiskers 
meeting  under  his  chin.  He  wore  no  necker- 
chief, as  he  had  been  playing  rackets  all  day, 
and  his  open  shirt-collar  displayed  their  full 
luxuriance.  On  his  head  he  wore  one  of  the 
common  eighteenpenny  French  skull-caps,  with 
a gaudy  tassel  dangling  therefrom,  very  happily 
in  keeping  with  the  common  fustian  coat.  His 
legs — which,  being  long,  were  afflicted  with 
weakness — graced  a pair  of  Oxford-mixture  trou  - 
sers, made  to  show  the  full  symmetry  of  those 
limbs.  Being  somewhat  negligently  braced,  how- 
ever, and,  moreover,  but  imperfectly  buttoned, 
they  fell  in  a series  of  not  the  most  graceful  folds 
over  a pair  of  shoes  sufficiently  down  at  heel  to 
display  a pair  of  very  soiled  white  stockings. 
There  was  a rakish,  vagabond  smartness,  and  a 
kind  of  boastful  rascality,  about  the  whole  man, 
that  was  worth  a mine  of  gold. 

This  figure  was  the  first  to  perceive  that  Mr. 
Pickwick  was  looking  on  ; upon  which  he  winked 
to  the  Zephyr,  and  entreated  him,  with  mock 
gravity,  not  to  wake  the  gentleman. 

Pickwick , Chap.  41. 

V HOLES  ( the  Lawyer). — Mr.  Vholes  is  a 
very  respectable  man.  He  has  not  a large  bus- 
iness, but  he  is  a very  respectable  man.  He  is 
allowed  by  the  greater  attorneys  who  have  made 
good  fortunes,  or  are  making  them,  to  be  a most 
respectable  man.  He  never  misses  a chance  in 
his  practice  ; which  is  a mark  of  respectability. 
He  never  takes  any  pleasure  ; which  is  another 
mark  of  respectability.  He  is  reserved  and 
serious  ; which  is  another  mark  of  respectability. 
His  digestion  is  impaired,  which  is  highly  re- 
spectable. And  he  is  making  hay  of  the  grass 
which  is  flesh,  for  his  three  daughters.  And  his 
father  is  dependenc  on  him  in  the  Vale  of  Taun- 
ton. 

The  one  great  principle  of  the  English  law  is, 
to  make  business  for  itself.  There  is  no  other 
principle  distinctly,  certainly,  and  consistently 
maintained  through  all  its  narrow  turnings. 
Viewed  by  this  light  it  becomes  a coherent 
scheme,  and  not  the  monstrous  maze  the  laity 
are  apt  to  think  it.  Let  them  but  once  clearly 
perceive  that  its  grand  principle  is  to  make  bus- 
iness for  itself  at  their  expense,  and  surely  they 
will  cease  to  grumble. — Bleak  House , Chap.  39. 

WEMMICK , Mr. — Casting  my  eyes  on  Mr. 
Wemmick  as  we  went  along,  to  see  what  he  was 
like  in  the  light  of  day,  I found  him  to  be  a dry 
man,  rather  short  in  stature,  with  a square  wood- 
en face,  whose  expression  seemed  to  have  been 
imperfectly  chipped  out  with  a dull-edged  chisel. 
There  were  some  marks  in  it  that  might  have 
been  dimples,  if  the  material  had  been  softer 
and  the  instrument  finer,-  but  which,  as  it  was, 
were  only  dints.  The  chisel  had  made  three  or 
four  of  these  attempts  at  embellishment  over  his 
nose,  but  had  given  them  up  without  an  effort  to 
smooth  them  off.  I judged  him  to  be  a bachelor  | 
from  the  frayed  condition  of  his  linen,  and  he  ! 


appeared  to  have  sustained  a good  many  bereave* 
ments  ; for  he  wore  at  least  four  mourning  rings, 
besides  a brooch  representing  a lady  and  a 
weeping  willow  at  a tomb  with  an  urn  on  it.  I 
noticed,  too,  that  several  rings  and  seals  hung  at 
his  watch-chain,  as  if  he  were  quite  laden  with 
remembrances  of  departed  friends.  He  had  glit- 
tering eyes — small,  keen,  and  black — and  thin 
wide  mottled  lips.  He  had  had  them,  to  the 
best  of  my  belief,  from  forty  to  fifty  years. 

* -55-  * -*  * * 

He  wore  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and 
looked  straight  before  him  ; walking  in  a self- 
contained  way  as  if  there  were  nothing  in  the 
streets  to  claim  his  attention.  His  mouth  was 
such  a post-office  of  a mouth  that  he  had  a me- 
chanical appearance  of  smiling.  We  had  got  to 
the  top  of  Holborn  Hill  before  I knew  that  it 
was  merely  a mechanical  appearance,  and  that 
he  was  not  smiling  at  all. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  21. 

WLLFER , REGLNALD,  the  Conventional 
Cherub. — Reginald  Wilfer  is  a name  with  rathei 
a grand  sound,  suggesting  on  first  acquaintance 
brasses  in  country  churches,  scrolls  in  stained- 
glass  windows,  and  generally  the  De  Wilfers  who 
came  over  with  the  Conqueror,  For  it  is  a re- 
markable fact  in  genealogy  that  no  De  Anyones 
ever  came  over  with  Anybody  else. 

But,  the  Reginald  Wilfer  family  were  of  such 
common-place  extraction  and  pursuits,  that 
their  forefathers  had  for  generations  modestly 
subsisted  on  the  Docks,  the  Excise  Office  and 
the  Custom  House,  and  the  existing  R.  Wilfer 
was  a poor  clerk.  So  poor  a clerk,  though  hav- 
ing a limited  salary  and  an  unlimited  family,  that 
he  had  never  yet  attained  the  modest  object  of 
his  ambition  ; which  was,  to  wear  a complete 
new  suit  of  clothes,  hat  and  boots  included,  at 
one  time.  His  black  hat  was  brown  before  he 
could  afford  a coat,  his  pantaloons  were  white  at 
the  seams  and  knees  before  he  could  buy  a pair 
of  boots,  his  boots  had  worn  out  before  he  could 
treat  himself  to  new  pantaloons,  and,  by  the  time 
he  worked  round  to  the  hat  again,  that  shining 
modern  article  roofed-in  an  ancient  ruin  of  va- 
rious periods. 

If  the  conventional  Cherub  could  ever  grow 
up  and  be  clothed,  he  might  be  photographed  as 
a portrait  of  Wilfer.  His  chubby,  smooth,  in- 
nocent appearance  was  a reason  for  his  being 
always  treated  with  condescension  when  he  was 
not  put  down.  A stranger  entering  his  own 
poor  house  at  about  ten  o’clock  p.m.  might  have 
been  surprised  to  find  him  sitting  up  to  supper. 
So  boyish  was  he  in  his  curves  and  proportions, 
that  his  old  schoolmaster,  meeting  him  in  Cheap- 
side,  might  have  been  unable  to  withstand  the 
temptation  of  caning  him  on  the  spot.  In  short, 
he  was  the  conventional  Cherub,  rather  gray,  with 
signs  of  care  on  his  expression,  and  in  decidedly 
insolvent  circumstances. 

^ ^ sfc 

He  was  shy,  and  unwilling  to  own  to  the 
name  of  Reginald,  as  being  too  aspiring  and 
self-assertive  a name.  In  his  signature  he  used 
only  the  initial  R.,  and  imparted  what  it  really 
stood  for,  to  none  but  chosen  friends,  under  the 
seal  of  confidence.  Out  of  this,  the  facetious 
habit  had  arisen  in  the  neighborhood  surround- 
ing Mincing  Lane  of  making  Christian  names 
for  him  of  adjectives  and  participles  beginning 


CHARACTERS  AND 


80 


CHARACTERISTICS 


with  R.  Some  of  these  were  more  or  less  appro- 
priate : as  Rusty,  Retiring,  Ruddy,  Round,  Ripe, 
Ridiculous,  Ruminative  ; others  derived  their 
point  from  their  want  of  application,  as  Raging, 
Rattling,  Roaring,  Raffish.  But  his  popular 
name  was  Rumty,  which  in  a moment  of  inspi- 
ration had  been  bestowed  upon  him  by  a gentle- 
man of  convivial  habits  connected  with  the  drug 
market,  as  the  beginning  of  a social  chorus,  his 
leading  part  in  the  execution  of  which  had  led 
this  gentleman  to  the  Temple  of  Fame,  and  of 
which  the  whole  expressive  burden  ran  : 

“ Rumty,  idclify,  row  dow  dow, 

Sing  toodlely,  teed  lei y,  bow  wow  wow.” 

Thus  he  was  constantly  addressed,  even  in  minor 
notes  on  business,  as  “ Dear  Rumty  ; ” in  answer 
to  which,  he  sedately 'signed  himself,  “Yours 
truly,  R.  Wilfer.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  4. 

WILICINS , SAMUEL.— Mr.  Samuel  Wil- 
kins was  a carpenter,  a journeyman  carpenter, 
of  small  dimensions,  decidedly  below  the  middle 
size — bordering,  perhaps,  upon  the  dwarfish. 
His  face  was  round  and  shining,  and  his  hair 
carefully  twisted  into  the  outer  corner  of  each  eye, 
till  it  formed  a variety  of  that  description  of  semi- 
curls, usually  known  as  “ aggerawators.”  IT  is 
earnings  were  all-sufficient  for  his  wants,  varying 
from  eighteen  shillings  to  one  pound  five,  weekly 
— his  manner  undeniable — his  Sabbath  waist- 
coats dazzling. — Sketches  ( Characters ),  Chap.  4. 

WILLIAM, , Mr.  and  Mrs.— Mrs.  William, 
like  Mr.  William,  was  a simple,  innocent-looking 
person,  in  whose  smooth  cheeks  the  cheerful  red 
of  her  . husband’s  official  waistcoat  was  very 
pleasantly  repeated.  But  whereas  Mr.  Wil- 
liam’s light  hair  stood  on  end  all  over  his  head, 
and  seemed  to  draw  his  eyes  up  with  it  in  an 
excess  of  bustling  readiness  for  anything,  the 
dark  brown  hair  of  Mrs.  William  was  carefully 
smoothed  down,  and  waved  away  under  a trim 
tidy  cap,  in  the  most  exact  and  quiet  manner 
imaginable.  Whereas  Mr.  William’s  very  trou- 
sers hitched  themselves  up  at  the  ankles,  as  if  it 
were  not  in  their  iron-gray  nature  to  rest  with- 
out looking  about  them,  Mrs.  William’s  neatly- 
flowered  skirts — red  and  white,  like  her  own 
pretty  face — were  as  composed  and  orderly  as 
if  the  very  wind  that  blew  so  hard  out  of  doors 
could  not  disturb  one  of  their  folds.  Whereas 
his  coat  had  something  of  a fly-away  and  half-off 
appearance  about  the  collar  and  breast,  her  little 
bodice  was  so  placid  and  neat,  that  there  should 
have  been  protection  for  her,  in  it,  had  she  needed 
any,  with  the  roughest  people.  Who  could  have 
had  Lhe  heart  to  make  so  calm  a bosom  swell 
with  grief,  or  throb  with  fear,  or  flutter  with  a 
thought  of  shame  ! To  whom  would  its  repose 
and  peace  have  not  appealed  against  disturb- 
ance, like  the  innocent  slumber  of  a child  ! 

Haunted  Man , Chap.  1. 

WIT \ a “ Social .” — lie  could  imitate  the 
French  horn  to  admiration,  sang  comic  songs 
most  inimitably,  and  had  the  most  insinuating 
way  of  saying  impertinent  nothings  to  his  doting 
female  admirers.  He  had  acquired,  somehow  or 
other,  the  reputation  of  being  a great  wit,  and 
accordingly,  whenever  he  opened  his  mouth, 
everybody  who  knew  him  laughed  very  heartily. 

7 'ales,  Chap.  1 1 . 


W A TER  BROOK,  Mr.,  and  Company.  — 1 
found  Mr.  Waterbrook  to  be  a middle-aged  gen- 
tleman, with  a short  throat,  and  a good  deal  of 
shirt  collar,  who  only  wanted  a black  nose  to  be 
the  portrait  of  a pug  dog.  He  told  me  he  was 
happy  to  have  the  honor  of  making  my  acquaint- 
ance ; and  when  I had  paid  my  homage  to  Mrs. 
Waterbrook,  presented  me,  with  much  cere- 
mony, to  a very  awful  lady  in  a black  velvet 
dress,  and  a great  black  velvet  hat,  whom  I re- 
member as  looking  like  a near  relation  of  Ham- 
let’s— say  his  aunt. 

Mrs.  Henry  Spiker  was  this  lady’s  name  ; and 
her  husband  was  there  too  ; so  cold  a man,  that 
his  head,  instead  of  being  gray,  seemed  to  be 
sprinkled  with  hoar  frost.  Immense  deference 
was  shown  to  the  Henry  Spikers,  male  and  fe- 
male, which  Agnes  told  me  was  on  account  of 
Mr.  Henry  Spiker  being  solicitor  to  something 
or  to  somebody,  I forget  what  or  which,  remotely 
connected  with  the  Treasury. 

I found  Uriah  Heep  among  the  company,  in  a 
suit  of  black,  and  in  deep  humility.  He  told 
me,  when  I shook  hands  with  him,  that  he  was 
proud  to  be  noticed  by  me,  and  that  he  really 
felt  obliged  to  me  for  my  condescension.  I 
could  have  wished  he  had  been  less  obliged  to 
me,  for  he  hovered  about  me  in  his  gratitude  all 
the  rest  of  the  evening  ; and  whenever  I said  a 
word  to  Agnes,  was  sure,  with  his  shadowless 
eyes  and  cadaverous  face,  to  be  looking  gauntly 
down  upon  us  from  behind. 

There  were  other  guests — all  iced  for  the  oc- 
casion, as  it  struck  me,  like  the  wine.  But  there 
was  one  who  attracted  my  attention  before  he 
came  in,  on  account  of  my  hearing  him  an- 
nounced as  Mr.  Traddles  ! My  mind  flew  back 
to  Salem  House;  and  could  it  be  Tommy,  I 
thought,  who  used  to  draw  the  skeletons  ! 

I looked  for  Mr.  Traddles  with  unusual  inter- 
est. He  was  a sober,  steady-looking  young  man, 
of  retiring  manners,  with  a comic  head  of  hair, 
and  eyes  that  were  rather  wide  open  ; and  he 
got  into  an  obscure  corner  so  soon,  that  I had 
some  difficulty  in  making  him  out.  At  length  I 
had  a good  view*of  him,  and  either  my  vision  de- 
ceived me,  or  it  was  the  old  unfortunate  Tommy. 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  25. 

CHARACTERS— General  Description  of. 

Tobacco-smoky  Frenchman  in  Algerine  wrap- 
per, with  peaked  hood  behind,  who  might  be 
Abd-el-Kader  dyed  rifle-green,  and  who  seems 
to  be  dressed  entirely  in  dirt  and  braid,  carries 
pineapples  in  a covered  basket.  Tall,  grave, 
melancholy  Frenchman,  with  black  Vandyke 
beard,  and  hair  close-cropped,  with  expansive 
chest  to  waistcoat,  and  compressive  waist  to 
coat : saturnine  as  to  his  pantaloons,  calm  as  to 
his  feminine  boots,  precious  as  to  his  jewelry, 
smooth  and  white  as  to  his  linen  ; dark-eyed, 
high-foreheaded,  hawk-nosed  — got  up,  one 
thinks,  like  Lucifer,  or  Mephistopheles,  or  Za- 
miel,  transformed  into  a highly  genteel  Parisian 
— has  the  green  end  of  a pineapple  sticking  out 
of  his  neat  valise. — A Flight. — Reprinted  Pieces. 

CHARACTERS.  -A  Haunted  Man. 

Who  could  have  seen  his  hollow  cheek,  his 
sunken  brilliant  eye  ; his  black-attired  figure, 
indefinably  grim,  although  well-knit  and  well- 
proportioned  ; his  grizzled  hair  hanging,  like 
tangled  sea-weed,  about  his  face — as  if  he  had 


CHARACTERS  AND 


81 


CHARACTERISTICS 


been,  through  his  whole  life,  a lonely  mark  for 
hj  the  chafing  anci  beating  of  the  great  deep  of 
| humanity — but  might  have  said  he  looked  like  a 
i 1 haunted  man  ? — Haunted  Alan,  Chap.  i. 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  same  Richard,  who  had 
; come  upon  them  unobserved,  and  stood  before 
the  father  and  daughter  ; looking  down  upon 
them  with  a face  as  glowing  as  the  iron  on  which 
his  stout  sledge-hammer  daily  rung.  A hand- 
some, well-made,  powerful  youngster  he  was  ; 
with  eyes  that  sparkled  like  the'  red-hot  drop- 
pings from  a furnace-fire  ; black  hair  that  curled 
about  his  swarthy  temples  rarely  ; and  a smile — 
a smile  that  bore  out  Meg’s  eulogium  on  his 
: style  of  conversation. 

Christinas  Chimes , 1st  Quarter. 

CHARACTERS— A Eamily  Party  at  Peck- 
sniff’s, 

| If  ever  Mr.  Pecksniff  wore  an  apostolic  look, 
he  wore  it  on  this  memorable  day.  If  ever  his 
unruffled  smile  proclaimed  the  words  : “ I am  a 
messenger  of  peace  ! ” that  was  its  mission  now. 
If  ever  man  combined  within  himself  all  the 
I mild  qualities  of  the  lamb  with  a considerable 
touch  of  the  dove,  and  not  a dash  of  the  croeo- 
| dile,  or  the  least  possible  suggestion  of  the  very 
I mildest  seasoning  of  the  serpent,  that  man  was 
| he.  And,  oh,  the  two  Miss  Pecksniff's  ! Oh,  the 
serene  expression  on  the  face  of  Charity,  which 
seemed  to  say,  “ I know  that  all  my  family  have 
i injured  me  beyond  the  possibility  of  reparation, 

) but  I forgive  them,  for  it  is  my  duty  so  to  do  ! ” 

I And,  oh,  the  gay  simplicity  of  Mercy  ; so  charm- 
| ing,  innocent,  and  infant-like,  that  if  she  had 
gone  out  walking  by  herself,  and  it  had  been  a 
little  earlier  in  the  season,  the  robin-redbreasts 
I might  have  covered  her  with  leaves  against  her 
will,  believing  her  to  be  one  of  the  sweet  chil- 
j dren  in  the  wood,  come  out  of  it,  and  issuing 
| forth  once  more  to  look  for  blackberries,  in  the 
| young  freshness  of  her  heart  ! What  words  can 
| paint  the  Pecksniffs  in  that  trying  hour  ? Oh, 

| none  ; for  words  have  naughty  company  among 
I them,  and  the  Pecksniffs  were  all  goodness  ! 

1 Fut  when  the  company  arrived  ! That  was 
the  time.  When  Mr.  Pecksniff,  rising  from  his 
seat  at  the  table’s  head,  with  a.daughter  on  either 
ij  hand,  received  his  guests  in  the  best  parlor  and 
I motioned  them  to  chairs,  with  eyes  so  pver- 
flovving  a_nd  countenance  so  damp  with  gracious 
I perspiration,  that  he  may  be  said  to  have  been  in 
jj  a kind  of  moist  meekness  ! And  the  company  ; 
li  the  jealous,  stony-hearted,  distrustful  company,’ 
who  were  all  shut  up  in  themselves,  and  had  no 
faith  in  anybody,  and  wouldn’t  believe  anything, 
i and  would  no  more  allow  themselves  to  be  soft- 
ened or  lulled  asleep  by  the  Pecksniffs  than  if 
they  had  been  so  many  hedgehogs  or  porcupines  ! 

First,  there  was  Mr.  Spottletoe,  who  was  so 
bald  and  had  such  big  whiskers,  that  he  seemed 
to  have  stopped  his  hair,  by  the  sudden  applica- 
tion of  some  powerful  remedy,  in  the  very  act  of 
falling  off  his  head,  and  to  have  fastened  it  irre- 
vocably on  his  face.  Then  there  was  Mrs.  Spot- 
tletoe, who,  being  too  slim  for  her  years,  and  of 
. a poetical  constitution,  was  accustomed  to  inform 
her  more  intimate  friends  that  the  said  whiskers 
were  “ the  lodestar  of  her  existence  and  who 
could  now,  by  reason  of  her  strong  affection  for 
her  uncle  Chuzzlewit,  and  the  shock  it  gave  her 
to  be  suspected  of  testamentary  designs  upon 

6 


' him,  do  nothing  but  cry — except  moan.  Then 
there  was  Anthony  Chuzzlewit,  and  his  son 
Jonas  : the  face  of  the  old  man  so  sharpened  by 
the  wariness  and  cunning  of  his  life,  that  it 
seemed  to  cut  him  a passage  through  the  crowd- 
ed room,  as  he  edged  away  behind  the  remotest 
chairs  ; while  the  son  had  so  well  profited  by  the 
precept  and  example  of  the  father,  that  he  looked 
a year  or  two  the  elder  of  the  twain,  as  they 
stood  winking  their  red  eyes,  side  by  side,  and 
whispering  to  each  other  softly.  Then  there 
was  the  widow  of  a deceased  brother  of  Mr.  Mar- 
tin Chuzzlewit,  who  being  almost  supernaturally 
disagreeable,  and  having  a dreary  face  and  a 
bony  figure  and  a masculine  voice,  was,  in  right 
of  these  qualities,  what  is  commonly  called  a 
strong-minded  woman  ; and  who,  if  she  could, 
would  have  established  her  claim  to  the  title, 
and  have  shown  herself,  mentally  speaking,  a 
perfect  Samson,  by  shutting  up  her  brother-in- 
law  in  a private  mad-house,  until  he  proved  his 
complete  sanity  by  loving  her  very  much.  Be- 
side her  sat  her  spinster  daughters,  three  in  num- 
ber, and  of  gentlemanly  deportment,  who  had 
so  mortified  themselves  with  tight  stays,  that 
their  tempers  were  reduced  to  something  less 
than  their  waists,  and  sharp  lacing  was  expressed 
in  their  very  noses.  Then  there  was  a young 
gentleman,  grand-nephew  of  Mr.  Martin  Chuz- 
zlewit, very  dark  and  very  hairy,  and  apparently 
born  for  no  particular  purpose  but  to  save  look- 
jng-glasses  the  trouble  of  reflecting  more  than 
just  the  first  idea  and  sketchy  notion  of  a face, 
which  had  never  been  carried  out.  Then  there 
was  a solitary  female  cousin  who  was  remarkable 
for  nothing  but  being  very  deaf,  and  living  by 
herself,  and  always  having  the  toothache.  Then 
there  was  George  Chuzzlewit,  a gay  bachelor- 
cousin,  who  claimed  to  be  young,  but  had  been 
younger,  and  was  inclined  to  corpulency,  and 
rather,  over-fed  himself : to  that  extent,  indeed, 
that  his  eyes  were  strained  in  their  sockets,  as  if 
with  constant  surprise  ; and  he  had  such  an  ob- 
vious disposition  to  pimples,  that  the  bright 
spots  on  his  cravat,  the  rich  pattern  on  his  waist- 
coat, and  even  his  glittering  trinkets,  seemed  to 
have  broken  out  upon  him,  and  not  to  have  come 
into  existence  comfortably.  Last  of  all  there 
were  present  Mr.  Chevy  Slyme  and  his  friend 
Tigg.  And  it  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  although 
each  person  present  disliked  the  other,,  mainly 
because  he  or  she  did  belong  to  the  family,  they 
one  and  all  concurred  in  hating  Mr.  Tigg  because 
he  didn’t.  SS 

Such  was  the  pleasant  little  family  circle  now 
assembled  in  Mr.  Pecksniff’s  best  parlor,  agree- 
ably prepared  to  fall  foul  of  Mr.  Pecksniff  or  any- 
body else  who  might  venture  to  say  anything 
whatever  upon  any  subject. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap . 4. 

CHARACTERS — Miscellaneous. 

A corpulent  man,  with  a fortnight’s  napkin 
under  his  arm  and  coeval  stockings  on  his  legs. 

Pickwick , Chap.  22. 

“ Humph  ! Caleb,  come  here  ! Who’s  that 
with  the  gray  hair  ? ” 

“ I don't  know,  sir,”  returned  Caleb,  in  a 
whisper.  “ Never  see  him  before,  in  all  my  life. 
A beautiful  figure  for  a nut-cracker  ; quite  a new 
model.  With  a screw-jaw  opening  down  into  his 
waistcoat,  he’d  be  lovely.” 


CHARACTERS  AND 


82 


CHARACTERISTICS 


“ Not  ugly  enough,”  said  Tackleton. 

“Or  for  a fire-box,  either,”  observed  Caleb,  in 
deep  eontemplation,  “ what  a model  ! Unscrew 
his  heacl  to  put  the  matches  in  ; turn  him  heels 
up’ards  for  the  light  ; and  what  a fire-box  for  a 
gentleman’s  mantel-shelf,  just  as  he  stands  ! ” 

“ Not  half  ugly  enough,”  said  Tackleton.  “No- 
thing in  him  at  all.” 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  i. 

Two  other  gentlemen  had  come  out  with  him. 
One  was  a low-spirited  gentleman  of  middle  age, 
of  a meagre  habit,  and  a disconsolate  face  ; who 
kept  his  hands  continually  in  the  pockets  of  his 
scanty  pepper-and-salt  trousers,  very  large  and 
dog’s  eared  from  that  •custom  ; and  was  not  par- 
ticularly well  brushed  or  washed.  The  other,  a 
full  sized,  sleek,  well-conditioned  gentleman,  in 
a blue  coat  with  bright  buttons,  and  a white 
cravat.  This  gentleman  had  a very  red  face,  as 
if  an  undue  proportion  of  the  blood  in  his  body 
were  squeezed  up  into  his  head  ; which  perhaps 
accounted  for  his  having  also  the  appearance  of 
being  rather  cold  about  the  heart. 

Christmas  Chimes , 1st  Quarter. 

A mighty  man  at  cutting  and  drying,  he  was  ; 
a government  officer  ; in  his  way  (and  in  most 
other  people’s  too)  a professed  pugilist ; always 
in  training,  always  with  a system  to  force  down 
the  general  throat  like  a bolus,  always  to  be  heard 
of  at  the  bar  of  his  little  Public-office,  ready  to 
fight  All  England.  To  continue  in  fistic  phrase- 
ology, he  had  a genius  for  coming  up  to  the 
scratch,  wherever  and  whatever  it  was,  and  prov 
ing  himself  an  ugly  customer.  He  would  go  in 
and  damage  any  subject  whatever  with  his  right, 
follow  up  with  his  left,  stop,  exchange,  counter, 
bore  his  opponent  (he  always  fought  All  Eng- 
land) to  the  ropes,  and  fall  upon  him  neatly. 
He  was  certain  to  knock  the  wind  out  of  com- 
mon sense,  and  render  that  unlucky  adversary 
deaf  to  the  call  of  time. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

There  was  a hanger  on  at  that  establishment 
(a  supernaturally  preserved  Druid,  I believe  him 
to  have  been,  and  to  be  still),  with  long  white 
hair,  and  a flinty  blue  eye  always  looking  afar 
off : who  claimed  to  have  been  a shepherd,  and 
who  seemed  to  be  ever  watching  for  the  reap- 
pearance, on  the  verge  of  the  horizon,  of  some 
ghostly  flock  of  sheep  that  had  been  mu  ton  for 
many  ages.  He  was  a man  with  a weird  belief 
in  him  that  no  one  could  count  the  stones  of 
Stonehenge  twice,  and  make  the  same  number 
of  them  ; likewise,  that  any  one  who  counted 
them  three  times  nine  times,  and  then  stood  in 
the  centre  and  said  “ I dare  ! ” would  behold  a 
tremendous  apparition,  and  be  stricken  dead. 

The  Holly-  Tree. 

CHARACTERS— Female. 

MISS  M URD STONE.— It  was  Miss  Murd- 
stone  who  was  arrived,  and  a gloomy-looking 
lady  she  was  ; dark,  like  her  brother,  whom  she 
greatly  resembled  in  face  and  voice  ; and  with 
very  heavy  eyebrows,  nearly  meeting  over  her 
large  nose,  as  if,  being  disabled  by  the  wrongs 
of  her  sex  from  wearing  whiskers,  she  had  car- 
ried them  to  that  account.  She  brought  with 
her  two  uncompromising  hard  black  boxes,  with 
her  initials  on  the  lids  in  hard  brass  nails.  When 


she  paid  the  coachman  she  look  her  money  out 
of  a hard  steel  purse,  and  she  kept  the  purse  in 
a very  jail  of  a bag  which  hung  upon  her  arm 
by  a heavy  chain,  and  shut  up  like  a bite.  I had 
never,  at  that  time,  seen  such  a metallic  lady  al- 
together as  Miss  Murdstone  was. 

* * * * * * 

She  began  to  “ help  ” my  mother  next  morn- 
ing, and  was  in  and  out  of  the  store-closet  all 
day,  putting  things  to  rights,  and  making  havoc 
in  the  old  arrangements.  Almost  the  first  re- 
markable thing  I observed  in  Miss  Murdstone 
was,  her  being  constantly  haunted  by  a suspicion 
that  the  servants  had  a man  secreted  somewhere 
on  the  premises.  Under  the  influence  of  this 
delusion,  she  dived  into  the  coal-cellar  at  the 
most  untimely  hours,  and  scarcely  ever  opened 
the  door  of  a dark  cupboard  without  clapping  it 
to  again,  in  the  belief  that  she  had  got  him. 

Though  there  was  nothing  very  airy  about 
Miss  Murdstone,  she  was  a perfect  Lark  in  point 
of  getting  up.  She  was  up  (and,  as  I believe  to 
this  hour,  looking  for  that  man)  before  anybody 
in  the  house  was  stirring.  Peggotty  gave  it  as 
her  opinion  that  she  even  slept  with  one  eye 
open  ; but  I could  not  concur  in  this  idea  ; for 
I tried  it  myself  after  hearing  the  suggestion 
thrown  out,  and  found  it  couldn’t  be  done. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  4. 

CLEMENCY NE  WCOME.— She  was  about 
thirty  years  old,  and  had  a sufficiently  plump  and 
cheerful  face,  though  it  was  twisted  up  into  an 
odd  expression  of  tightness  that  made  it  comical. 
But  the  extraordinary  homeliness  of  her  gait 
and  manner  would  have  superseded  any  face  in 
the  world.  To  say  that  she  had  two  left  legs, 
and  somebody  else’s  arms,  and  that  all  four  limbs 
seemed  to  be  out  of  joint,  and  to  start  from  per- 
fectly wrong  places  when  they  were  set  in  mo- 
tion, is  to  offer  the  mildest  outline  of  the  reality. 
To  say  that  she  was  perfectly  content  and  satis- 
fied with  these  arrangements,  and  regarded  them 
as  being  no  business  of  hers,  and  that  she  took 
her  arms  and  legs  as  they  came,  and  allowed 
them  to  dispose  of  themselves  just  as  it  happened, 
is  to  render  faint  justice  to  her  equanimity.  Her 
dress  was  a prodigious  pair  of  self-willed  shoes, 
that  never  wanted  to  go  where  her  feet  went ; 
blue  stockings  ; a printed  gown  of  many  colors 
and  the  most  hideous  pattern  procurable  for 
money  ; and  a white  apron.  She  always  wore 
short  sleeves,  and  always  had,  by  some  accident, 
grazed  elbows,  in  which  she  took  so  lively  an 
interest,  that  she  was  continually  trying  to  turn 
them  round  and  get  impossible  views  of  them. 
In  general,  a little  cap  perched  somewhere  on 
her  head  ; though  it  was  rarely  to  be  met  with 
in  the  place  usually  occupied  in  other  subjects 
by  that  article  of  dress  ; but  from  head  to  foot 
she  was  scrupulously  clean,  and  maintained  a 
kind  of  dislocated  tidiness.  Indeed,  her  laudable 
anxiety  to  be  tidy  and  compact  in  her  own  con- 
science as  well  as  in  the  public  eye,  gave  rise  to 
one  of  her  most  startling  evolutions,  which  was 
to  grasp  herself  sometimes  by  a sort  of  wooden 
handle  (part  of  her  clothing,  and  familiarly  called 
a busk),  and  wrestle  as  it  were  with  her  gar- 
ments, until  they  fell  into  a symmetrical  arrange- 
ment.— The  Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  I. 

TEGGOTTY. — The  first  objects  that  assume 
a distinct  presence  before  me,  as  I look  far  back, 


CHARACTERS  AND 


83 


CHARACTERISTICS 


into  the  blank  of  my  infancy,  are  my  mother, 
with  her  pretty  hair  and  youthful  shape,  and 
Peggotty,  with  no  shape  at  all,  and  eyes  so  dark 
that  they  seemed  to  darken  their  whole  neigh- 
borhood in  her  face,  and  cheeks  and  arms  so 
hard  and  red  that  I wondered  that  the  birds 
didn’t  peck  her  in  preference  to  apples. 

I believe  I can  remember  these  two  at  a little 
distance  apart,  dwarfed  to  my  sight  by  stooping 
down  or  kneeling  on  the  floor,  and  I going  un- 
steadily from  the  one  to  the  other.  I have  an 
impression  on  my  mind  which  I cannot  distin- 
guish from  actual  remembrance,  of  the  touch  of 
Peggotty’s  fore-finger  as  she  used  to  hold  it  out 
to  me,  and  of  its  being  roughened  by  needle- 
work, like  a pocket  nutmeg-grater. 

David  Copper  field.  Chap.  2. 

DOLL  Y V ARDEN.— How  well  she  looked  ! 
Well?  Why,  if  he  had  exhausted  every  lauda- 
tory adjective  in  the  dictionary,  it  wouldn’t  have 
been  praise  enough.  When  and  where  was  there 
ever  such  a plump,  roguish,  comely,  bright-eyed, 
enticing,  bewitching,  captivating,  maddening  lit- 
tle puss  in  all  this  world,  as  Dolly  ! What  was  the 
Dolly  of  five  years  ago  to  the  Dolly  of  that  day  ! 
How  many  coach-makers,  saddlers,  cabinet-ma- 
kers, and  professors  of  other  useful  arts,  had  de- 
serted their  fathers,  mothers,  sisters,  brothers,  and, 
most  of  all,  their  cousins,  for  the  love  of  her ! 
How  many  unknown  gentlemen — supposed  to  be 
of  mighty  fortunes,  if  not  titles  — had  waited  round 
the  corner  after  dark,  and  tempted  Miggs,  the 
incorruptible,  with  golden  guineas,  to  deliver 
offers  of  marriage  folded  up  in  love  letters  ! How 
many  disconsolate  fathers  and  substantial  trades- 
men had  waited  on  the  locksmith  for  the  same 
purpose,  with  dismal  tales  of  how  their  sons  had 
lost  their  appetites,  and  taken  to  shut  themselves 
up  in  dark  bed-rooms,  and  wandering  in  deso- 
late suburbs  with  pale  faces,  and  all  because  of 
Dolly  Varden’s  loveliness  and  cruelty  ! How 
many  young  men,  . in  all  previous  times  of  unpre- 
cedented steadiness,  had  turned  suddenly  wild 
and  wicked  for  the  same  reason,  and,  in  an 
ecstasy  of  unrequited  love,  taken  to  wrench  off 
door  knockers,  and  invert  the  boxes  of  rheu- 
matic watchmen  ! How  had  she  recruited  the 
king’s  service,  both  by  sea  and  land,  through 
rendering  desperate  his  loving  subjects  between 
the  ages  of  eighteen  and  twenty-five  ! How 
many  young  ladies  had  publicly  professed  with 
tears  in  their  eyes,  that  for  their  tastes  she  was 
much  too  short,  too  tall,  too  bold,  too  cold,  too 
stout,  too  thin,  too  fair,  too  dark — too  everything 
but  handsome  ! How  many  old  ladies,  taking 
counsel  together,  had  thanked  Heaven  their 
daughters  were  not  like  her,  and  had  hoped  she 
might  come  to  no  harm,  and  had  thought  she 
would  come  to  no  good,  and  had  wondered  what 
people  saw  in  her,  and  had  arrived  at  the  con- 
clusion that  she  was  “ going  off”  in  her  looks,  or 
had  never  come  on  in  them,  and  that  she  was  a 
thorough  imposition  and  a popular  mistake  ! 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  41. 

MR.  F's  AUNT. — There  was  a fourth  and 
most  original  figure  in  the  Patriarchal  tent,  who 
also  appeared  before  dinner.  This  was  an 
amazing  little  old  woman,  with  a face  like  a 
staring  wooden  doll  too  cheap  for  expression, 
and  a stiff  yellow  wig  perched  unevenly  on  the 
top  of  her  head,  as  if  the  child  who  owned  the 


doll  had  driven  a tack  through  it  anywhere,  so 
that  it  only  got  fastened  on.  Another  remark- 
able thing  in  this  little  old  woman  was,  that  the 
same  child  seemed  to  have  damaged  her' face  in 
two  or  three  places  with  some  blunt  instrument 
in  the  nature  of  a spoon  ; her  countenance,  and 
particularly  the  tip  of  her  nose,  presenting  the 
phenomena  of  several  dints,  generally  answering 
to  the  bowl  of  that  article.  A further  remark- 
able thing  in  this  little  old  woman  was,  that  she 
had  no  name  but  Mr.  F’s  Aunt. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  13. 

Mr.  F’s  Aunt  was  so  stiffened  that  she  had  the 
appearance  of  being  past  bending,  by  any  means 
short  of  powerful  mechanical  pressure.  Her 
bonnet  was  cocked  up  behind  in  a terrific  man- 
ner ; and  her  stony  reticule  was  as  rigid  as  if  it 
had  been  petrified  by  the  Gorgon’s  head,  and 
had  got  it  at  that  moment  inside. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  //.,  Chap,  34. 

SALL  V BRA  SS. — The  office  commonly  held 
two  examples  of  animated  nature,  more  to  the 
purpose  of  this  history,  and  in  whom  it  has  a 
stronger  interest  and  more  particular  concern. 

Of  these,  one  was  Mr.  Brass  himself,  who  has 
already  appeared  in  these  pages.  The  other  was 
his  clerk,  assistant,  housekeeper,  secretary,  con- 
fidential plotter,  adviser,  intriguer,  and  bill  of- 
cost  increaser,  Miss  Brass — a kind  of  Amazon  at 
common  law,  of  whom  it  may  be  desirable  to 
offer  a brief  description. 

Miss  Sally  Brass,  then,  was  a lady  of  thirty- 
five  or  thereabouts,  of  a gaunt  and  bony  figure, 
and  a resolute  bearing,  which,  if  it  repressed  the 
softer  emotions  of  love,  and  kept  admirers  at  a 
distance,  certainly  inspired  a feeling  akin  to  awe 
in  the  breasts  of  those  male  strangers  who  had 
the  happiness  to  approach  her.  In  face  she  bore 
a striking  resemblance  to  her  brother  Sampson — 
so  exact,  indeed,  was  the  likeness  between  them, 
that  had  it  consorted  with  Miss  Brass’s  maiden 
modesty  and  gentle  womanhood  to  have  assumed 
her  brother’s  clothes  in  a frolic  and  sat  down  be- 
side him,  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  the  old- 
est friend  of  the  family  to  determine  which  was 
Sampson  and  which  Sally,  especially  as  the  lady 
carried  upon  her  upper  lip  certain  reddish 
demonstrations,  which,  if  the  imagination  had 
been  assisted  by  her  attire,  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  a beard.  These  were,  however,  in 
all  probability,  nothing  more  than  eye-lashes  in  a 
wrong  place,  as  the  eyes  of  Miss  Brass  were  free 
quite  from  any  such  natural  impertinencies.  In 
complexion  Miss  Brass  was  sallow — rather  a 
dirty  sallow,  so  to  speak — but  this  hue  was 
agreeably  relieved  by  the  healthy  glow  which 
mantled  in  the  extreme  tip  of  her  laughing  nose. 
Her  voice  was  exceedingly  impressive — deep  and 
rich  in  quality,  and,  once  heard,  not  easily  for- 
gotten. Her  usual  dress  was  a green  gown,  in 
color  not  unlike  the  curtain  of  the  office-window, 
made  tight  to  the  figure,  and  terminating  at  the 
throat,  where  it  was  fastened  behind  by  a pe- 
culiarly large  and  massive  button.  Feeling,  no 
doubt,  that  simplicity  and  plainness  are  the  soul 
of  elegance,  Miss  Brass  wore  no  collar  or  ker- 
chief except  upon  her  head,  which  was  invariably 
ornamented  with  a brown  gauze  scarf,  like  the 
wing  of  the  fabled  vampire,  and  which,  twisted 
into  any  form  that  happened  to  suggest  itself, 
formed  an  easy  and  graceful  head-dress. 

Old  Cu?iosity  Shop,  Chap . 33. 


CHARACTERS  AND 


C4 


CHARACTERISTICS 


ROSA  DARTLE. — There  was  a second  lady 
in  the  dining-room,  of  a slight,  short  figure,  dark, 
and  not  agreeable  to  look  at,  but  with  some  ap- 
pearance of  good  looks  too,  who  attracted  my 
attention  : perhaps  because  I had  not  expected  to 
see  her  ; perhaps  because  I found  myself  sitting 
opposite  to  her:  perhaps  because  of  something 
really  remarkable  in  her.  She  had  black  hair  and 
eager  black  eyes,  and  was  thin,  and  had  a scar 
upon  her  lip.  It  was  an  old  scar — I should 
rather  call  it  seam,  for  it  was  not  discolored,  and 
had  healed  years  ago — which  had  once  cut 
through  her  mouth,  downward  towards  the  chin, 
but  was  now  barely  visible  across  the  table,  ex- 
cept above  and  on  her  upper  lip,  the  shape  of 
which  it  had  altered.  I concluded  in  my  own 
mind  that  she  was  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and 
that  she  wished  to  be  married  She  was  a little 
dilapidated — like  a house — with  having  been  so 
long  to  let  ; yet  had,  as  I have  said,  an  appear- 
ance of  good  looks.  Her  thinness  seemed  to  be 
the  effect  of  some  wasting  fire  within  her.  which 
found  a vent  in  her  gaunt  eyes. 

David  Copper  field.  Chap.  20. 

MADAME  DEFARGE. — Madame  Defarge, 
his  wife,  sat  in  the  shop  behind  the  counter  as 
he  came  in.  Madame  Defarge  was  a stout 
woman  of  about  his  own  age,  with  a watchful 
eye  that  seldom  seemed  to  look  at  anything,  a 
large  hand  heavily  ringed,  a steady  face,  strong 
features,  and  great  composure  of  manner.  There 
was  a character  about  Madame  Defarge,  from 
which  one  might  have  predicted  that  she  did  not 
often  make  mistakes  against  herself  in  any  of 
the  reckonings  over  which  she  presided.  Madame 
Defarge  being  sensitive  to  cold,  was  wrapped  in 
lur,  and  had  a quantity  of  bright  shawl  twined 
about  her  head,  though  not  to  the  concealment 
of  her  large  ear-rings.  Her  knitting  was  before 
her,  but  she  had  laid  it  down  to  pick  her  teeth 
with  a toothpick.  Thus  engaged,  with  her  right 
elbow  supported  by  her  left  hand,  Madame  De- 
farge said  nothing  when  her  lord  came  in,  but 
coughed  just  one  grain  of  cough.  This,  in  com- 
bination with  the  lifting  of  her  darkly-defined 
eyebrows  over  her  toothpick  by  the  breadth  of  a 
line,  suggested  to  her  husband  that  he  would  do 
well  to  look  round  the  shop  among  the  custom- 
ers, for  any  new  customer  who  had  dropped  in 
while  he  stepped  over  the  way. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  5. 

LI  TTLE  DORRIT. — It  was  not  easy  to  make 
out  Little  Dorrit’s  face  ; she  was  so  retiring, 
plied  her  needle  in  such  removed  corners,  and 
started  away  so  scared  if  encountered  on  the 
stairs.  But  it  seemed  to  be  a pale  transparent 
face,  quick  in  expression,  though  not.  beautiful  in 
feature,  its  soft  hazel  eyes  excepted.  A delicately 
bent  head,  a tiny  form,  a quick  little  pair  of 
busy  hands,  and  a shabby  dress — it  must  needs 
have  been  very  shabby  to  look  at  all  so,  being  so 
neat — were  Little  Dorrit  as  she  sat  at  work. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  5. 

SAIRE  Y GAME— She  was  a fat  old  wo- 
man, this  Mrs.  Gamp,  with  a husky  voice  and  a 
moist  eye,  which  she  had  a remarkable  power  of 
turning  up,  and  only  showing  the  white  of  it. 
Having  very  little  neck,  it  cost  her  some  trouble 
to  look  over  herself,  if  one  may  say  so,  at  those 
lo  whom  she  talked.  She  wore  a very  rusty 


black  gown,  rather  the  worse  for  snuff,  and  a 
shawl  and  bonnet  to  correspond.  In  these 
dilapidated  articles  of  dress  she  had,  on  prin- 
ciple, arrayed  herself,  time  out  of  mind,  on  such 
occasions  as  the  present  ; for  this  at  once  ex- 
pressed a decent  amount  of  veneration  for  the 
deceased,  and  invited  the  next  of  kin  to  present 
her  with  a fresher  suit  of  weeds  ; an  appeal  so 
frequently  successful,  that  the  very  fetch  and 
ghost  of  Mrs.  Gamp,  bonnet  and  all,  might  be 
seen  hanging  up,  any  hour  in  the  day,  in  at  least 
a dozen  of  the  second  hand  clothes  shops  about 
Holborn.  The  face  of  Mrs.  Gamp — the  nose  in 
particular — was  somewhat  red  and  swollen,  and 
it  was  difficult  to  enjoy  her  society  without  be- 
coming conscious  of  a smell  of  spirits.  Like 
most  persons  who  have  attained  to  great  emi- 
nence in  their  profession,  she  took  to  hers  very 
kindly  ; insomuch,  that  setting  aside  her  natural 
predilections  as  a woman,  she  went  to  a lying-in 
or  a laying-out  with  equal  zest  and  relish. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  19. 

Mrs.  JOE  GARGER  Y. — My  sister,  Mrs.  Joe 
Gargery,  was  more  than  twenty  years  older  than 
I,  and  had  established  a great  reputation  with 
herself  and  the  neighbors  because  she  had  brought 
me  up  “ by  hand.”  Having  at  that  time  to  find 
out  for  myself  what  the  expression  meant,  and 
knowing  her  to  have  a hard  and  heavy  hand, 
and  to  be  much  in  the  habit  of  laying  it  upon 
her  husband  as  well  as  upon  me,  I supposed 
that  Joe  Gargery  and  I were  both  brought  up  by 
hand. 

She  was  not  a good-looking  woman,  my  sister; 
and  I had  a general  impression  that  she  must 
have  made  Joe  Gargery  marry  her  by  hand.  Joe 
was  a fair  man,  with  curls  of  flaxen  hair  on  each 
side  of  his  smooth  face,  and  with  eyes  of  such  a 
very  undecided  blue  that  they  seemed  to  have 
somehow  got  mixed  \yith  their  own  whites.  He 
was  a mild,  good-natured,  sweet-tempered,  easy- 
going, foolish,  dear  fellow — a sort  of  Hercules  in 
strength,  and  also  in  weakness. 

My  sister,  Mrs.  Joe,  with  black  hair  and  eyes, 
had  such  a prevailing  redness  of  skin  that  I some- 
times used  to  wonder  whether  it  was  possible  she 
w ashed  herself  with  a nutmeg-grater  instead  of 
soap.  She  was  tall  and  bony,  and  almost  alw'ays 
wore  a coarse  apron,  fastened  over  her  figure  be- 
hind with  tw'O  loops,  and  having  a square  impreg- 
nable bib  in  front,  that  w?as  stuck  full  of  pins 
and  needles.  She  made  it  a powerful  merit  in 
herself,  and  a strong  reproach  against  Joe,  that 
she  wore  this  apron  so  much.  Though  I really 
see  no  reason  wdry  she  should  have  worn  it  at  all ; 
or  why,  if  she  did  wear  it  at  all,  she  should  not 
have  taken  it  off  every  day  of  her  life. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  2. 

“ And  she  ain’t  over-partial  to  having  scholars 
on  the  premises,”  Joe  continued,  “and  in  par- 
tickler  would  not  be  over-partial  to  my  being  a 
scholar,  for  fear  as  I might  rise.  Like  a sort  of 
rebel,  don’t  you  see  ? ” 

I was  going  to  retort  with  an  inquiry,  and  had 
got  as  far  as  “ Why — ” when  Joe  stopped  me. 

“ Stay  a bit.  I know  wffiat  you’re  a going  to 
say,  Pip  ; stay  a bit  ! I don’t  deny  that  your 
sister  comes  the  Mo-gul  over  us,  now  and  again. 
I don’t  deny  that  she  do  throw  us  back-falls,  and 
that  she  do  drop  down  upon  us  heavy.  At  such 
limes  as  when  your  sister  is  on  the  Ram-page, 


CHARACTERS  AND 


85 


CHARACTERISTICS 


| Pip,”  Joe  sank  his  voice  to  a whisper  and  glanced 
! at  the  door,  “ candor  compels  fur  to  admit  that 
j she  is  a buster.” 

Joe  pronounced  this  word  as  if  it  began  with 
, at  least  twelve  capital  B’s. 

“ Why  don’t  I rise?  That  were  your  observa- 
tion when  I broke  it  off,  Pip  ? ” 

“ Yes,  Joe.” 

“Well,”  said  Joe,  passing  the  poker  into  his 
left  hand,  that  he  might  feel  his  whisker  ; and  I 
had  no  hope  of  him  whenever  he  took  to  that 
placid  occupation  ; “ your  sister’s  a master-mind. 
A master-mind.” 

“What’s  that?”  I asked,  in  some  hope  of 
bringing  him  to  a stand.  But  Joe  was  readier 
with  his  definition  than  I had  expected,  and  com- 
pletely stopped  me  by  arguing  circularly,  and 
answering  with  a fixed  look,  “ her.” 

“And  I ain’t  a master-mind,”  Joe  resumed, 
when  he  had  unfixed  his  look,  and  got  back  to 
his  whisker.  “ And  last  of  all,  Pip— and  this  I 
want  to  say  very  serous  to  you,  old  chap — I see 
so  much  in  my  poor  mother,  of  a woman  drudg- 
ing and  slaving  and  breaking  her  honest  hart 
and  never  getting  no  peace  in  her  mortal  days, 
that  I’m  dead  afeerd  of  going  wrong  in  the  way 
of  not  doing  what’s  right  by  a woman,  and  I’d 
fur  rather  of  the  two  go  wrong  the  ’tother  way, 
and  be  a little  ill-conwenienced  myself.  I wish 
it  was  only  me  that  got  put  out,  Pip  ; I wish 
there  warn’t  no  tickler  for  you,  old  chap  ; I wish 
I could  take  it  all  on  myself ; but  this  is  the  up- 
and-down-and-s.traight  on  it,  Pip,  and  I hope 
you’ll  overlook  shortcomings.” 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  7. 

MRS.  GENERAL.— In  person,  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral, including  her  skirts,  which  had  much  to  do 
with  it,  was  of  a dignified  and  imposing  appear- 
ance ; ample,  rustling,  gravely  voluminous  ; al- 
ways upright  behind  the  proprieties.  She  might 
have  been  taken — had  been  taken — to  the  top  of 
the  Alps  and  the  bottom  of  Herculaneum,  without 
disarranging  a fold  in  her  dress,  or  displacing  a 
pin.  If  her  countenance  and  hair  had  rather  a 
floury  appearance,  as  though  from  living  in  some 
transcendently  genteel  Mill,  it  was  rather  because 
she  was  a chalky  creation  altogether,  than  be- 
cause she  mended  her  complexion  with  violet 
powder,  or  had  turned  gray.  If  her  eyes  had 
no  expression,  it  was  probably  because  they  had 
nothing  to  express.  If  she  had  few  wrinkles,  it 
was  because  her  mind  had  never  traced  its  name 
or  any  other  inscription  on  her  face.  A cool, 
waxy,  blown-out  woman,  who  had  never  lighted 
well. 

Mrs.  General  had  no  opinions.  Her  way  of 
forming  a mind  was  to  prevent  it  from  forming 
opinions.  She  had  a little  circular  set  of  mental 
grooves  or  rails,  on  which  she  started  little  trains 
of  other  people’s  opinions,  which  never  overtook 
one  another,  and  never  got  anywhere.  Even 
her  propriety  could  not  dispute  that  there  was  im- 
propriety in  the  world  ; but  Mrs.  General’s  way 
of  getting  rid  of  it  was  to  put  it  out  of  sight, 
and  make  believe  that  there  was  no  such  thing. 
This  was  another  of  her  ways  of  forming  a mind 
— to  cram  all  articles  of  difficulty  into  cupboards, 
lock  them  up,  and  say  they  had  no  existence.  It 
was  the  easiest  way,  and,  beyond  all  comparison, 
the  properest. 

Mrs.  General  was  not  to  be  told  of  anything 
shocking.  Accidents,  miseries,  and  offences, 


were  never  to  be  mentioned  before  her.  Passion 
was  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral, and  blood  was  to  change  to  milk  and  water. 
The  little  that  was  left  in  the  world,  when  all 
these  deductions  were  made,  it  was  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral’s province  to  varnish.  In  that  formation 
process  of  hers,  she  dipped  the  smallest  of 
brushes  into  the  largest  of  pots,  and  varnished 
the  surface  of  every  object  that  came  under  con- 
sideration. The  more  cracked  it  was,  the  more 
Mrs.  General  varnished  it. 

There  was  varnish  in  Mrs.  General’s  voice, 
varnish  in  Mrs.  General’s  touch,  an  atmosphere 
of  varnish  round  Mrs.  General’s  figure.  Mrs. 
General’s  dreams  ought  to  have  been  varnished — 
if  she  had  any — lying  asleep  in  the  arms  of  the 
good  Saint  Bernard,  with  the  feathery  snow  fall- 
ing on  his  house-top. 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  //.,  Chap.  2. 

“ G US  TER”  Mrs.  Snags  by  s Maid. — Guster, 
really  aged  three  or  four  and  twenty,  but  looking 
a round  ten  years  older,  goes  cheap  with  this  un- 
accountable drawback  of  fits  ; and  is  so  appre- 
hensive of  being  returned  on  the  hands  of  her 
patron  saint,  that,  except  when  she  is  found  with 
her  head  in  the  pail,  or  the  sink,  or  the  copper, 
or  the  dinner,  or  anything  else  that  happens  to 
be  near  her  at  the  time  of  her  seizure,  she  is  al- 
ways at  work.  She  is  a satisfaction  to  the 
parents  and  guardians  of  the  ’prentices,  who  feel 
that  there  is  little  danger  of  her  inspiring  tender 
emotions  in  the  breast  of  youth  ; she  is  a satis- 
faction to  Mrs.  Snagsby,  who  can  always  find 
fault  with  her ; she  is  a satisfaction  to  Mr. 
Snagsby,  who  thinks  it  a charity  to  keep  her. 
The  law-stationer’s  establishment  is,  in  Guster’s 
eyes,  a Temple  of  plenty  and  splendor.  She  be- 
lieves the  little  drawing  room  up  stairs,  always 
kept,  as  one  may  say,  with  its  hair  in  papers  and 
its  pinafore  on,  to  be  the  most  elegant  apart- 
ment in  Christendom. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  10. 

MRS.  HUBBLE.— I remember  Mrs.  Hubble 
as  a little,  curly,  sharp-edged  person  in  sky-blue, 
who  held  a conventionally  juvenile  position,  be- 
cause she  had  married  Mr.  Hubble — I don’t 
know  at  what  remote  period — when  she  was 
much  younger  than  he.  I remember  Mr.  Hub- 
ble as  a tough,  high- shouldered,  stooping  old  man, 
of  a sawdusty  fragrance,  with  his  legs  extraor- 
dinarily wide  apart  ; so  that  in  my  short  days  I 
always  saw  some  miles  of  open  country  between 
them  when  I met  him  coming  up  the  lane. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  4. 

TILL  Y SLO  WBO  V— It  may  be  noted  of 
Miss  Slowboy,  in  spite  of  her  rejecting  the  cau- 
tion with  some  vivacity,  that  she  had  a rare  and 
surprising  talent  for  getting  this  baby  into  diffi- 
culties ; and  had  several  times  imperilled  its 
short  life,  in  a quiet  way  peculiarly  her  own. 
She  was  of  a spare  and  straight  shape,  this 
young  lady,  insomuch  that  her  garments  appeared 
to  be  in  constant  danger  of  sliding  off  those 
sharp  pegs,  her  shoulders,  on  which  they  were 
loosely  hung.  Her  costume  was  remarkable  for 
the  partial  development,  on  all  possible  occa- 
sions, of  some  flannel  vestment  of  a singular 
structure ; also  for  affording  glimpses,  in  the 
region  of  the  back,  of  a corset,  or  pair  of  stays, 
in  color  a dead-green.  Being  always  in  a state 


CHARACTERS  AND 


80 


CHARACTERISTICS 


of  gaping  admiration  at  everything,  and  ab- 
sorbed, besides,  in  the  perpetual  contemplation 
of  her  mistress’s  perfections  and  the  baby’s, 
Miss  Slowboy,  in  her  little  errors  of  judgment 
may  be  said  to  have  done  equal  honor  to  her 
head  and  to  her  heart  ; and  though  these  did 
less  honor  to  the  baby’s  head,  which  they  were 
the  occasional  means  of  bringing  into  contact 
with  cleal-doors,  dressers,  stair-rails,  bedposts, 
and  other  foreign  substances,  still  they  were  the 
honest  results  of  Tilly  Slowboy’s  constant  aston- 
ishment at  finding  herself  so  kindly  treated,  and 
installed  in  such  a comfortable  home.  For  the 
maternhl  and  paternal  Slowboy  were  alike  un- 
known to  Fame,  and  Tilly  had  been  bred  by 
public  charity,  a foundling  ; which  word,  though 
only  differing  from  fondling  by  one  vowel’s 
length,  is  very  different  in  meaning,  and  ex- 
presses quite  another  thing. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  I. 

MRS.  KITTERBELL.  — Mrs.  Kitterbell 
was  a tall,  thin  young  lady,  with  very  light  hair, 
and  a particularly  white  face — one  of  those 
young  women  who  almost  invariably,  though  one 
hardly  knows  why,  recall  to  one’s  mind  the  idea 
of  a cold  fillet  of  veal. — Tales , Chap.  n. 

MISS  MARTIN. — Miss  Amelia  Martin  was 
pale,  tallish,  thin,  and  two-ancl-thirty — what  ill- 
natured  people  would  call  plain,  and  police  re- 
ports interesting.  She  was  a milliner  and  dress- 
maker, living  on  her  business,  and  not  above  it. 

Sketches  ( Characters ),  Chap.  8. 

MRS.  MIFF, ; The  Pew-Opener— Mrs.  Miff, 
the  wheezy  little  pew-opener — a mighty  dry  old 
lady,  sparely  dressed,  with  not  an  inch  of  fullness 
anywhere  about  her — is  also  here,  and  has  been 
waiting  at  the  church-gate  half-an-hour,  as  her 
place  is,  for  the  beadle. 

A vinegary  face  has  Mrs.  Miff,  and  a mortified 
bonnet,  and  eke  a thirsty  soul  for  sixpences  and 
shillings.  Beckoning  to  stray  people  to  come 
into  pews,  has  given  Mrs.  Miff  an  air  of  mystery  ; 
and  there  is  reservation  in  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Miff, 
as  always  knowing  of  a softer  seat,  but  having 
her  suspicions  of  the  fee.  There  is  no  such  fact 
as  Mr.  Miff,  nor  has  there  been  these  twenty 
years,  and  Mrs.  Miff  would  rather  not  allude  to 
him. — Dombey  cr5  Son , Chap.  31. 

“Well,  well,”  says  Mrs.  Miff,  “you  might  do 
worse.  For  you’re  a tidy  pair  ! ” 

There  is  nothing  personal  in  Mrs.  Miff’s  re- 
mark. She  merely  speaks  of  stock  in  trade.  She 
is  hardly  more  curious  in  couples  than  in  coffins. 
She  is  such  a spare,  straight,  dry  old  lady — such 
a pew  of  a woman — that  you  should  find  as 
many  individual  sympathies  in  a chip. 

Dombey  dr5  Son , Chap.  57* 

MISS  MIGGS. — Mrs.  Varden’s  chief  aider  and 
abettor,  and  at  the  same  time  her  principal  vic- 
tim and  object  of  wrath,  was  her  single  domestic 
servant,  one  Miss  Miggs  ; or,  as  she  was  called, 
in  conformity  with  those  prejudices  of  society 
which  lop  and  top  from  poor  handmaidens  all 
such  genteel  excrescences — Miggs.  This  Miggs 
was  a tall  young  lady,  very  much  addicted  to 
pattens  in  private  life  ; slender  and  shrewish,  of 
a rather  uncomfortable  figure,  and  though  not 
absolutely  ill-looking,  of  a sharp  and  acid  visage. 


As  a general  principle  and  abstract  proposition, 
Miggs  held  the  male  sex  to  be  utterly  contempti- 
ble and  unworthy  of  notice  ; to  be  fickle,  false, 
base,  sottish,  inclined  to  perjury,  and  wholly 
undeserving.  When  particularly  exasperated 
against  them  (which,  scandal  said,  was  when  Sim 
Tappertit  slighted  her  most)  she  was  accustomed 
to  wish  with  great  emphasis  that  the  whole  race 
of  women  could  but  die  off,  in  order  that  the 
men  might  be  brought  to  know  the  real  value 
of  the  blessings  by  which  they  set  so  little  store  ; 
nay,  her  feeling  for  her  order  ran  so  high,  that 
she  sometimes  declared,  if  she  could  only  have 
good  security  for  a fair,  round  number — say  ten 
thousand — of  young  virgins  following  her  exam- 
ple, she  would,  to  spite  mankind,  hang,  drown, 
stab,  or  poison  herself,  with  a joy  past  all  ex- 
pression.— Barnaby  Rndge,  Chap.  7. 

MRS.  MARKLEHAM.— Mrs.  Strong’s  mam- 
ma was  a lady  I took  great  delight  in.  Her 
name  was  Mrs.  Markleham  ; but  our  boys  used 
to  call  her  the  Old  Soldier,  on  account  of  her 
generalship,  and  the  skill  with  which  she  mar- 
shalled great  forces  of  relations  against  the  Doc- 
tor. She  was  a little,  sharp-eyed  woman,  who 
used  to  wear,  when  she  was  dressed,  one  un- 
changeable cap,  ornamented  with  some  artificial 
flowers,  and  two  artificial  butterflies  supposed  to 
be  hovering  about  the  flowers.  There  was  a 
superstition  among  us  that  this  cap  had  come 
from  France,  and  could  only  originate  in  the 
workmanship  of  that  ingenious  nation  ; but  all 
I certainly  know  about  it  is,  that  it  always  made 
its  appearance  of  an  evening,  wheresoever  Mrs. 
Markleham  made  her  appearance  ; that  it  was 
carried  about  to  friendly  meetings  in  a Hindoo 
basket ; that  the  butterflies  had  the  gift  of  trem- 
bling constantly  ; and  that  they  improved  the 
shining  hours  at  Dr.  Strong’s  expense,  like  busy 
bees. — David  Copper  field,  Chap.  16. 

MA  GGIE. — She  was  about  eight-an.d-twen.ty, 
with  large  bones,  large  features,  large  feet  and 
hands,  large  eyes,  and  no  hair.  Her  large  eyes 
were  limpid  and  almost  colorless  ; they  seemed 
to  be  very  little  affected  by  light,  and  to  stand 
unnaturally  still.  There  was  also  that  attentive, 
listening  expression  in  her  face,  which  is  seen  in 
the  faces  of  the  blind  ; but  she  was  not  blind, 
having  one  tolerably  serviceable  eye.  Her  face 
was  not  exceedingly  ugly,  though  it  was  only 
redeemed  from  being  so  by  a smile  ; a good- 
humored  smile,  and  pleasant  in  itself,  but  ren- 
dered pitiable  by  being  constantly  there.  A 
great  white  cap,  with  a quantity  of  opaque  frill- 
ing that  was  always  flapping  about,  apologized 
for  Maggy’s  baldness,  and  made  ‘it  so  very  diffi- 
cult for  her  old  black  bonnet  to  retain  its  place 
upon  her  head,  that  it  held  on  round  her  neck 
like  a gypsy’s  baby.  A commission  of  haber- 
dashers could  alone  have  reported  what  the  rest 
of  her  poor  dress  w^as  made  of ; but  it  had  a 
strong  general  resemblance  to  sea-weed,  with 
here  and  there  a gigantic  tea-leaf.  Her  shawl 
looked  particularly  like  a tea-leaf  after  long  in- 
fusion.— Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  9. 

MISS  MO  WCHER. — I looked  at  the  door- 
way  and  saw  nothing.  I was  still  looking 
at  the  doorway,  thinking  that  Miss  Mowcher 
was  a long  while  making  her  appearance, 
when,  to  my  infinite  astonishment  there  came 


CHAMBERMAID 


87 


CHEEK 


waddling  round  a sofa  which  stood  between  me 
and  it,  a pursy  dwarf,  of  about  forty  or  forty-live, 
with  a very  large  head  and  face,  a pair  of  roguish 
gray  eyes,  and  such  extremely  little  arms,  that, 
to  enable  herself  to  lay  a finger  archly  against 
her  snub  nose  as  she  ogled  Steerforth,  she  was 
obliged  to  meet  the  finger  half-way,  and  lay  her 
nose  against  it.  Her  chin,  which  was  what  is 
called  a double-chin,  was  so  fat  that  it  entirely 
swallowed  up  the  strings  of  her  honnet,  bow  and 
all.  Throat  she  had  none  ; waist  she  had  none  ; 
legs  she  had  none,  worth  mentioning  ; for  though 
she  was  more  than  full-sized  down  to  where  her 
waist  would  have  been,  if  she  had  had  any,  and 
though  she  terminated,  as  human  beings  gener 
ally  do,  in  a pair  of  feet,  she  was  so  short  that 
she  stood  at  a common-sized  chair  as  at  a table, 
resting  a bag  she  carried  on  the  seat.  This 
lady,  dressed  in  an  off-hand,  easy  style  ; bring- 
ing her  nose  and  her  forefinger  together,  with  the 
difficulty  I have  described  ; standing  with  her 
head  necessarily  on  one  side,  and,  with  one  of 
her  sharp  eyes  shut  up,  making  an  uncommonly 
knowing  face  ; after  ogling  Steerforth  for  a few 
moments,  broke  into  a torrent  of  words. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  22. 

CHAMBERMAID. 

I rang  the  chambermaid’s  bell ; and  Mrs. 

, Pratchett  marched  in,  according  to  custom,  de- 
murely carrying  a lighted  flat  candle  before  her, 
as  if  she  was  one  of  a long  public  procession,  all 
the  other  members  of  which  were  invisible. 

Somebody' s Luggage , Chap.  3. 

CHAN G-E— The  Results  of. 

Change  begets  change.  Nothing  propagates 
so  fast.  If  a man  habituated  to  a 1 arrow  circle 
of  cares  and  pleasures,  out  of  which  he  seldom 
travels,  step  beyond  it,  though  for  never  so  brief 
a space,  his  departure  from  the  monotonous 
scene  on  which  he  has  been  an  actor  of  impor- 
tance, would  seem  to  be  the  signal  for  instant 
confusion.  As  if,  in  the  gap  he  had  left,  the 
wedge  of  change  were  driven  to  the  head,  rend- 
ing what  was  a solid  mass  to  fragments  ; things 
cemented  and  held  together  by  the  usages  of 
years,  burst  asunder  in  as  many  weeks.  The, 
mine  which  Time  has  slowly  dug  beneath  famil- 
iar objects,  is  sprung  in  an  instant ; and  what 
was  rock  before,  becomes  but  sand  and  dust. 
Most  men,  at  one  time  or  other,  have  proved 
this  in  some  degree. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  18. 

CHARITY— of  the  Poor. 

The  man  came  running  after  them,  and  press- 
ing her  hand  left  something  in  it — two  old,  bat- 
tered, smoke-encrusted  penny  pieces.  Who  knows 
but  they  shone  as  brightly  in  the  eyes  of  angels, 
as  golden  gifts  that  have  been  chronicled  on 
tombs  ? — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  45. 

CHARITY— Held  by  Main  Force. 

Mr.  Wegg  smokes  and  looks  at  the  fire  with  a 
most  determined  expression  of  Charity  ; as  if  he 
had  caught  that  cardinal  virtue  by  the  skirts  as 
she  felt  it  her  painful  duty  to  depart  from  him, 
and  held  her  by  main  force. 

Our  M utual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap.  7. 

CHARITY— Speculators  in. 

In  short,  we  heard  of  a great  many  Missions, 
of  various  sorts,  among  this  set  of  people  ; but, 

11 


nothing  respecting  them  was  half  so  clear  to  us. 
as  that  it  was  Mr.  Quale’s  mission  to  be  in  ec- 
stasies with  everybody  else’s  mission,  and  that, 
it  was  the  most  popular  mission  of  all. 

Mr.  Jarndyce  had  fallen  into  this  company,  in 
the  tenderness  of  his  heart,  and  his  earnest  desire 
to  do  all  the  good  in  his  power  ; but,  that  he 
felt  it  to  be  too  often  an  unsatisfactory  company, 
where  benevolence  took  spasmodic  forms  ; where 
chfirity  was  assumed,  as  a regular  uniform,  by 
loud  professors  and  speculators  in  cheap  notori- 
ety, vehement  in  profession,  restless  and  vain  in 
action,  servile  in  the  last  degree  of  meanness  to 
the  great,  adulatory  of  one  another,  and  intolera 
ble  to  those  who  were  anxious  quietly  to  help  the 
weak  from  falling,  rather  than  with  a great  deal 
of  bluster  and  self-laudation  to  raise  tfiem  up  a 
little  way  when  they  were  down  ; he  plainly  fold 
us.  When  a testimonial  was  originated  to  Mr. 
Quale,  by  Mr.  Gusher  (who  had  already  got  one, 
originated  by  Mr.  Quale),  and  when  Mr.  Gusher 
spoke  for  an  hour  and  a half  on  the  subject  to  a 
meeting,  including  two  charity-schools  of  small 
boys  and  girls,  who  were  specially  reminded  of 
the  widow’s  mite,  and  requested  to  come  forward 
with  halfpence,  and  be  acceptable  sacrifices  ; I 
think  the  wind  was  in  the  east  for  three  whole 
weeks. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  15. 

CHARITY— The  Romance  of. 

There  are  many  lives  of  much  pain,  hardship, 
and  suffering,  which,  having  no  stirring  interest 
for  any  but  those  who  lead  them,  are  disregarded 
by  persons  who  do  not  want  thought  or  feeling, 
but  who  pamper  their  compassion,  and  need  high 
stimulants  to  rouse  it. 

There  are  not  a few  among  the  disciples  of 
charity  who  require,  in  their  vocation,  scarcely 
less  excitement  than  the  votaries  of  pleasure  in 
theirs  ; and  hence  it  is  that  diseased  sympathy 
and  compassion  are  every  day  expended  on  out- 
of-the-way  objects,  when  only  too  many  demands 
upon  the  legitimate  exercise  of  the  same  virtues 
in  a healthy  state,  are  constantly  within  the  sight 
and  hearing  of  the  most  unobservant  person  alive. 
In  short,  charity  must  have  its  romance,  as  the 
novelist  or  playwright  must  have  his.  A thief  in 
fustian  is  a vulgar  character,  scarcely  to  be  thought 
of  by  persons  of  refinement  ; but  dress  him  in 
green  velvet,  with  a high-crowned  hat,  and  change 
the  scene  of  his  operations  from  a thickly- 
peopled  city  to  a mountain  road,  and  you  shall 
find  in  him  the  very  soul  of  poetry  and  adven- 
ture. So  it  is  with  the  one  great  cardinal  virtue, 
which,  properly  nourished  and  exercised,  leads 
to,  if  it  does  not  necessarily  include,  all  the 
others.  It  must  have  its  romance  ; and  the  less 
of  real,  hard,  struggling,  work-a-day  life  there  is 
in  that  romance  the  better. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  18. 

CHEEK— An  Unsympathetic. 

“ My  child  is  welcome,  though  unlooked  for,” 
said  she,  at  the  time  presenting  her  cheek  as  if 
it  were  a cool  slate  for  visitors  to  enroll  them- 
selves upon. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  III.,  Chap.  16. 

“ This,”  said  Mrs.  Wilfer,  presenting  a cheek 
to  be  kissed,  as  sympathetic  and  responsive  as 
the  back  of  the  bowl  of  a spoon,  “ is  quit** 
an  honor ! ” 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  II.,  Chap.  8. 


CHEER 


88 


CHILD 


CHEER— An  English. 

No  men  on  earth  can  cheer  like  Englishmen, 
who  do  so  rally  one  another’s  blood  and  spirit 
when  they  cheer  in  earnest,  that  the  stir  is  like 
the  rush  of  their  whole  history,  with  all  its  stand- 
ards waving  at  once,  from  Saxon  Alfred’s  down- 
ward.— Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  22. 

CHEERFULNESS- Kit’s  Religion. 

“ I don’t  believe,  mother,  that  harmless  cheer- 
fulness and  good  humor  are  thought  greater  sins 
in  Heaven  than  shirt-collars  are,  and  I do  be- 
lieve that  those  chaps  are  just  about  as  right  and 
sensible  in  putting  down  the  one  as  in  leaving 
off  the  other — that’s  my  belief.  Whenever  a Lit- 
tle Bethel  parson  calls  you  a precious  lamb,  or 
says  your  brother’s  one,  you  tell  him  it’s  the 
truest  thing  he’s  said  for  a twelvemonth,  and 
that  if  he’d  got  a little  more  of  the  lamb  himself, 
and  less  of  the  mint-sauce — not  being  quite  so 
sharp  and  sour  over  it — I should  like  him  all 
the  better.” — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  41. 

CHEERFULNESS-Kit’s  Philosophy  of. 

“ Can  you  suppose  there’s  any  harm  in  looking 
as  cheerful  and  being  as  cheerful  as  our  poor  cir- 
cumstances will  permit  ? Do  I see  anything  in 
the  way  I’m  made,  which  calls  upon  me  to  be  a 
snivelling,  solemn,  whispering  chap,  sneaking 
about  as  if  I couldn’t  help  it,  and  expressing 
myself  in  a most  unpleasant  snuffle  ? on  the  con- 
trary, don’t  I see  every  reason  why  I shouldn’t  ? 
Just  hear  this  ! Ha  ha  ha  ! Ain’t  that  as  nat’ral 
as  walking,  and  as  good  for  the  health  ? Ha  ha 
ha  ! Ain’t  that  as  nat’ral  as  a sheep’s  bleating, 
or  a pig’s  grunting,  or  a horse’s  neighing,  or  a 
bird’s  singing?  Ha  ha  ha!  Isn’t  it,  mother?  ” 
Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  22. 

CHEMIST-The. 

Who  that  had  seen  him  m his  inner  chamber, 
part  library  and  part  laboratory — for  he  was,  as 
the  world  knew,  far  and  wide,  a learned  man  in 
chemistry,  and  a teacher  on  whose  lips  and  hands 
a crowd  of  aspiring  ears  and  eyes  hung  daily — 
who  that  had  seen  him  there,  upon  a winter 
night,  alone,  surrounded  by  his  drugs  and  instru- 
ments and  books  ; the  shadow  of  his  shaded 
lamp  a monstrous  beetle  on  the  wall,  motionless 
among  a crowd  of  spectral  shapes  raised  there  by 
the  flickering  of  the  fire  upon  the  quaint  objects 
around  him  ; some  of  these  phantoms  (the  re- 
flections of  glass  vessels  that  held  liquids)  trem- 
bling at  heart  like  things  that  knew  his  power 
to  uncombine  them,  and  to  give  back  their  com- 
ponent parts  to  fire  and  vapor ; who  that  had 
seen  him  then,  his  work  done,  and  he  pondering 
in  his  chair  before  the  rusted  grate  and  red 
flame,  moving  his  thin  mouth  as  if  in  speech, 
but  silent  as  the  dead,  would  not  have  said  that 
the  man  seemed  haunted  and  the  chamber  too  ? 

Haunted  Man,  Chap.  1. 

CHESTERFIELD— as  a Man  of  the  World. 

“ Shakespeare  was  undoubtedly  very  fine  in 
his  way  ; Milton  good,  though  prosy  ; Lord  Ba 
con  deep,  and  decidedly  knowing  ; but  the  writer 
who  should  be  his  country’s  pride,  is  my  Lord 
Chesterfield.” 

He  became  thoughtful  again,  and  the  tooth- 
pick was  in  requisition. 

“ I thought  I was  tolerably  accomplished  as  a 
man  of  the  world,”  lie  continued  ; “ I flattered 


myself  that  I was  pretty  well  versed  in  all  those 
little  arts  and  graces  which  distinguish  men  of 
the  world  from  boors  and  peasants,  and  separate 
their  character  from  those  intensely  vulgar  sen- 
timents which  are  called  the  national  character. 
Apart  from  any  natural  prepossession  in  my  own 
favor,  I believed  I was.  Still,  in  every  page  of 
this  enlightened  writer,  I find  some  captivating 
hypocrisy  which  has  never  occurred  to  me  be- 
fore, or  some  superlative  piece  of  selfishness  to 
which  I was  utterly  a stranger.  I should  quite 
blush  for  myself  before  this  stupendous  creature, 
if,  remembering  his  precepts,  one  might  blush  at 
nnylhing.  An  amazing  man!  a nobleman  in 
deed  ! any  king  or  queen  may  make  a lord,  but 
only  the  Devil  himself — and  the  Graces — can 
make  a Chesterfield.” 

Many  who  are  thoroughly  false  and  hollow, 
seldom  try  to  hide  those  vices  from  themselves  ; 
and  yet,  in  the  very  act  of  avowing  them,  they 
lay  claim  to  the  virtues  they  feign  most  to  de- 
spise. “ For,”  say  they,  “ this  is  honesty,  this  is 
truth.  All  mankind  are  like  us,  but  they  have 
not  the  candor  to  avow  it.”  The  more  they  af- 
fect to  deny  the  existence  of  any  sincerity  in  the 
world,  the  more  they  would  be  thought  to  pos- 
sess it  in  its  boldest  shape  ; and  this  is  an  un- 
conscious compliment  to  Truth  on  the  part  of 
these  philosophers,  which  will  turn  the  laugh 
against  them  to  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  23. 

CHILD— A matured  (Mr.  Grewgious). 

“ Young  ways  were  never  my  ways.  I was  the 
only  offspring  of  parents  far  advanced  in  life, 
and  I half  believe  I was  born  advanced  in  life 
myself.  No  personality  is  intended  towards  the 
name  you  will  so  soon  change,  when  I remark 
that  while  the  general  growth  of  people  seem  to 
have  come  into  existence  buds,  I seem  to  have 
come  into  existence  a chip.  I was  a chip — and 
a very  dry  one — when  I first  became  aware  of 
myself.” — Edwin  Drood , Chap.  9. 

CHILD  — Sickness  of  Johnny  Harmon  — 

Sloppy’s  account. 

Mr.  Sloppy  being  introduced,  remained  close 
to  the  door  ; revealing,  in  various  parts  of  his 
form,  many  surprising,  confounding,  and  incom- 
prehensible buttons. 

“ I am  glad  to  see  you,”  said  John  Rokesmith, 
in  a cheerful  tone  of  welcome.  “ I have  been 
expecting  you.” 

Sloppy  explained  that  he  had  meant  to  come 
before,  but  that  the  orphan  (of  whom  he  made 
mention  as  Our  Johnny)  had  been  ailing,  and  he 
had  waited  to  report  him  well. 

“Then  he  is  well  now?”  said  the  Secretary. 

“ No  he  ain’t,”  said  Sloppy. 

Mr.  Sloppy  having  shaken  his  head  to  a con- 
siderable extent,  proceeded  to  remark  that  he 
thought  Johnny  “ must  have  took  ’em  from  the 
Minders.”  Being  asked  what  he  meant,  he  an- 
swered, them  that  come  out  upon  him  and  par- 
ticlder  his  chest.  Being  requested  to  explain 
himself,  he  stated  that  there  was  some  of  ’em 
wot  you  couldn’t  kiver  with  a sixpence.  Pressed 
to  full  back  upon  a nominative  case,  he  opined 
that  they  wos  about  as  red  as  ever  red  could  be. 
“ But  as  long  as  they  strikes  out’ards,  sir,”  con- 
tiniu'd  Sloppy,  “ they  ain’t  so  much.  It’s  their 
striking  in’ards  that’s  to  be  kep  off.” 

John  Rokesmith  hoped  the  child  had  had 


CHILD 


89 


CHILD 


medical  attendance  ? Oh,  yes,  said  Sloppy,  he 
had  been  took  to  the  doctor’s  shop  once.  And 
what  did  the  doctor  call  it  ? Rokesmith  asked 
him.  After  some  perplexed  reflection,  Sloppy 
answered,  brightening,  “ He  called  it  something 
as  was  wery  long  for  spots.”  Rokesmith  sug- 
gested measles.  “ No,”  said  Sloppy,  with  con- 
tidence,  “ ever  so  much  longer  than  them,  sir  ! ” 
(Mr.  Sloppy  was  elevated  by  this  fact,  and  seem- 
ed to  consider  that  it  reflected  credit  on  the  poor 
little  patient.) 

Sjc  ;jt  ^4  * SjS 

“ Last  night,”  said  Sloppy,  “ when  I was  a- 
turning  at  the  wrheel  pretty  late,  the  mangle 
seemed  to  go  like  our  Johnny’s  breathing.  It 
begun  beautiful,  then  as  it  went  out  it  shook  a 
little  and  got  unsteady,  then  as  it  took  the  turn 
to  come  home  it  had  a rattle-like  and  lumbered 
a bit,  then  it  come  smooth,  and  so  it  went  on  till 
I scarce  know’d  which  was  mangle  and  which 
was  Our  Johnny.  Nor  Our  Johnny,  he  scarce 
know’d  either,  for  sometimes  when  the  mangle 
lumbers  he  says,  ‘ Me  choking,  Granny  ! ’ and 
Mrs.  Higden  holds  him  up  in  her  lap  and  says 
to  me,  ‘ Bide  a bit,  Sloppy,’  and  we  all  stops  to- 
gether. And  when  Our  Johnny  gets  his  breath- 
ing again,  I turns  again,  and  we  all  goes  on 
together.” 

Sloppy  had  gradually  expanded  with  this  de- 
scription into  a stare  and  avacant  grin.  He  now 
contracted,  being  silent,  into  a half-repressed 
gush  of  tears,  and,  under  pretence  of  being 
heated,  drew  the  under  part  of  his  sleeve  across 
his  eyes  with  a singularly  awkward,  laborious, 
and  roundabout  smear. 

* * * * * * 

“ So  bad  as  that ! ” cried  Mrs.  Boffin.  “ And 
Betty  Higden  not  to  tell  me  of  it  sooner  ! ” 

“ I think  she  might  have  been  mistrustful, 
mum,”  answered  Sloppy,  hesitating. 

“ Of  what,  for  Heaven’s  sake  ?” 

“ I think  she  might  have  been  mistrustful, 
mum,”  returned  Sloppy,  with  submission,  “ of 
standing  in  Our  Johnny’s  light.  There’s  so  much 
trouble  in  illness,  and  so  much  expense,  and  she’s 
seen  such  a lot  of  its  being  objected  to.” 

“ But  she  never  can  have  thought,”  said  Mrs. 
Boffin,  “ that  I would  grudge  the  dear  child  any- 
thing ? ” 

“ No,  mum,  but  she  might  have  thought  (as  a 
habit-like)  of  its  standing  in  Johnny’s  light,  and 
might  have  tried  to  bring  him  through  it  unbe- 
knownst.” 

Sloppy  knew  his  ground  well.  To  conceal 
herself  in  sickness,  like  a lower  animal ; to  creep 
out  of  sight  and  coil  herself  away,  and  die  ; had 
become  this  woman’s  instinct.  To  catch  up  in 
her  arms  the  sick  child  who  was  dear  to  her,  and 
hide  it  as  if  it  were  a criminal,  and  keep  off  all 
ministration  but  such  as  her  own  ignorant  ten- 
derness and  patience  could  supply,  had  become 
this  woman’s  idea  of  maternal  love,  fidelity,  and 
duty.  The  shameful  accounts  we  read,  every 
week  in  the  Christian  year,  my  Lords  and  Gen- 
tlemen and  Honorable  Boards,  the  infamous  re- 
cords of  small  official  inhumanity,  do  not  pass 
by  the  people  as  they  pass  by  us.  And  hence 
these  irrational,  blind,  and  obstinate  prejudices, 
so  astonishing  to  our  magnificence,  and  having 
no  more  reason  in  them — God  save  the  Queen 
and  confound  their  politics — no,  than  smoke  has 
in  coming  from  fire  ! 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  //.,  Chap.  g. 


CHILD— Death,  of  Little  Johnny  Harmon. 

At  the  Children’s  Hospital,  the  gallant  steed, 
the  Noah’s  ark,  the  yellow  bird,  and  the  officer 
in  the  Guards,  were  made  as  welcome  as  their 
child-owner.  But  the  doctor  said  aside  to  Roke- 
smith, “ This  should  have  been  days  ago.  Ton 
late  ! ” 

However,  they  were  all  carried  up  into  a fresh 
airy  room,  and  there  Johnny  came  to  himself, 
out  of  a sleep  or  a swoon  or  whatever  it  was,  to 
find  himself  lying  in  a little  quiet  bed,  with  a 
little  platform  over  his  breast,  on  which  were  al- 
ready arranged,  to  give  him  heart  and  urge  him 
to  cheer  up,  the  Noah’s  ark,  the  noble  steed,  and 
the  yellow  bird  ; with  the  officer  in  the  Guards 
doing  duty  over  the  whole,  quite  as  much  to  the 
satisfaction  of  his  country  as  if  he  had  been 
upon  Parade.  And  at  the  bed’s  head  was  a col- 
ored picture  beautiful  to  see,  representing  as  it 
were  another  Johnny  seated  on  the  knee  of  some 
Angel  surely,  who  loved  little  children.  And, 
marvellous  fact,  to  lie  and  stare  at:  Johnny  had 
become  one  of  a little  family,  all  in  little  quiet 
beds  (except  two  playing  dominoes  in  little  arm- 
chairs at  a little  table  on  the  hearth)  ; and  on  all 
the  little  beds  were  little  platforms  whereon  were 
to  be  seen  dolls’  houses,  woolly  dogs  with  me- 
chanical barks  in  them,  not  very  dissimilar  from 
the  artificial  voice  pervading  the  bowels  of  the 
yellow  bird,  tin  armies,  Moorish  tumblers, 
wooden  tea-things,  and  the  riches  of  the  earth. 

As  Johnny^  murmured  something  in  his  placid 
admiration,  the  ministering  women  at  his  bed’s 
head  asked  him  what  he  said.  It  seemed  that 
he  wanted  to  know  whether  all  these  were 
brothers  and  sisters  of  his  ? So  they  told  him 
yes.  It  seemed  then,  that  he  wanted  to  know 
whether  God  had  brought  them  all  together 
there?  So  they  told  him  yes  again.  They  made 
out  then,  that  he  wanted  to  know  whether  they 
would  all  get  out  of  pain  ? So  they  answered 
yes  to  that  question  likewise,  and  made  him  un- 
derstand that  the  reply  included  himself. 

Johnny’s  powers  of  sustaining  conversation 
were  as  yet  so  very  imperfectly  developed,  even 
in  a state  of  health,  that  in  sickness  they  were 
little  more  than  monosyllabic.  But,  he  had  to 
be  washed  and  tended,  and  remedies  were  ap- 
plied, and  though  those  offices  were  far,  far 
more  skillfully  and  lightly  done  than  ever  any- 
thing had  been  done  for  him  in  his  little  life,  so 
rough  and  short,  they  would  have  hurt  and  tired 
him  but  for  an  amazing  circumstance  which  laid 
hold  of  his  attention.  This  was  no  less  than  the 
appearance  on  his  own  little  platform  in  pairs, 
of  All  Creation,  on  its  way  into  his  own  particu- 
lar ark : the  elephant  leading,  and  the  fly,  with 
a diffident  sense  of  his  size,  politely  bringing  up 
the  rear.  A very  little  brother  lying  in  the  next 
bed  with  a broken  leg,  was  so  enchanted  by  this 
spectacle  that  his  delight  exalted  its  enthralling 
interest ; and  so  came  rest  and  sleep. 

“ I see  you  are  not  afraid  to  leave  the  dear 
child  here,  Betty,”  whispered  Mrs.  Boffin. 

“ No,  ma’am.  Most  willingly,  most  thankful- 
ly, with  all  my  heart  and  soul.” 

So,  they  kissed  him,  and  left  him  there,  and 
old  Betty  was  to  come  back  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  nobody  but  Rokesmith  knew  for  certain 
how  that  the  doctor  had  said,  “ This  should  have 
been  days  ago.  Too  late  !” 

But,  Rokesmith  knowing  it,  and  knowing  that 
his  bearing  it  in  mind  would  be  acceptable  there- 

1 


CHILD  DO  CHILDHOOD 


after  to  that  good  woman  who  had  been  the  only 
light  in  the  childhood  of  desolate  John  Hannon 
dead  and  gone,  resolved  that  late  at  night  he 
would  go  back  to  the  bedside  of  John  Hannon’s 
namesake,  and  see  how  it  fared  with  him. 

The  family  whom  God  had  brought  together 
were  not  all  asleep,  but  were  all  quiet.  From 
bed  to  bed,  a light  womanly  tread  and  a pleasant 
fresh  face  passed  in  the  silence  of  the  night.  A 
little  head  would  lift  itself  up  into  the  softened 
light  here  and  there,  to  be  kissed  as  the  face 
went  by — for  these  little  patients  are  very  loving 
— and  would  then  submit  itself  to  be  composed 
to  rest  again.  The  mite  with  the  broken  leg 
was  restless,  and  moaned  ; but  after  a while 
turned  his  face  towards  Johnny’s  bed,  to  fortify 
himself  with  a view  of  the  ark,  and  fell  asleep. 
Over  most  of  the  beds,  the  toys  were  yet  grouped 
as  the  children  had  left  them  when  they  last 
laid  themselves  down,  and,  in  their  innocent 
grotesqueness  and  incongruity,  they  might  have 
stood  for  the  children’s  dreams. 

The  doctor  came  in  too,  to  see  how  it  fared 
with  Johnny.  And  he  and  Rokesmith  stood  to- 
gether, looking  down  with  compassion  upon 
him. 

“What  is  it,  Johnny?”  Rokesmith  was  the 
questioner,  and  put  an  arm  round  the  poor  baby 
as  he  made  a struggle. 

“ Him  !”  said  the  little  fellow.  “Those  !” 

The  doctor  was  quick  to  understand  children, 
and,  taking  the  horse,  the  ark,  the  yellow  bird, 
and  the  man  in  the  Guards,  from  Johnny’s  bed, 
softly  placed  them  on  that  of  his  next  neighbor, 
the  mite  with  the  broken  leg. 

With  a weary  and  yet  a pleased  smile,  and 
with  an  action  as  if  he  stretched  his  little  figure 
out  to  rest,  the  child  heaved  his  body  on  the 
sustaining  arm,  and  seeking  Rokesmith’s  face 
with  his  lips,  said  : 

“ A kiss  for  the  boofer  lady.” 

Having  now  bequeathed  all  he  had  to  dispose 
of,  and  arranging  his  affairs  in  this  world,  John- 
ny, thus  speaking,  left  it. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap.  9. 

CHILD— A Fashionable. 

There  was  a Miss  Podsnap.  And  this  young 
rocking-horse  was  being  trained  in  her  mother’s 
art  of  prancing  in  a stately  manner  without  ever 
getting  on.  But  the  high  parental  action  was  not 
yet  imparted  to  her,  and  in  truth  she  was  but  an 
undersized  damsel,  with  high  shoulders,  low 
spirits,  chilled  elbows,  and  a rasped  surface  of 
nose,  who  seemed  to  take  occasional  frosty 
peeps  out  of  childhood  into  womanhood,  and  to 
shrink  back  again,  overcome  by  her  mother’s 
head-dress,  and  her  father  from  head  to  foot 
— crushed  by  the  mere  dead-weight  of  Podsnap- 
pery  Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  /.,  Chap.  11. 

CHILD— Of  a Female  Philanthropist. 

I was  sitting  at  the  window  with  my  guardian, 
on  the  following  morning,  and  Ada  was  busy  writ- 
ing--of  course  to  Richard — when  Miss  Jellyby 
was  announced,  and  entered,  leading  the  identical 
Peepy,  whom  she  had  made  some  endeavors  to 
render  presentable,  by  wiping  the  dirt  into  cor- 
ners of  his  face  and  hands,  and  making  his  hair 
very  wet,  and  then  violently  frizzing  it  with  her 
fingers.  Everything  the  dear  child  wore  was 
either  too  large  for  him  or  too  small.  Among  his 
other  contradictory  decorations  he  had  the  hat  of 


a bishop,  and  the  little  gloves  of  a baby.  1 1 is 
boots  were,  on  a small  scale,  the  boots  of  a plough- 
man; while  his  legs,  so  crossed  and  recrossed  with 
scratches  that  they  looked  like  maps,  were  bare, 
below  a very  short  pair  of  plaid  drawers,  finished 
off  with  two  frills  of  perfectly  diflerent  patterns. 
The  deficient  buttons  on  his  plaid  frock  had  evi- 
dently been  supplied  from  one  of  Mr.  Jellyby’s 
coats,  they  were  so  extremely  brazen  and  so  much 
too  large.  Most  extraordinary  specimens  of  nee- 
dlework appeared  on  several  parts  of  his  dress, 
where  it  had  been  hastily  mended  ; and  I recog- 
nized the  same  hand  on  Miss  Jellyby’s. 

“ Oh,  dear  me  ! ” said  my  guardian,  “ Due 
East !” — Bleak  House,  Chap.  14. 

CHILD  AND  FATHER-A  Contrast. 

Dombey  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  darkened 
room,  in  the  great  arm-chair  by  the  bed-side,  and 
Son  lay  tucked  up  warm  in  a little  basket  bed- 
stead, carefully  disposed  on  a low  settee  immedi- 
ately in  front  of  the  fire  and  close  to  it,  as  if  his 
constitution  were  analogous  to  that  of  a muffin, 
and  it  was  essential  to  toast  him  brown  while  he 
was  very  new. 

Dombey  was  about  eight-and-forty  years  of  age. 
Son  about  eight-and-forty  minutes.  Dombey  was 
rather  bald,  rather  red,  and  though  a handsome, 
well-made  man,  too  stern  and  pompous  in  appear- 
ance to  be  prepossessing.  Son  was  very  bald, 
and  very  red,  and  though  (of  course)  an  undeniably 
fine  infant,  somewhat  crushed  and  spotty  in  his 
general  effect,  as  yet.  On  the  brow  of  Dombey, 
Time  and  his  brother  Care  had  set  some  marks, 
as  on  a tree  that  was  to  come  down  in  good  time 
— -remorseless  twins  they  are  for  striding  through 
their  human  forests,  notching  as  they  go — while 
the  countenance  of  Son  was  crossed  and  recrossed 
with  a thousand  little  creases,  which  the  same 
deceitful  Time  would  take  delight  in  smoothing 
out  and  wearing  away  with  the  flat  part  of  his 
scythe,  as  a preparation  of  the  surface  for  his 
deeper  operations. 

Dombey,  exulting  in  the  long-looked  for  event, 
jingled  and  jingled  the  heavy  gold  watch-chain 
that  depended  from  below  his  trim  blue  coat, 
whereof  the  buttons  sparkled  phosphorescently 
in  the  feeble  rays  of  the  distant  fire.  Son,  with 
his  little  fists  curled  up  and  clenched,  seemed,  in 
his  feeble  way,  to  be  squaring  at  existence  for 
having  come  upon  him  so  unexpectedly. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  1. 

CHILDHOOD— The  Power  of  Observation  in. 

I believe  the  power  of  observation  in  numbers 
of  very  young  children  to  be  quite  wonderful  for 
its  closeness  and  accuracy.  Indeed,  I think  that 
most  grown  men  who  are  remarkable  in  this 
respect,  may,  with  greater  propriety,  be  said  not 
to  have  lost  the  faculty,  than  to  have  acquired  it ; 
the  rather,  as  I generally  observe  such  men  to 
retain  a certain  freshness,  and  gentleness,  and 
capacity  of  being  pleased,  which  are  also  an  in- 
heritance they  have  preserved  from  their  child- 
hood.— David  Copperjield,  Chap.  2. 

CHILDHOOD— The  Fortitude  of  Little  Nell. 

In  the  pale  moonlight,  which  lent  a wanness 
of  its  own  to  the  delicate  face,  where  thoughtful 
care  already  mingled  with  the  winning  grace  and 
loveliness  of  youth,  the  too  bright  eye,  the  spirit- 
ual head,  the  lips  that  pressed  each  other  with 
such  high  resolves  and  courage  of  the  heart,  the 


CHILDHOOD 


91 


CHILDREN 


slight  figure,  firm  in  its  bearing,  and  yet  so  very 
weak,  told  their  silent  tale  ; but  told  it  only  to 
the  wind  that  rustled  by,  which,  tr^ing  up  its 
burden,  carried,  perhaps  to  some  motncr’s  pillow, 
faint  dreams  of  childhood  fading  in  its  bloom, 
and  resting  in  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  43. 

CHILDHOOD— The  early  experience  of. 

“ It  always  grieves  me  to  contemplate  the  in- 
itiation of  children  into  the  ways  of  life,  when 
they  are  scarcely  more  than  infants.  It  checks 
their  confidence  and  simplicity — two  of  the  best 
qualities  that  Heaven  gives  them — and  demands 
that  they  share  our  sorrows  before  they  are  ca- 
pable of  entering  into  our  enjoyments.” 

“ It  will  never  check  hers,”  said  the  old  man, 
looking  steadily  at  me  ; “ the  springs  are  too 
deep.  Besides,  the  children  of  the  poor  know 
but  few  pleasures.  Even  the  cheap  delights  of 
childhood  must  be  bought  and  paid  fox-.’' 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  1. 

CHILDHOQD-in  a city. 

I don’t  know  where  she  was  going,  but  we  saw 
her  run,  such  a little,  little  creature,  in  her  wo- 
manly bonnet  and  apron,  thi-ough  a covered  way 
at  the  bottom  of  the  court  ; and  melt  into  the 
city’s  sti’ife  and  sound,  like  a dewdi-op  in  an 
ocean. — Bleak  House , Chap.  15. 

CHILDHOOD— Sad  remembrances  of. 

The  di-eams  of  childhood — its  airy  fables  ; its 
graceful,  beautiful,  humane,  impossible  adoni- 
ments  of  the  world  beyond  ; so  good  to  be  be- 
lieved in  once,  so  good  to  be  i-emembered  when 
outgrown,  for  then  the  least  among  them  rises  to 
the  stature  of  a great  Charity  in  the  heart,  suf- 
fering little  children  to  come  into  the  midst  of 
it,  and  to  keep  with  their  pure  hands  a garden  in 
the  stony  ways  of  this  world,  wherein  it  was 
better  for  all  the  children  of  Adam  that  they 
should  oftenersun  themselves,  simple  and  trust- 
ful, and  not  worldly-wise — what  had  she  to  do 
with  these?  Remembrances  of  how  she  had 
journeyed  to  the  little  that  she  knew,  by  the  en- 
chanted roads  of  what  she  and  millions  of  inno- 
cent ci*eatures  had  hoped  and  imagined  ; and  how 
first  coming  upon  Reason  through  the  tender 
light  of  Fancy,  she  had  seen  it  a beneficent  god, 
deferring  to  gods  as  great  as  itself  ; not  a grim 
Idol,  cruel  and  cold,  with  its  victims  bound  hand 
to  foot,  and  its  big  dumb  shape  set  up  with  a 
sightless  stare,  never  to  be  moved  by  anything 
but  so  many  calculated  tons  of  levei'age — what 
had  she  to  do  with  these-?  Her  i-emembrances  of 
home  and  childhood  were  x-emembi-ances  of  the 
drying  up  of  evei-y  spring  and  fountain  in  her 
young  heart  as  it  gushed  out.  The  golden  waters 
were  not  there.  They  were  flowing  for  the  ferti- 
lization of  the  land  whei-e  grapes  are  gathered 
from  thorns,  and  figs  fi'om  thistles. 

Hard  Times , Book  II.,  Chap.  9. 

CHILDHOOD-The  Dreams  of. 

The  room  was  a pleasant  one,  at  the  top  of 
the  house,  overlooking  the  sea,  on  which  the 
moon  was  shining  brilliantly.  After  I had  said 
my  prayers,  and  the  candle  had  burnt  out,  I 
remember  how  I still  sat  looking  at  the  moon- 
light on  the  water-,  as  if  I could  hope  to  read  my 
fortune  in  it,  as  in  a bright  book  ; or  to  see  my 
mother  with  her  child,  coming  from  Heaven, 


along  that  shining  path,  to  look  upon  me  as  she 
had  looked  when  I last  saw  her  sweet  face.  I 
remember  how  I seemed  to  float,  then,  down 
the  melancholy  glory  of  that  track  upon  the  sea, 
away  into  the  world  of  dreams. 

David  Copperjield,  Chap.  13. 

CHILDHOOD— Neglected. 

The  girl  belonged  to  a class — unhappily  but 
too  extensive  — the  very  existence  of  which 
should  make  men’s  hearts  bleed.  Bai-ely  past 
her  childhood,  it  required  but  a glance  to  dis- 
cover that  she  was  one  of  those  children,  born 
aird  bred  in  neglect  and  vice,  who  have  never 
known  what  childhood  is  : who  have  never  been 
taught  to  love  and  court  a parent’s  smile,  or  to 
dread  a parent’s  frown.  The  thousand  nameless 
endearments  of  childhood,  its  gayety  and  its  in- 
nocence, are  alike  unknown  to  them.  They 
have  entered  at  once  upon  the  stern  realities 
and  miseries  of  life,  and  to  their  better  natui-e  it 
is  almost  hopeless  to  appeal  in  after-times,  by 
any  of  the  references  which  will  awaken,  if  it  be 
only  for  a moment,  some  good  feeling  iir  ordi- 
nai-y  bosoms,  however  corrupt  they  may  have 
become.  Talk  to  them  of  pai-ental  solicitude, 
the  happy  days  of  childhood,  and  the  merry 
games  of  infancy  ! Tell  them  of  hunger  and 
the  sti-eets,  beggary  and  stripes,  the  gin-shop, 
the  station-house,  and  the  pawnbroker’s,  and 
they  will  undei-stand  you. — Scenes , Chap.  25. 

CHILDISHNESS— A Misnomer. 

We  call  this  a state  of  childishness,  but  it  is 
the  same  poor  hollow  mockery  of  it,  that  death 
is  of  sleep.  Where,  in  the  dull  eyes  of  doting 
men,  ai-e  the  laughing  light  and  life  of  child- 
hood, the  gayety  that  has  known  no  check,  the 
frankness  that  has  felt  no  chill,  the  hope  that  has 
never  withered,  the  joys  that  fade  in  blossom- 
ing? Where,  in  the  shai-p  lineaments  of  rigid 
and  unsightly  death,  is  the  calm  beauty  of  slum- 
ber, telling  of  rest  for  the  waking  hours  that  are 
past,  and  gentle  hopes  and  loves  for  those  which 
are  to  come  ? Lay  death  and  sleep  down,  side 
by  side,  and  say  who  shall  find  the  two  akin. 
Send  forth  the  child  and  childish  man  togethei*, 
and  blush  for  the  pride  that  libels  our  own  old 
happy  state,  and  gives  its  title  to  an  ugly  and 
distorted  image. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  12. 

CHILDREN— The  blessing-  of. 

Humanity  is  indeed  a happy  lot,  when  we 
can  repeat  ourselves  in  others,  and  still  be  young 
as  they. — Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  27. 

CHILDREN— Injustice  to. 

In  the  little  world  in  which  children  have 
their  existence,  whosoever  bi-ings  them  up,  there 
is  nothing  so  finely  perceived  and  so  finely  felt, 
as  injustice.  It  may  be  only  small  injustice  that 
the  child  can  be  exposed  to  ; but  the  child  is 
small,  and  its  world  is  small,  and  its  rocking- 
horse  stands  as  many  hands  high,  according  to 
scale,  as  a big-boned  Irish  hunter.  Within  my- 
self, I had  sustained,  from  my  babyhood,  a per- 
petual conflict  with  injustice.  I had  known, 
from  the  time  when  I could  speak,  that  my  sis- 
ter, in  her  capricious  and  violent  coercion,  was 
unjust  to  me.  I had  cherished  a profound  con- 
viction that  her  bringing  me  up  by  hand  gave 
her  no  right  to  bring  me  up  by  jerks.  Through 
all  my  punishments,  disgraces,  fasts,  and  vigils 


CHILDREN 


92 


CHILDREN 


and  other  penitential  performances,  I had  nursed 
this  assurance  ; and  to  my  communing  so  much 
with  it,  in  a solitary  and  unprotected  way,  I in 
great  part  refer  the  fact  that  I was  morally  timid 
and  very  sensitive. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  8. 

CHILDREN— Keeping-  and  losing. 

“ You  have  a son,  I believe?  ” said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

“ Four  on  ’em,  sir.  Four  hims  and  a her.  All 
alive  ! ” 

“ Why,  it’s  as  much  as  you  can  afford  to  keep 
them  ! ” said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ I couldn’t  hardly  afford  but  one  thing  in  the 
world  less,  sir.” 

“ What  is  that  ? ” 

“To  lose  ’em,  sir.” — Doinbey  dr5  Son,  Ch.  2. 

CHILDREN— A lawyer’s  view  of. 

Pretty  nigh  all  the  children  he  saw  in  his 
daily  business  life,  he  had  reason  to  look  upon 
as  so  much  spawn,  to  develop  into  the  fish  that 
were  to  come  to  his  net — to  be  prosecuted,  de- 
fended, forsworn,  made  orphans,  be-devilled 
somehow. — Great  Expectations , Chap.  51. 

CHILDREN— The  sympathy  of. 

No  man  ever  really  loved  a woman,  lost  her, 
and  knew  her  with  a blameless  though  an  un- 
changed mind,  when  she  was  a wife  and  a moth- 
er, but  her  children  had  a strange  sympathy  with 
him — an  instinctive  delicacy  of  pity  for  him. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  21. 

CHILDREN-at  church. 

Here  is  our  pew  in  the  church.  What  a high- 
backed  pew  ! With  a window  near  it,  out  of 
which  our  houSe  can  be  seen,  and  is  seen  many 
times  during  the  morning’s  service,  by  Peg- 
gotty,  who  likes  to  make  herself  as  sure  as  she 
can  that  it’s  not  being  robbed,  or  is  not  in  flames. 
But  though  Peggotty’s  eye  wanders,  she  is  much 
offended  if  mine  does,  and  frowns  to  me,  as  I 
stand  upon  the  seat,  that  I am  to  look  at  the 
clergyman.  But  I can’t  always  look  at  him — I 
know  him  without  that  white  thing  on,  and  I am 
afraid  of  his  wondering  why  I stare  so,  and  per- 
haps stopping  the  service  to  inquire — and  what 
am  I to  do?  It’s  a dreadful  thing  to  gape,  but  I 
must  do  something.  I look  at  my  mother,  but 
she  pretends  not  to  see  me.  I look  at  a boy  in 
the  aisle,  and  he  makes  faces  at  me.  I look  at 
the  sunlight  coming  in  at  the  open  door  through 
the  porch,  and  there  I see  a stray  sheep — I don’t 
mean  a sinner,  but  mutton — half  making  up  his 
mind  to  come  into  the  church.  I feel  that  if  I 
looked  at  him  any  longer,  I might  be  tempted  to 
say  something  out  loud  ; and  what  would  become 
of  me  then  ? I look  up  at  the  monumental  tab- 
lets on  the  wall,  and  try  to  think  of  Mr.  Bodgers, 
late  of  this  parish,  and  what  the  feelings  of  Mrs. 
Bodgers  must  have  been,  when  affliction  sore, 
long  time  Mr.  Bodgers  bore,  and  physicians  were 
in  vain.  I wonder  whether  they  called  in  Mr. 
Chillip,  and  he  was  in  vain  ; and  if  so,  how  he 
likes  to  be  reminded  of  it  once  a week.  I look 
from  Mr.  Chillip,  in  his  Sunday  neckcloth,  to  the 
pulpit  ; and  think  what  a good  place  it  would  be 
to  play  in,  and  what  a castle  it  would  make,  with 
another  boy  coming  up  the  stairs  to  attack  it, 
and  having  the  velvet  cushion  with  the  tassels 
thrown  down  on  his  head.  In  time  my  eyes 


gradually  shut  up  ; and,  from  seeming  to  hear 
the  clergyman  singing  a drowsy  song  in  the  heat, 

I hear  nothing,  until  I fall  off  the  seat  with  a 
crash,  and  am  taken  out,  more  dead  than  alive, 
by  I’eggotty. — David  Coppcrjield , Chap . 2. 

CHILDREN  of  Nature. 

There  was  once  a child,  and  he  strolled  about 
a good  deal,  and  thought  of  a number  of  things. 
He  had  a sister,  who  was  a child  too,  and  his 
constant  companion.  These  two  used  to  won- 
der all  day  long.  They  wondered  at  the  beauty 
of  the  flowers  ; they  wondered  at  the  height  and 
blueness  of  the  sky  ; they  wondered  at  the  depth 
of  the  bright  water  ; they  wondered  at  the  good- 
ness and  the  power  of  God,  who  made  the  lovely 
world. 

They  used  to  say  to  one  another,  sometimes, 
Supposing  all  the  children  upon  earth  were  to 
die,  would  the  flowers,  and  the  water,  and  the 
sky  be  sorry  ? They  believed  they  would  be 
sorry.  For,  said  they,  the  buds  are  the  children 
of  the  flowers,  and  the  little  playful  streams  that 
gambol  down  the  hill-sides  are  the  children 
of  the  water  ; and  the  smallest  bright  specks 
playing  at  hide  and  seek  in  the  sky  all  night, 
must  surely  be  the  children  of  the  stars  ; and 
they  would  all  be  grieved  to  see  their  playmates, 
the  children  of  men,  no  more. 

Child's  Dream  of  a Star. — Reprinted  Pieces. 

CHILDREN,  Neglected— Their  footprints. 

I looked  at  him,  and  I looked  about  at  the 
disorderly  traces  in  the  mud,  and  I thought  of 
the  drops  of  rain  and  the  footprints  of  an  ex- 
tinct creature,  hoary  ages  upon  ages  old,  that 
geologists  have  identified  on  the  face  of  a cliff; 
and  this  speculation  came  over  me  : If  this  mud 
could  petrify  at  this  moment,  and  could  lie  con- 
cealed here  for  ten  thousand  years,  I wonder 
whether  the  race  of  men  then  to  be  our  succes- 
sors on  the  earth  could,  from  these  or  any  marks, 
by  the  utmost  force  of  the  human  intellect,  un- 
assisted by  tradition,  deduce  such  an  astounding 
inference  as  the  existence  of  a polished  state  of 
society  that  bore  with  the  public  savagery  of 
neglected  children  in  the  streets  of  its  capital 
city,  and  was  proud  of  its  power  by  sea  and 
land,  and  never  used  its  power  to  seize  and  save 
them  ! — An  Amateur  Beat — New  Uncommercial 
Samples. 

CHILDREN— Who  are  doted  upon. 

The  couple  who  dote  upon  their  children 
recognize  no  dates  but  those  connected  with 
their  births,  accidents,  illnesses,  or  remarkable 
deeds.  They  keep  a mental  almanac  with  a 
vast  number  of  Innocents’  days,  all  in  red  let- 
ters. They  recollect  the  last  coronation,  because 
on  that  day  little  Tom  fell  down  the  kitchen 
stairs  ; the  anniversary  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot, 
because  it  was  on  the  fifth  of  November  that 
Ned  asked  whether  wooden  legs  were  made  in 
heaven  and  cocked  hats  grew  in  gardens.  Mrs. 
Whiffler  will  never  cease  to  recollect  the  last 
day  of  the  old  year  as  long  as  she  lives,  for  it 
was  on  that  day  that  the  baby  had  the  four  red 
spots  on  its  nose  which  they  took  for  measles. 
* * * The  children  of  this  couple  can  know  no 
medium.  They  are  either  prodigies  of  good 
health  or  prodigies  of  bad  health  ; whatever  they 
are,  they  must  be  prodigies. — Sketches  of  Couples . 


CHILDREN 


93 


CHILDREN 


CHILDREN— Their  leg-s  calendars  of  dis- 
tress. 

The  children  tumbled  about,  and  notched 
memoranda  of  their  accidents  in  their  legs, 
which  were  perfect  little  calendars  of  distress. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  5. 

CHILDREN-The  love  of. 

I love  these  little  people  ; and  it  is  not  a slight 
thing  when  they,  who  are  so  fresh  from  God,  love 
us. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  1. 

CHILDREN— In  the  hospitals. 

In  its  seven-and-thirty  beds  I saw  but  little 
beauty,  for  starvation  in  the  second  or  third  gen- 
eration takes  a pinched  look  ; but  I saw  the  suf- 
ferings both  of  infancy  and  childhood  tenderly 
assuaged  ; I heard  the  little  patients  answering 
to  pet,  playful  names  ; the  light  touch  of  a deli- 
cate lady  laid  bare  the  wasted  sticks  of  arms  for 
me  to  pity  ; and  the  claw-like  little  hands,  as 
she  did  so,  twined  themselves  lovingly  around 
her  wedding-ring. 

One  baby  mite  there  was  as  pretty  as  any  of 
Raphael’s  angels.  The  tiny  head  was  bandaged 
for  water  on  the  brain,  and  it  was  suffering  with 
acute  bronchitis  too,  and  made  from  time  to 
time  a plaintive,  though  not  impatient  or  com- 
plaining, little  sound.  The  smooth  curve  of  the 
cheeks  and  of  the  chin  was  faultless  in  its  con- 
densation of  infantine  beauty,  and  the  large 
bright  eyes  were  most  lovely.  It  happened,  as  I 
stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  that  these  eyes 
rested  upon  mine  with  that  wistful  expression  of 
wondering  thoughtfulness  which  we  all  know 
sometimes  in  very  little  children.  They  re- 
mained fixed  on  mine,  and  never  turned  from 
me  while  I stood  there.  When  the  utterance  of 
that  plaintive  sound  shook  the  little  form,  the 
gaze  still  remained  unchanged.  I felt  as  though 
the  child  implored  me  to  tell  the  story  of  the  lit- 
tle hospital  in  which  it  was  sheltered  to  any  gen- 
tle heart  I could  address.  Laying  my  world- 
worn  hand  upon  the  little  unmarked  clasped 
hand  at  the  chin,  I gave  it  a silent  promise  that 
I would  do  so. — A Small  Star  in  the  East.  New 
Uncommercial  Samples. 

CHILDREN  -Captain  Cuttle’s  advice. 

“ Hear  him  !”  cried  the  Captain,  “ good  moral- 
ity ! Wal’r,  my  lad.  Train  up  a fig-tree  in  the 
way  it  should  go,  and  when  you  are  old  sit  un- 
der the  shade  on  it.  Overhaul  the — Well,”  said 
the  Captain,  on  second  thoughts,  “ I ain’t  quite 
certain  where  that’s  to  be  found,  but  when  found 
make  a note  of.  Sol  Gills,  heave  ahead  again  ! ” 
Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  ly. 

n 

CHILDREN— Their  martyrdom. 

At  one  o’clock  there  was  a dinner,  chiefly  of 
the  farinaceous  and  vegetable  kind,  when  Miss 
Pankey  (a  mild  little  blue  eyed  morsel  of  a child, 
who  was  shampoo’d  every  morning,  and  seemed 
in  danger  of  being  rubbed  away  altogether)  was 
led  in  from  captivity  by  the  ogress  herself,  and 
instructed  that  nobody  who  sniffed  before  visit- 
ors ever  went  to  Heaven. — Dombey  Sf  Son,  Ch.  8. 

However  touching  these  marks  of  a tender 
disposition  were  to  his  mother,  it  was  not  in  the 
character  of  that  remarkable  woman  to  permit 
her  recognition  of  them  to  degenerate  into  weak- 


ness. Therefore,  after  vainly  endeavoring  to 
convince  his  reason  by  shakes,  pokes,  bawlings- 
out,  and  similar  applications  to  his  head,  she  led 
him  into  the  air,  and  tried  another  method ; 
which  was  manifested  to  the  marriage-party  by  a 
quick  succession  of  sharp  sounds,  resembling 
applause,  and,  subsequently,  by  their  seeing 
Alexander  in  contact  with  the  coolest  paving- 
stone  in  the  court,  greatly  flushed,  and  loudly 
lamenting. — Dombey  dr3  Son,  Chap.  60. 

“ The  fine  little  boy  with  the  blister  on  Lis 
nose  is  the  eldest.  The  blister,  I believe,”  said 
Miss  Tox,  looking  round  upon  the  family,  “is 
not  constitutional,  but  accidental.” 

The  apple-faced  man  was  understood  to  growl. 
“ Flat-iron.” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  Miss  Tox,  “ did 
you — ” 

“ Flat-iron,”  he  repeated. 

“ Oh  yes,”  said  Miss  Tox.  “ Yes  ! quite  true. 
I forgot.  The  little  creature,  in  his  mother’s 
absence,  smelt  a warm  flat-iron.  You’re  quite 
right,  sir.” — Dombey  Sf  Son,  Chap.  2. 

CHILDREN— The  Gauntlet  of  their  diseases. 

All  this  vigilance  and  care  could  not  make 
little  Paul  a thriving  boy.  Naturally  delicate, 
perhaps,  he  pined  and  wasted  after  the  dismissal 
of  his  nurse,  and  for  a long  time  seemed  but  to 
wait  his  opportunity  of  gliding  through  their 
hands,  and  seeking  his  lost  mother.  This  dan- 
gerous ground  in  his  steeple-chase  towards  man- 
hood passed,  he  still  found  it  very  rough  riding, 
and  was  grievously  beset  by  all  the  obstacles  in 
his  course.  Every  tooth  was  a break-neck  fence, 
and  every  pimple  in  the  measles  a stone-wall  to 
him.  He  was  down  in  every  fit  of  the  whooping- 
cough,  and  rolled  upon  and  crushed  by  a whole 
field  of  small  diseases,  that  came  trooping  on 
each  other’s  heels  to  prevent  his  getting  up  again. 
Some  bird  of  prey  got  into  his  throat  instead  of 
the  thrush  ; and  the  very  chickens,  turning  fero- 
cious— if  they  have  anything  to  do  with  that  in- 
fant malady  to  which  they  lend  their  name — wor- 
ried him  like  tiger-cats. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Ch.  8. 

CHILDREN— In  love. 

Boots  could  assure  me  that  it  was  better  than 
a picter,  and  equal  to  a play,  to  see  them  babies, 
with  their  long,  bright,  curling  hair,  their  spark- 
ling eyes,  and  their  beautiful,  light  tread,  a 1 am- 
bling about  the  garden,  deep  in  love.  Boots 
was  of  opinion  that  the  birds  believed  they  was 
birds,  and  kept  up  with  ’em,  singing  to  please 
’em.  Sometimes  they  would  creep  under  the 
Tulip-tree,  and  would  sit  there  with  their  arms 
round  one  another’s  necks,  and  their  soft  cheeks 
touching,  a reading  about  the  Prince,  and  the 
Dragon,  and  the  good  and  bad  enchanters,  and 
the  king’s  fair  daughter.  Sometimes  he  would 
hear  them  planning  about  having  a house  in  a 
forest,  keeping  bees  and  a cow,  and  living  en- 
tirely on  milk  and  honey.  Once  he  came  upon 
them  by  the  pond,  and  heard  Master  Harry  say, 
“ Adorable  Norah,  kiss  me  and  say  you  love  me 
to  distraction,  or  I’ll  jump  in  head-foremost.” 
And  Boots  made  no  question  he  would  have  done 
it  if  she  hadn’t  complied.  On  the  whole,  Boots 
said  it  had  a tendency  to  make  him  feel  as  if  he 
was  in  love  himself — only  he  didn’t  exactly  know 
who  with. — The  Holly  Tree. 


CHILDREN-HATER 


94 


CHRISTIAN 


CIIILDREN-HATER- Tackleton,  the. 

Tackleton,  the  Toy  merchant,  pretty  generally 
known  as  Gruff  & Tackleton — for  that  was  the 
firm,  though  Gruff  had  been  bought  out  long 
ago  ; only  leaving  his  name,  and  as  some  said 
his  nature,  according  to  its  Dictionary  meaning, 
in  the  business — Tackleton,  the  Toy  merchant, 
was  a man  whose  vocation  had  been  quite  mis- 
understood by  his  Parents  and  Guardians.  If 
they  had  made  him  a Money-Lender,  or  a sharp 
Attorney,  or  a Sheriff’s  Officer,  or  a Broker,  he 
might  have  sown  his.  discontented  oats  in  his 
youth,  and,  after  having  had  the  full-run  of  him- 
self in  ill-natured  transactions,  might  have 
turned  out  amiable,  at  last,  for  the  sake  of  a lit- 
tle freshness  and  novelty.  But,  cramped  and 
chafing  in  the  peaceable  pursuit  of  toy-making, 
he  was  a domestic  Ogre,  who  had  been  living  on 
children  all  his  life,  and  was  their  implacable 
enemy.  He  despised  all  toys  : wouldn’t  have 
bought  one  for  the  world ; delighted,  in  his 
malice,  to  insinuate  grim  expressions  into  the 
faces  of  brown-paper  farmers  who  drove  pigs  to 
market,  bellmen  who  advertised  lost  lawyers’ 
consciences,  movable  old  ladies  who  darned 
stockings  or  carved  pies  ; and  other  like  samples 
of  his  stock  in  trade.  In  appalling  masks  ; 
hideous,  hairy,  red-eyed  Jacks  in  Boxes  ; Vam- 
pire Kites  ; demoniacal  Tumblers  who  wouldn’t 
lie  down,  and  were  perpetually  flying  forward,  to 
stare  infants  out  of  countenance  ; his  soul  per- 
fectly revelled.  They  were  his  only  relief  and 
safety-valve.  He  was  great  in  such  inventions. 
Anything  suggestive  of  a Pony  nightmare  was 
delicious  to  him.  Pie  had  even  lost  money  (and 
he  took  to  that  toy  very  kindly)  by  getting  up 
Goblin  slides  for  magic  lanterns,  whereon  the 
Powers  of  Darkness  were  depicted  as  a sort  of 
supernatural  shell  fish,  with  human  faces.  In 
intensifying  the  portraiture  of  Giants,  he  had 
sunk  quite  a little  capital ; and,  though  no 
painter  himself,  he  could  indicate,  for  the  in- 
struction of  his  artists,  with  a piece  of  chalk,  a 
certain  furtive  leer  for  the  countenances  of  those 
monsters,  which  was  safe  to  destroy  the  peace 
of  mind  of  any  young  gentleman  between  the 
ages  of  six  and  eleven,  for  the  whole  Christmas 
or  Midsummer  Vacation. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  i. 

CHIN- A double. 

“ That,”  repeated  Mrs.  Gowan,  furling  her 
green  fan  for  the  moment  and  tapping  her  chin 
with  it  (it  was  on  the  way  to  being  a double 
chin  ; might  be  called  a chin  and  a half  at  pres- 
ent), “ that’s  all  ! ” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  I.,  Chap.  33. 

CHRISTIAN— A conventional  (Mrs.  Sprodg- 

kin). 

She  was  a member  of  the  Reverend  Frank’s 
congregation,  and  made  a point  of  distinguish- 
ing herself  in  that  body,  by  conspicuously  weep- 
ing at  everything,  however  cheering,  said  by  the 
Reverend  Frank  in  his  public  ministration  ; also 
by  applying  to  herself  the  various  lamentations 
of  David,  and  complaining  in  a personally  in- 
jured manner  (much  in  arrear  of  the  clerk  and 
the  rest  of  the  respondents)  that  her  enemies 
were  digging  pit-falls  about  her,  and  breaking 
her  with  rods  of  iron.  Indeed,  this  old  widow 
discharged  herself  of  that  portion  of  the  Morn- 
ing and  L.ening  Service  as  if  she  were  lodging 


a complaint  on  oath  and  applying  for  a warrant 
before  a magistrate.  But  this  was  not  her  most 
inconvenient  characteristic,  for  that  took  the 
form  of  an  impression,  usually  recurring  in  in- 
clement weather  and  at  about  daybreak,  that  she 
had  something  on  her  mind,  and  stood  in  im- 
mediate need  of  the  Reverend  Frank  to  come 
and  take  it  off.  Many  a time  had  that  kind 
creature  got  up,  and  gone  out  to  Mrs.  Sprodgkin 
(such  was  the  disciple’s  name),  suppressing  a 
strong  sense  of  her  comicality  by  his  strong 
sense  of  duty,  and  perfectly  knowing  that  noth- 
ing but  a cold  would  come  of  it.  However,  be- 
yond themselves,  the  Reverend  Frank  Milvey 
and  Mrs.  Milvey  seldom  hinted  that  Mrs. 
Sprodgkin  was  hardly  worth  the  trouble  she 
gave  ; but  both  made  the  best  of  her,  as  they  did 
of  all  their  troubles. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  IV.,  Chap.  11. 

CHRISTIAN  A professing-  (Mrs.  Varden). 

“ Let  us  be  sincere,  my  dear  madam — ” 

“ — and  Protestant,”  murmured  Mrs.  Varden. 

“ — and  Protestant  above  all  things.  Let  us 
be  sincere  and  Protestant,  strictly  moral,  strictly 
just  (though  always  with  a leaning  towards  mer- 
cy), strictly  honest,  and  strictly  true,  and  we  gain 
— it  is  a slight  point,  certainly,  but  still  it  is 
something  tangible  ; we  throw  up  a groundwryk 
and  foundation,  so  to  speak,  of  goodness,  on 
which  we  may  afterwards  erect  some  worthy 
superstructure.” 

Now,  to  be  sure,  Mrs.  Varden  thought,  here  is 
a perfect  character.  Here  is  a meek,  righteous, 
thoroughgoing  Christian,  who,  having  mastered 
all  these  qualities,  so  difficult  of  attainment  ; 
who,  having  dropped  a pinch  of  salt  on  the  tails 
of  all  the  cardinal  virtues,  and  caught  them 
every  one  ; makes  light  of  their  possession, 
and  pants  for  more  morality.  For  the  good 
woman  never  doubled  (as  many  good  men  and 
women  never  do)  that  this  slighting  kind  of 
profession,  this  setting  so  little  store  by  great 
matters,  this  seeming  to  say,  “ I am  not  proud,  I 
am  what  you  hear,  but  I consider  myself  no  bet- 
ter than  other  people  ; let  us  change  the  subject, 
pray  ” — was  perfectly  genuine  and  true.  He  so 
contrived  it,  and  said  it  in  that  way  that  it  ap- 
peared to  have  been  forced  from  him,  and  its 
effect  was  marvellous. 

Aware  of  the  impression  he  had  made — few 
men  were  quicker  than  he  at  such  discoveries — 
Mr.  Chester  followed  up  the  blow  by  propound- 
ing certain  virtuous  maxims,  somewhat  vague 
and  general  in  their  nature,  doubtless,  and  occa- 
sionally partaking  of  the  character  of  truisms, 
worn  a little  out  at  elbow,  but  delivered  in  so 
charming  a vdice  and  with  such  uncommon 
serenity  and  peace  of  mind,  that  they  answered 
as  well  as  the  best.  Nor  is  this  to  be  wondered 
at  ; for  as  hollow  vessels  produce  a far  more 
musical  sound  in  falling  than  those  which  are 
substantial,  so  it  will  oftentimes  be  found  that 
sentiments  which  have  nothing  in  them  make 
the  loudest  ringing  in  the  world,  and  are  the 
most  relished. — Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  27. 

CHRISTIAN  — A rig-id  (Esther’s  God- 
mother) . 

I was  brought  up,  from  ,my  earliest  remem- 
brance— like  some  of  the  princesses  in  the  fairy 
stories,  only  I was  not  charming — by  my  god- 
mother. At  least  I only  knew  her  as  such.  She 


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was  a good,  good  woman  ! She  went  to  church 
three  times  every  Sunday,  and  to  morning  prayers 
on  Wednesdays  and  Fridays,  and  to  lectures 
whenever  there  were  lectures  ; and  never  missed. 
She  was  handsome  ; and  if  she  had  ever  smiled, 
would  have  been  (I  used  to  think)  like  an  angel — 
but  she  never  smiled.  She  was  always  grave 
and  strict.  She  was  so  very  good  herself,  I 
thought,  that  the  badness  of  other  people  made 
her  frown  all  her  life.  I felt  so  different  from 
her,  even  making  every  allowance  for  the  differ- 
ences between  a child  and  a woman  ; I felt  so 
poor,  so  trifling,  and  so  far  off ; that  I never 
could  be  unrestrained  with  her — no,  could  never 
love  her  as  I wished. — Bleak  House , Chap.  3. 

CHRISTMAS. 

Christmas  time  ! That  man  must  be  a mis- 
anthrope indeed,  in  whose  breast  something  like 
a jovial  feeling  is  not  roused — in  whose  mind 
some  pleasant  associations ’are  not  awakened — 
by  the  recurrence  of  Christmas.  There  are  peo- 
ple who  will  tell  you  that  Christmas  is  not  to 
them  what  it  used  to  be  ; that  each  succeeding 
Christmas  has  found  some  cherished  hope  or 
happy  prospect  of  the  year  before,  dimmed  or 
passed  away  ; that  the  present  only  serves  to  re- 
mind them  of  reduced  circumstances  and  strait- 
ened incomes — of  the  feasts  they  once  bestowed 
on  hollow  friends,  and  of  the  cold  looks  that 
meet  them  now,  in  adversity  and  misfortune. 
Never  heed  such  dismal  reminiscences.  There 
are  few  men  who  have  lived  long  enough  in  the 
world,  who  cannot  call  up  such  thoughts  any 
day  in  the  year.  Then  do  not  select  the  merriest 
of  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  for  your 
doleful  recollections,  but  draw  your  chair  nearer 
the  blazing  fire — fill  the  glass  and  send  round 
the  song — and  if  your  room  be  smaller  than  it 
was  a dozen  years  ago,  or  if  your  glass  be  filled 
with  reeking  punch  instead  of  sparkling  wine, 
put  a good  face  on  the  matter,  and  empty  it  off- 
hand, and  fill  another,  and  troll  off  the  old  ditty 
you  used  to  sing,  and  thank  God  it’s  no  worse. 
Look  on  the  merry  faces  of  your  children  (if  you 
have  any)  as  they  sit  round  the  fire.  One  little 
seat  may  be  empty  ; one  slight  form  that  glad- 
dened the  father’s  heart,  and  roused  the  mother’s 
pride  to  look  upon,  may  not  be  there.  Dwell 
not  upon  the  past ; think  not  that  one  short  year 
ago,  the  fair  child  now  resolving  into  dust,  sat 
before  you,  with  the  bloom  of  health  upon  its 
cheek,  and  the  gayety  of  infancy  in  its  joyous 
eye.  Reflect  upon  your  present  blessings — of 
which  every  man  has  many — not  on  your  past 
misfortunes,  of  which  all  men  have  some.  Fill 
your  glass  again,  with  a merry  face  and  con- 
tented heart.  Our  life  on  it,  but  your  Christmas 
shall  be  merry,  and  your  new-year  a happy  one. 

Who  can  be  insensible  to  the  outpourings  of 
good  feeling,  and  the  honest  interchange  of 
affectionate  attachment,  which  abound  at  this 
season  of  the  year  ? A Christmas  family  party  ! 
We  know  nothing  in  nature  more  delightful  ! 
There  seems  a magic  in  the  very  name  of  Christ- 
mas. Petty  jealousies  and  discords  are  forgot- 
ten ; social  feelings  are  awakened  in  bosoms  to 
which  they  have  long  been  strangers  ; father 
and  son,  or  brother  and  sister,  who  have  met  and 
passed  with  averted  gaze,  or  a look  of  cold 
recognition,  for  months  before,  proffer  and  re- 
turn the  cordial  embrace,  and  bury  their  past 
animosities  in  their  present  happiness.  Kindly 


hearts  that  have  yearned  towards  each  other,  but 
have  been  withheld  by  false  notions  of  pride  and 
self-dignity,  are  again  re-united,  and  all  is  kind- 
ness and  benevolence  ! Would  that  Christmas 
lasted  the  whole  year  through  (as  it  ought),  and 
that  the  prejudices  and  passions  which  deform 
our  better  nature  were  never  called  into  action 
among  those  to  w'hom  they  should  e^  er  be 
strangers  ! — Sketches  ( Characters ),  Chap.  2. 

CHRISTMAS— Its  Associations. 

But,  hark  ! The  Waits  are  playing,  and  they 
break  my  childish  sleep  ! What  images  do  I as- 
sociate with  the  Christmas  music  as  I see  them 
set  forth  on  the  Christmas  tree?  Known  before 
all  the  others,  keeping  far  apart  from  all  the 
others,  they  gather  round  my  little  bed.  An 
angel,  speaking  to  a group  of  shepherds  in  a 
field  ; some  travellers,  with  eyes  uplifted,  follow- 
ing a star  ; a baby  in  a manger  ; a child  in  a 
spacious  temple,  talking  with  grave  men  ; a 
solemn  figure,  with  a mild  and  beautiful  face, 
raising  a dead  girl  by  the  hand  ; again,  near  a 
city-gate,  calling  back  the  son  of  a widow,  on  his 
bier,  to  life  ; a crowd  of  people  looking  through 
the  opened  roof  of  a chamber  where  he  sits,  and 
letting  down  a sick  person  on  a bed,  with  ropes  ; 
the  same,  in  a tempest,  walking  on  the  w ater  to 
a ship  ; again,  on  a sea-shore,  teaching  a great 
multitude  ; again,  with  a child  upon  his  knee, 
and  other  children  round  ; again,  restoring  sight 
to  the  blind,  speech  to  the  dumb,  hearing  to  the 
deaf,  health  to  the  sick,  strength  to  the  lame, 
knowledge  to  the  ignorant  ; again,  dying  upon  a 
Cross,  watched  by  armed  soldiers,  a thick  dark- 
ness coming  on,  the  earth  beginning  to  shake, 
and  only  one  voice  heard:  “Forgive  them,  for 
they  know  not  what  they  do  ! ” 

Still,  on  the  low^er  and  maturer  branches  of 
the  Tree,  Christmas  associations  cluster  thick. 
School  books  are  shut  up  ; Ovid  and  Virgil  si- 
lenced ; the  Rule  of  Three,  with  its  cool  imperti- 
nent inquiries,  long  disposed  of ; Terence  and 
Plautus  acted  no  more,  in  an  arena  of  huddled 
desks  and  forms,  all  chipped,  and  notched,  and 
inked  ; cricket-bats,  stumps,  and  balls,  left  higher 
up*,  wuth  the  smell  of  trodden  grass  and  the  soft- 
ened noise  of  shouts  in  the  evening  air  ; the  tree 
is  still  fresh,  still  gay.  If  I no  more  come  home 
at  Christmas  time,  there  will  be  girls  and  boys 
(thank  Heaven)  w'hile  the  world  lasts. 

^ iJC  * jfc 

Among  the  later  toys  and  fancies  hanging 
there — as  idle  often,  and  less  pure — be  the 
images  once  associated  with  thesw^eet  old  Waits, 
the  softened  music  in  the  night,  ever  unalterable  ! 
Encircled  by  the  social  thoughts  of  Christmas 
time,  still  let  the  benignant  figure  of  my  child- 
hood stand  unchanged  ! In  every  cheerful  image 
and  suggestion  that  the  season  brings,  may  the 
bright  star  that  rested  above  the  poor  roof,  be 
the  star  of  all  the  Christian  world  ! A moment’s 
pause,  oh,  vanishing  tree,  of  which  the  lower 
boughs  are  dark  to  me  as  yet,  and  let  me  look 
once  more  ! I know  there  are  blank  spaces  on 
thy  branches,  where  eyes  that  I have  loved  have 
shone  and  smiled  ; from  which  they  are  de- 
parted. But,  far  above,  I see  the  raiser  of  the 
dead  .girl,  and  the  widow’s  son  ; and  God  is 
good  ! If  Age  be  hiding  for  me  in  the  unseen 
portion  of  thy  downward  growth,  oh,  may  I,  with 
a gray  head,  turn  a child’s  heart  to  that  figure 
yet,  and  a child’s  trustfulness  and  confidence  ! 


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CHRISTMAS 


Now,  the  tree  is  decorated  with  bright  merri-  | 
ment,  and  song,  and  dance,  and  cheerfulness. 
And  they  are  welcome.  Innocent  and  welcome 
be  they  ever  held,  beneath  the  branches  of  the 
Christmas  Tree,  which  cast  no  gloomy  shadow  ! 
But,  as  it  sinks  into  the  ground,  I hear  a whisper 
going  through  the  leaves : “ This,  in  com- 
memoration of  the  law  of  love  and  kindness, 
mercy  and  compassion.  This,  in  remembrance 
of  Me  ! ” — Christmas  Tree — Reprinted  Pieces. 

CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

They  stood  in  the  city-streets  on  Christmas 
morning,  where  (for  the  weather  was  severe)  the 
people  made  a rough,  but  brisk  and  not  un- 
pleasant kind  of  music,  in  scraping  the  snow 
from  the  pavement  in  front  of  their  dwellings, 
and  from  the  tops  of  their  houses,  whence  it  was 
mad  delight  to  the  boys  to  see  it  come  plumping 
down  into  the  road  below,  and  splitting  into 
artificial  little  snow-storms. 

The  house-fronts  looked  black  enough,  and 
the  windows  blacker,  contrasting  with  the 
smooth  white  sheet  of  snow  upon  the  roofs,  and 
with  the  dirtier  snow  upon  the  ground  ; which 
last  deposit  had  been  ploughed  up  in  deep  fur- 
rows by  the  heavy  wheels  of  carts  and  wagons  ; 
furrows  that  crossed  and  recrossed  each  other 
hundreds  of  times  where  the  great  streets  branclT- 
ed  off;  and  made  intricate  channels,  hard  to 
trace,  in  the  thick  yellow  mud  and  icy  water. 
The  sky  was  gloomy,  and  the  shortest  streets 
were  choked  up  with  a dingy  mist,  half  thawed, 
half  frozen,  whose  heavier  particles  descended 
in  a shower  of  sooty  atoms,  as  if  all  the  chim- 
neys in  Great  Britain  had,  by  one  consent, 
caught  fire,  and  were  blazing  away  to  their  dear 
hearts’  content.  There  was  nothing  very  cheer- 
ful in  the  climate  or  the  town,  and  yet  there  was 
an  air  of  cheerfulness  abroad  that  the  clearest 
summer  air,  and  brightest  summer  sun,  might 
have  endeavored  to  diffuse  in  vain. 

For,  the  people  who  were  shovelling  away  on 
the  housetops  were  jovial  and  full  of  glee  ; calling 
out  to  one  another  from  the  parapets,  and  now 
and  then  exchanging  a facetious  snowball — bet- 
ter-natured  missile  far  than  many  a wordy  jest — 
laughing  heartily  if  it  went  right,  and  not  less 
heartily  if  it  went  wrong.  The  poulterers’  shops 
were  still  half  open,  and  the  fruiterers’  shops 
were  radiant  in  their  glory.  There  were  great 
round,  pot-bellied  baskets  of  chestnuts,  shaped 
like  the  waistcoats  of  jolly  old  gentlemen,  lolling 
at  the  doors,  and  tumbling  out  into  the  street  in 
their  apoplectic  opulence.  There  were  ruddy, 
brown-faced,  broad-girthed  Spanish  onions, 
shining,  in  the  fatness  of  their  growth,  like 
Spanish  friars,  and  winking  from  their  shelves 
in  wanton  slyness  at  the  girls  as  they  went  by, 
and  glanced  demurely  at  the  hung-up  mistletoe. 
There  were  pears  and  apples,  clustered  high  in 
blooming  pyramids  ; there  were  bunches  of 
grapes,  made,  in  the  shopkeepers’  benevolence, 
to  dangle  from  conspicuous  hooks,  that  people’s 
mouths  might  water  gratis  as  they  passed  ; there 
were  piles  of  filberts,  mossy  and  brown,  recalling, 
in  their  fragrance,  ancient  walks  among  the 
woods,  and  pleasant  shufflings,  ankle  deep, 
through  withered  leaves ; there  were  Norfolk 
Biffins,  squab  and  swarthy,  setting  off  the  yellow 
of  the  oranges  and  lemons,  and,  in  the  great 
compactness  of  their  juicy  persons,  urgently  en- 
treating and  beseeching  to  be  carried  home  in 


paper  bags  and  eaten  after  dinner.  The  very 
gold  and  silver  fish,  set  forth  among  these  choice 
fruits  in  a bowl,  though  members  of  a dull  and 
stagnant-blooded  race,  appeared  to  know  that 
there  was  something  going  on  : and,  to  a fish, 
went  gasping  round  and  round  their  little  world 
in  slow  and  passionless  excitement. 

The  grocers  ! oh,  the  grocers  ! nearly  closed, 
with  perhaps  two  shutters  down,  or  one  ; but 
through  those  gaps  such  glimpses!  It  was  not 
alone  that  the  scales  descending  on  the  counter 
made  a merry  sound,  or  that  the  twine  and  roller 
parted  company  so  briskly,  or  that  the  canisters 
were  rattled  up  and  down  like  juggling  tricks,  or 
even  that  the  blended  scents  of  tea  and  coffee 
were  so  grateful  to  the  nose,  or  even  that  the  rai- 
sins were  so  plentiful  and  rare,  the  almonds  so 
extremely  white,  the  sticks  of  cinnamon  so  long 
and  straight,  the  other  spices  so  delicious,  the 
candied  fruits  so  caked  and  spotted  with  molten 
sugar  as  to  make  the  coldest  lookers-on  feel 
faint  and  subsequently  bilious.  Nor  was  it  that 
the  figs  were  moist  and  pulpy,  or  that  the  French 
plums  blushed  in  modest  tartness  from  thejr 
highly-decorated  boxes,  or  that  everything  was 
good  to  eat  and  in  its  Christmas  dress  ; but  the 
customers  were  all  so  hurried  and  so  eager  in  the 
hopeful  promise  of  the  day,  that  they  tumbled  up 
against  each  other  at  the  door,  crashing  their 
wicker-baskets  wildly;  and  left  their  purchases 
upon  the  counter,  and  came  running  back  to  fetch 
them;  and  committed  hundreds  of  the  like  mis- 
takes, in  the  best  humor  possible ; while  the 
grocer  and  his  people  were  so  frank  and  fresh 
that  the  polished  hearts  -with  which  they  fastened 
their  aprons  behind  might  have  been  their  own, 
worn  outside  for  general  inspection,  and  for 
Christmas  daws  to  peck  at  if  they  chose. 

But  soon  the  steeples  called  good  people  all 
to  church  and  chapel,  and  away  they  came,  flock- 
ing through  the  streets  in  their  best  clothes,  and 
with  their  gayest  faces.  And  at  the  same  time 
there  emerged  from  scores  of  by-streets,  lanes, 
and  nameless  turnings,  innumerable  people,  car- 
rying their  dinners  to  the  bakers’  shops.  The 
sight  of  these  poor  revellers  appeared  to  interest 
the  Spirit  very  much,  for  he  stood  with  Scrooge 
beside  him  in  a baker’s  doorway,  and  taking  off 
the  covers  as  their  bearers  passed,  sprinkled  in- 
cense on  their  dinners  from  his  torch.  And  it 
was  a very  uncommon  kind  of  torch,  for  once 
or  twice,  when  there  were  angry  words  between 
some  dinner-carriers  who  had  jostled  each  other, 
he  shed  a few  drops  of  water  on  them  from  it, 
and  their  good  humor  was  restored  difectly.  For 
they  said,  it  was  a shame  to  quarrel  upon  Christ- 
mas Day.  And  so  it  was  ! God  love  it,  so  it 
was  ! 

In  time  the  bells  ceased,  and  the  bakers  were 
shut  up  ; and  yet  there  was  a genial  shadowing 
forth  of  all  these  dinners  and  the  progress  of 
their  cooking,  in  the  thawed  blotch  of  wet  above 
each  baker’s  oven  ; where  the  pavement  smoked 
as  if  its  stones  were  cooking  too. 

Christmas  Carol \ Stave  3. 

CHRISTMAS— Its  lessons. 

“ I will  honor  Christmas  in  my  heart.  I will  live 
in  the  Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future.  The 
Spirits  of  all  Three  shall  strive  within  me.  I will 
not  shut  out  the  lessons  that  they  teach.  O,  tell 
me  I may  sponge  away  the  writing  on  this  stone  ! ” 

Christmas  Carol,  Stave  4. 


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97 


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CHRISTMAS— Scrooge’s  opinion  of. 

“ Don’t  be  cross,  uncle  !”  said  the  nephew. 

“ What  else  can  I be.”  returned  the  uncle, 
“when  I live  in  such  a world  of  fools  as  this? 
Merry  Christmas  ! Out  upon  merry  Christmas  ! 
What’s  Christmas  time  to  you  but  a time  for  pay- 
ing bills  without  money  ; a time  for  finding  your- 
self a year  older,  and  not  an  hour  richer  ; a time 
for  balancing  your  books  and  having  every  item 
in  ’em  through  a round  dozen  of  months  pre- 
sented dead  against  you?  If  I could  work  my 
will,”  said  Scrooge  indignantly,  “ every  idiot  who 
goes  about  with  ‘ Merry  Christmas’  on  his  lips, 
should  be  boiled  with  his  own  pudding,  and 
buried  with  a stake  of  holly  run  through  his 
heart.  He  should  ! ” — Christmas  Carol , Stave  i. 

CHRISTMAS— Scenes. 

The  noise  in  this  room  was  perfectly  tumul- 
tuous, for  there  were  more  children  there  than 
Scrooge,  in  his  agitated  state  of  mind,  could 
count  ; and,  unlike  the  celebrated  herd  in  the 
poem,  they  were  not  forty  children  conducting 
themselves  like  one,  but  every  child  was  con- 
ducting itself  like  forty.  The  consequences 
were  uproarious  beyond  belief ; but  no  one 
seemed  to  care  ; on  the  contrary,  the  mother 
and  daughter  laughed  heartily,  and  enjoyed  it 
very  much  ; and  the  latter,  soon  beginning  to 
mingle  in  the  sports,  got  pillaged  by  the  young 
brigands  most  ruthlessly.  What  would  I not 
have  given  to  be  one  of  them  ! Though  I never 
could  have  been  so  rude,  no,  no  ! I wouldn’t 
for  the  wealth  of  all  the  world  have  crushed 
that  braided  hair,  and  torn  it  down  ; and  for 
the  precious  little  shoe,  I wouldn’t  have  plucked 
it  off,  God  bless  my  soul  ! to  save  my  life.  As 
to  measuring  her  waist  in  sport,  as  they  did, 
bold  young  brood,  I couldn’t  have  done  it ; I 
should  have  expected  my  arm  to  have  grown 
round  it  for  a punishment,  and  never  come 
straight  again.  And  yet  I should  have  dearly 
liked,  I own,  to  have  touched  her  lips  ; to  have 
questioned  her,  that  she  might  have  opened 
them  ; to  have  looked  upon  the  lashes  of  her 
downcast  eyes,  and  never  raised  a blush  ; to 
have  let  loose  waves  of  hair,  an  inch  of  which 
would  be  a keepsake  beyond  price  ; in  short,  I 
should  have  liked,  I do  confess,  to  have  had  the 
lightest  license  of  a child,  and  yet  to  have  been 
man  enough  to  know  its  value. 

* Hs  * * * 

But  now  a knocking  at  the  door  was  heard, 
and  such  a rush  immediately  ensued  that  she, 
with  laughing  face  and  plundered  dress,  was 
borne  towards  it  in  the  centre  of  a flushed  and 
boisterous  group,  just  in  time  to  greet  the  father, 
who  came  home  attended  by  a man  laden  with 
Christmas  toys  and  presents.  Then  the  shout- 
ing and  the  struggling,  and  the  onslaught  that 
was  made  on  the  defenceless  porter ! The 
scaling  him,  with  chairs  for  ladders,  to  dive  into 
his  pockets,  despoil  him  of  brown-paper  parcels, 
hold  on  tight  by  his  cravat,  hug  him  round  the 
neck,  pommel  his  back,  and  kick  his  legs  in 
irrepressible  affection.  The  shouts  of  wonder 
and  delight  with  which  the  development  of 
every  package  was  received!  The  terrible  an- 
nouncement that  the  baby  had  been  taken  in  the 
act  of  putting  a doll’s  frying-pan  into  his  mouth, 
and  was  more  than  suspected  of  having  swal- 
lowed a fictitious  turkey,  glued  on  a wooden 
platter  ! The  immense  relief  of  finding  this  a 


false  alarm  ! The  joy,  and  gratitude,  and  ec- 
stasy ! They  are  all  indescribable  alike.  It  is 
enough  that,  by  degrees,  the  children  and  the.ir 
emotions  got  out  of  the  parlor,  and,  by  one  stair 
at  a time,  up  to  the  top  of  the  house,  where  they 
went  to  bed,  and  so  subsided. 

Christmas  Carol , Stave  2. 

CHRISTMAS— A charitable  time. 

“ There  are  many  things  from  which  I might 
have  derived  good,  by  which  I have  not  profited, 
I dare  say,”  returned  the  nephew,  “ Christmas 
among  the  rest.  But  I am  sure  I have  always 
thought  of  Christmas  time,  when  it  has  come 
round — apart  from  the  veneration  due  to  its 
sacred  name  and  origin,  if  anything  belonging 
to  it  can  be  apart  from  that — as  a good  time  ; a 
kind,  forgiving,  charitable,  pleasant  time  ; the 
only  time  I know  of,  in  the  long  calendar  of  the 
year,  when  men  and  women  seem  bygone  con- 
sent to  open  their  shut-up  hearts  freely,  and  to 
think  of  people  below  them  as  if  they  really 
were  fellow  passengers  to  the  grave,  and  not 
another  race  of  creatures  bound  on  other  jour- 
neys. And  therefore,  uncle,  though  it  has  never 
put  a scrap  of  gold  or  silver  in  my  pocket,  I 
believe  that  it  has  done  me  good,  and  will  do 
me  good  ; and  I say,  God  bless  it ! ” 

Christmas  Carol, , Stave  i. 

CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Christmas  Eve  in  Cloisterham.  A few 
strange  faces  in  the  streets  ; a few  other  faces, 
half  strange  and  half  familiar,  once  the  faces  of 
Cloisterham  children,  now  the  faces  of  men  and 
women  who  come  back  from  the  outer  world 
at  long  intervals  to  find  the  city  wonderfully 
shrunken  in  size,  as  if  it  had  not  washed  by  any 
means  well  in  the  meanwhile.  To  these,  the 
striking  of  the  Cathedral  clock,  and  the  cawing 
of  the  rooks  from  the  Cathedral  tower,  are  like 
voices  of  their  nursery  time.  To  such  as  these, 
it  has  happened  in  their  dying  hours  afar  off, 
that  they  have  imagined  their  chamber  floor  to 
be  strewn  with  the  autumnal  leaves  fallen  from 
the  elm-trees  in  the  Close  ; so  haye  the  rustling 
sounds  and  fresh  scents  of  their  earliest  impres- 
sions revived,  when  the  circle  of  their  lives  was 
very  nearly  traced,  and  the  beginning  and  the 
end  were  drawing  close  together 

Edwin  Droody  Chap.  14. 

CHRISTMAS- At  sea. 

Built  upon  a dismal  reef  of  sunken  rocks, 
some  league  or  so  from  shore,  on  which  the 
waters  chafed  and  dashed  the  wild  year  through, 
there  stood  a solitary  lighthouse.  Great  heaps 
of  sea-weed  clung  to  its  base,  and  storm-birds — 
born  of  the  wind  one  might  suppose,  as  sea-weed 
of  the  water — rose  and  fell  about  it,  like  the 
waves  they  skimmed. 

But  even  here,  two  men  who  watched  the 
light  had  made  a fire,  that  through  the  loophole 
in  the  thick  stone  wall  shed  out  a ray  of  bright- 
ness on  the  awful  sea.  Joining  their  horny 
hands  over  the  rough  table  at  which  they  sat, 
they  wished  each  other  Merry  Christmas  in  their 
can  of  grog  ; and  one  of  them — the  elder  too, 
with  his  face  all  damaged  and  scarred  with  hard 
weather,  as  the  figure-head  of  an  old  ship  might 
be — struck  up  a sturdy  song  that  was  like  a gale 
in  itself. 

Again  the  Ghost  sped  on,  above  the  black  and 


CHRISTMAS 


08 


CHRISTMAS  DINNER 


heaving  sea — on,  on — until,  being  far  away,  as 
he  told  Scrooge,  from  any  shore,  they  lighted  on 
a ship.  They  stood  beside  the  helmsman  at  the 
wheel,  the  look-out  in  the  bow,  the  officers  who 
had  the  watch  ; dark,  ghostly  figures  in  their 
several  stations  ; but  every  man  among  them 
hummed  a Christmas  tune,  or  had  a Christmas 
thought,  or  spoke  below  his  breath  to  his  com- 
panion of  some  by-gone  Christmas  Day,  with 
homeward  hopes  belonging  to  it.  And  every 
man  on  board,  waking  or  sleeping,  good  or  bad, 
had  had  a kinder  word  for  one  another  on  that 
day  than  on  any  day  in  the  year ; and  had 
shared  to  some  extent  in  its  festivities  ; and  had 
remembered  those  he  cared  for  at  a distance, 
and  had  known  that  they  delighted  to  remem- 
ber him. — Christmas  Carol , Stave  3. 

CHRISTMAS— The  recollections  of. 

Christmas  was  close  at  hand,  in  all  his  bluff 
and  hearty  honesty  ; it  was  the  season  of  hos- 
pitality, merriment,  and  open-heartedness  ; the 
old  year  was  preparing,  like  an  ancient  philoso- 
pher, to  call  his  friends  around  him,  and  amidst 
the  sound  of  feasting  and  revelry  to  pass  gently 
and  calmly  away.  Gay  and  merry  was  the  time, 
and  gay  and  merry  were  at  least  four  of  the  nu- 
merous hearts  that  were  gladdened  by  its  com- 
ing. 

And  numerous  indeed  are  the  hearts  to  which 
Christmas  brings  a brief  season  of  happiness  and 
enjoyment.  How  many  families,  whose  mem- 
bers have  been  dispersed  and  scattered  far  and 
wide  in  the  restless  struggles  of  life,  are  then 
re-united,  and  meet  once  again  in  that  happy 
state  of  companionship  and  mutual  good-will, 
which  is  a source  of  such  pure  and  unalloyed 
delight ; and  one  so  incompatible  with  the  cares 
and  sorrows  of  the  world,  that  the  religious  be- 
lief of  the  most  civilized  nations,  and  the  rude 
traditions  of  the  roughest  savages,  alike  number 
it  among  the  first  joys  of  a future  condition  of 
existence,  provided  for  the  blest  and  happy  ! 
How  many  old  recollections,  and  how  many 
dormant  sympathies,  does  Christmas  time 
awaken  ! 

We  write  these  words  now,  many  miles  dis- 
tant from  the  spot  at  which,  year  after  year,  we 
met  on  that  day  a merry  and  joyous  circle. 
Many  of  the  hearts  that  throbbed  so  gaily  then, 
have  ceased  to  beat  ; many  of  the  looks  that 
shone  so  brightly  then,  have  ceased  to  glow  ; 
the  hands  we  grasped  have  grown  cold  ; the 
eyes  we  sought  have  hid  their  lustre  in  the 
grave;  and  yet  the  old  house,  the  room,  the 
merry  voices  and  smiling  faces,  the  jest,  the 
laugh,  the  most  minute  and  trivial  circumstances 
connected  with  those  happy  meetings,  crowd 
upon  our  mind  at  each  recurrence  of  the  season, 
as  if  the  last  assemblage  had  been  but  yester- 
day ! Happy,  happy  Christmas,  that  can  win 
us  back  to  the  delusions  of  our  childish  days  ; 
that  can  recall  to  the  old  man  the  pleasures  of 
his  youth  ; that  can  transport  the  sailor  and  the 
traveller,  thousands  of  miles  away,  back  to  his 
own  fireside  and  his  quiet  home  ! 

Pickwick , CJi.  2S. 

CHRISTMAS  CAROLr-A. 

I care  not  for  Spring  ; on  1uh>  fickle  wing 

Let  the  blosHomn  him!  buds  he  borne; 

lie  woos  them  amain  with  bin  treacherous  rain, 

And  he  scatters  them  ere  the  morn. 


An  inconstant  elf,  he  knows  not  himself, 

Nor  his  own  changing  mind  an  hour, 

He’ll  smile  in  your  lace,  and,  with  wry  grimace, 
He’ll  wither  your  youngest  (lower 

Let  the  Summer  sun  to  his  bright  home  run, 

He  shall  never  lie  sought  by  me  ; 

When  he’s  dimmed  by  a cloud  I ran  laugh  aloud, 
And  care  not  how  sulky  he  lie  ! 

For  Ids  darling  child  is  ihe  madness  wild 
That  snorts  in  fierce  fever’s  train  ; 

And  when  love  is  too  strong  it  don’t  laBt  long, 

As  many  have  found  to  their  pain. 

A mild  harvest  night,  by  the  tranquil  light 
Of  the  modest  and  gentle  moon, 

Has  a far  sweeter  sheen,  for  me,  I ween, 

Than  the  broad  and  unblushing  noon. 

But  every  leaf  awakens  my  grief. 

As  it  licth  beneath  the  tree  ; 

So  let  Autumn  air  tie  never  so  fair,  • 

It  by  no  means  agrees  with  me. 

But  my  song  T troll  out,  for  CumsTMAS  stout, 

The  hearty,  the  true,  and  the  hold; 

A bumper  I drain,  and  with  might  and  main 
Give  three  cheers  lor  this  Christmas  old  ! 

We'll  usher  him  in  with  a merry  din 
That  shall  gladden  his  joyous  heart. 

And  we’ll  keep  him  up  while  there ’s  bite  or  sup, 
And  in  fellowship  good  we’ll  part. 

In  his  fine  honest  pride,  he  scorns  to  hide 
One  jot  of  his  hard- weather  scars  ; 

They’re  no  disgrace,  for  there ’s  much  the  same 
On  the  cheeks  of  our  bravest  tars.  [trace 

Then  again  I’d  sing  till  the  roof  doth  ring, 

And  it.  echoes  from  wall  to  wall— 

To  the  stout  old  wight,  fair  welcome  to-night, 

As  the  King  of  the  Seasons  all  ! 

Pickwick,  Ch.  28. 


CHRISTMAS  DINNER-Bob  Cratchit’s. 

“Ancl  how  did  little  Tim  behave  ?”  asked 
Mrs.  Cratchit,  when  she  had  rallied  Bob  on  his 
credulity,  and  Bob  had  hugged  his  daughter  to 
his  heart’s  content. 

“ As  good  as  gold,”  said  Bob,  “ and  better. 
Somehow  he  gets  thoughtful,  sitting  by  himself 
so  much,  and  thinks  the  strangest  things  you 
ever  heard.  He  told  me,  coming  home,  that 
he  hoped  the  people  saw  him  in  the  church,  be- 
cause he  was  a cripple,  and  it  might  be  pleasant 
to  them  to  remember,  upon  Christmas  Day,  who 
made  lame  beggars  walk  and  blind  men  see.” 

Bob’s  voice  was  tremulous  when  he  told  them 
this,  and  trembled  more  when  he  said  that  Tiny 
Tim  was  growing  strong  and  hearty. 

His  active  little  crutch  was  heard  upon  the 
floor,  and  back  came  Tiny  Tim  before  another 
word  was  spoken,  escorted  by  his  brother  and 
sister  to  his  stool  beside  the  fire  ; and  while 
Bob,  turning  up  his  cuffs — as  if,  poor  fellow, 
they  were  capable  of  being  made  more  shabby 
— compounded  some  hot  mixture  in  a jug,  with 
gin  and  lemons,  and  stirred  it  round  and  round 
and  put  it  on  the  hob  to  simmer;  Master  Peter 
and  the  two  ubiquitous  young  Cratchits  went 
to  fetch  the  goose,  with  which  they  soon  re- 
turned in  high  procession. 

Such  a bustle  ensued  that  you  might  have 
thought  a goose  the  rarest  of  all  birds ; a 
feathered  phenomenon,  to  which  a black  swan 
was  a matter  of  course — and  in  truth  it  was 
something  very  like  it  in  that  house.  Mrs. 
Cratchit  made  the  gravy  (ready  beforehand  in 
a little  saucepan)  hissing  hot  ; Master  Peter 
mashed  the  potatoes  with  incredible  vigor; 
Miss  Belinda  sweetened  up  the  apple-sauce  ; 
Martha  dusted  the  hot  plates  ; Bob  took  Tiny 
Tim  beside  him  in  a tiny  corner  at  the  table  ; 
the  two  young  Cratchits  set  chairs  for  every- 


CHRISTMAS 


99 


CHRISTMAS 


body,  not  forgetting  themselves,  and  mounting 
guard  upon  their  posts,  crammed  spoons  into 
their  mouths,  lest  they  should  shriek  for  goose 
before  their  turn  came  to  be  helped.  At  last 
the  dishes  were  set  on,  and  grace  was  said.  It 
was  succeeded  by  a breathless  pause,  as  Mrs. 
Cratchit,  looking  slowly  all  along  the  carving- 
knife,  prepared  to  plunge  it  in  the  breast  ; but 
when  she  did,  and  when  the  long-expected  gush 
of  stuffing  issued  forth,  one  murmur  of  delight 
arose  all  round  the  board,  and  even  Tiny  Tim, 
excited  by  the  two  young  Cratchits,  beat  on  the 
table  with  the  handle  of  his  knife,  and  feebly 
cried  Hurrah  ! 

There  never  was  such  a goose.  Bob  said  he 
didn’t  believe  there  ever  was  such  a goose 
cooked.  Its  tenderness  and  flavor,  size  and 
cheapness  were  the  themes  of  universal  admi- 
ration. Eked  out  by  apple  sauce  and  mashed 
potatoes,  it  was  a sufficient  dinner  for  the  whole 
family;  indeed,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  with  great 
delight  (surveying  one  small  atom  of  a bone 
upon  the  dish),  they  hadn’t  ate  it  all  at  last ! 
Yet  every  one  had  had  enough,  and  the  youngest 
Cratchits,  in  particular,  were  steeped  in  sage 
and  onion  to  the  eyebrows ! But  now'  the 
plates  being  changed  by  Miss  Belinda,  Mrs. 
Cratchit  left  the  room  alone — too  nervous  to 
bear  witnesses — to  take  the  pudding  up,  and 
bring  it  in. 

Suppose  it  should  not  be  done  enough ! Sup- 
pose it  should  break  in  turning  out  ! Suppose 
somebody  should  have  got  over  the  wall  of  the 
back-yard,  and  stolen  it,  wdiile  they  were  merry 
with  the  goose — a supposition  at  which  the  two 
young  Cratchits  became  livid  ! All  sorts  of  hor- 
rors were  supposed. 

Hallo  ! A great  deal  of  steam  ! The  pud- 
ding was  out  of  the  copper.  A smell  like  a 
washing-day ! That  was  the  cloth.  A smell 
like  an  eating-house  and  a pastrycook’s  next 
door  to  each  other,  with  a laundress’s  next  door 
to  that ! That  was  the  pudding ! In  half  a 
minute  Mrs.  Cratchit  entered — flushed,  but  smil- 
ing proudly — with  the  pudding,  like  a speckled 
cannon-ball,  so  hard  and  firm,  blazing  in  half 
of  half-a-quartern  of  ignited  brandy,  and  be- 
dight  with  Christmas  holly  stuck  into  the  top. 

Oh,  a wonderful  pudding.  Bob  Cratchit  said, 
and  calmly  too,  that  he  regarded  it  as  the  great- 
est success  achieved  by  Mrs.  Cratchit  since  their 
marriage.  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  that  now  the 
weight  was  off  her  mind,  she  would  confess  she 
had  her  doubts  about  the  quantity  of  flour. 
Everybody  had  something  to,  say  about  it,  but 
nobody  said  or  thought  it  was  at  all  a small  pud- 
ding for  a large  family.  It  would  have  been 
flat  heresy  to  do  so.  Any  Cratchit  would  have 
blushed  to  hint  at  such  a thing. 

At  last  the  dinner  was  all  done,  the  cloth  was 
cleared,  the  hearth  swept,  and  the  fire  made  up. 
The  compound  in  the  jug  being  tasted,  and  con- 
sidered perfect,  apples  and  oranges  were  put 
upon  the  table,  and  a shovel  full  of  chestnuts 
on  the  fire.  Then  all  the  Cratchit  family  drew 
round  the  hearth,  in  what  Bob  Cratchit  called  a 
circle,  meaning  half  a one  ; and  at  Bob  Crat- 
chit’s  elbow  stood  the  family  display  of  glass, 
two  tumblers  and  a custard-cup  without  a 
handle. 

These  held  the  hot  stuff  from  the  jug,  how- 
ever, as  well  as  golden  goblets  would  have  done  ; 
and  Bob  served  it  out  with  beaming  looks,  while 


the  chestnuts  on  the  fire  sputtered  and  cracked 
noisily.  Then  Bob  proposed, 

“ A merry  Christmas  to  us  all,  my  dears.  God 
bless  us.” 

Which  all  the  family  re-echoed, 

“ God  bless  us  every  one  ! ” said  Tiny  Tim, 
the  last  of  all. — Christmas  Carol, , Stave  3. 

CHRISTMAS— Of  Scrooge. 

“ I don’t  know  what  day  of  the  month  it  is,” 
said'  Scrooge  ; “ I don’t  know  how  long  I have 
been  among  the  Spirits.  I don’t  know  any- 
thing. I’m  quite  a baby.  Never  mind.  I 
don’t  care.  I’d  rather  be  a baby.  Hallo ! 
Whoop  ! Hallo  here  !” 

He  was  checked  in  his  transports  by  the 
churches  ringing  out  the  lustiest  peals  he  had 
ever  heard.  Clash,  clash,  hammer;  ding,  dong, 
bell.  Bell,  dong,  ding  ; hammer,  clang,  clash  ! 
Oh,  glorious,  glorious  ! 

Running  to  the  window,  he  opened  it,  and 
put  out  his  head.  No  fog,  no  mist ; clear, 
bright,  jovial,  stirring,  cold  ; cold,  piping  for 
the  blood  to  dance  to ; golden  sunlight ; heav- 
enly sky  ; sweet  fresh  air ; merry  bells.  Oh, 
glorious ! Glorious  ! 

“ What’s  to-day  ? ” cried  Scrooge,  calling 
downward  to  a boy  in  Sunday  clothes,  who 
perhaps  had  loitered  in  to  look  about  him. 

“Eh?”  returned  the  boy,  with  all  his  might 
of  wonder. 

“What’s  to-day,  my  fine  fellow?”  said 
Scrooge. 

“ To-day !”  replied  the  boy.  “ Why,  Christ- 
mas Day.” 

“It’s  Christmas  Day!”  said  Scrooge  to  him- 
self. “ I haven’t  missed  it.  The  Spirits  have 
done  it  all  in  one  night.  They  can  do  anything 
they  like.  Of  course  they  can.  Of  course  they 
can.  Hallo,  my  fine  fellow  !” 

“ Hallo  !”  returned  the  boy. 

“ Do  you  know  the  Poulterer’s,  in  the  next 
street  but  one,  at  the  corner  ? ” Scrooge  inquired. 

“ I should  hope  I did,”  replied  the  lad. 

“ An  intelligent  boy  ! ” said  Scrooge.  “ A re- 
markable boy  ! Do  you  know  whether  they’ve 
sold  the  prize  Turkey  that  was  hanging  up 
there? — Not  the  little  prize  Turkey:  the  big 
one  ? ” 

“ What,  the  one  as  big  as  me  ? ” returned  the 
boy. 

“ What  a delightful  boy  ! ” said  Scrooge.  “ It’s 
a pleasure  to  talk  to  him.  Yes,  my  buck !” 

“ It’s  hanging  there  now,”  replied  the  boy. 

“ Is  it  ?”  said  Scrooge.  “ Go  and  buy  it.” 

“ Walk-ER  !”  exclaimed  the  boy. 

“No,  no,”  said  Scrooge,  “I  am  in  earnest. 
Go  and  buy  it,  and  tell  ’em  to  bring  it  here,  that 
I may  give  them  the  directions  where  to  take  it. 
Come  back  with  the  man,  and  I’ll  give  you  a 
shilling.  Come  back  with  him  in  less  than  five 
minutes,  and  I’ll  give  half-a-crown  !” 

The  boy  was  off  like  a shot.  He  must  have 
had  a steady  hand  at  a trigger  who  could  have 
got  a shot  off  half  so  fast. 

“ I’ll  send  it  to  Bob  Cratchit’s,”  whispered 
Scrooge,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  splitting  with 
a laugh.  “ He  shan’t  know  who  sends  it.  It’s 
twice  the  size  of  Tiny  Tim.  Joe  Miller  never 
made  such  a joke  as  sending  it  to  Bob’s  will 
be  ! ” 

The  hand  in  which  he  wrote  the  address  was 
not  a steady  one  ; but  write  it  he  did,  somehow, 


CHRI3TMAS  100  CHRISTMAS 


and  went  down  stairs  to  open  the  street-door, 
ready  for  the  coming  of  the  poulterer’s  man.  As 
he  stood  there,  waiting  his  arrival,  the  knocker 
caught  his  eye. 

“I  shall  love  it  as  long  as  I live!”  cried 
Scrooge,  patting  it  with  his  hand.  “ I scarcely 
ever  looked  at  it  before.  What  an  honest  ex- 
pression it  has  in  its  face!  It’s  a wonderful 
knocker! — Here’s  the  Turkey.  Hallo!  Whoop! 
How  are  you  ! Merry  Christmas  !” 

It  was  a Turkey  ! He  never  could  have  stood 
upon  his  legs,  that  bird.  He  would  have  snapped 
’em  short  off  in  a minute,  like  sticks  of  sealinn- 
wax. 

“ Why,  it’s  impossible  to  carry  that  to  Camden 
Town,”  said  Scrooge.  “ You  must  have  a cab.” 

The  chuckle  with  which  he  said  this,  and  the 
chuckle  with  which  he  paid  for  the  Turkey,  and 
the  chuckle  with  which  he  paid  for  the  cab,  and 
the  chuckle  with  which  he  recompensed  the 
boy,  were  only  to  be  exceeded  by  the  chuckle 
with  which  he  sat  down  breathless  in  his  chair 
again,  and  chuckled  till  he  cried. 

Shaving  was  not  an  easy  task,  for  his  hand 
continued  to  shake  very  much  ; and  shaving  re- 
quires attention,  even  when  you  don’t  dance 
while  you  are  at  it.  But  if  he  had  cut  the  end 
of  his  nose  off,  he  would  have  put  a piece  of 
sticking-plaster  over  it,  and  been  quite  satisfied. 

He  dressed  himself  “ all  in  his  best,”  and  at 
last  got  out  into  the  streets.  The  people  were 
by  this  time  pouring  forth,  as  he  had  seen  them 
with  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Present ; and  walk- 
ing with  his  hands  behind  him,  Scrooge  regarded 
every  one  with  a delighted  smile.  He  looked 
so  irresistibly  pleasant,  in  a word,  that  three  or 
four  good-humored  fellows  said,  “Good  morn- 
ing, sir  ! A merry  Christmas  to  you  ! ” And 
Scrooge  said  often  afteiward,  that  of  all  the 
blithe  sounds  he  had  ever  heard,  those  were  the 
blithest  in  his  ears. 

* ❖ * * 

He  went  to  church,  and  walked  about  the 
streets,  and  watched  the  people  hurrying  to  and 
fro,  and  patted  the  children  on  the  head,  and 
questioned  beggars,  and  looked  down  into  the 
kitchens  of  houses,  and  up  to  the  windows  ; and 
found  that  everything  could  yield  him  pleasure. 
He  had  never  dreamed  that  any  walk — that 
anything — could  give  him  so  much  happiness. 
In  the  afternoon,  he  turned  his  steps  toward  his 
nephew’s  house. 

He  passed  the  door  a dozen  times,  before  he 
had  the  courage  to  go  up  and  knock.  But  he 
made  a dash,  and  did  it. 

“Is  your  master  at  home,  my  dear?”  said 
Scrooge  to  the  girl.  Nice  girl ! Very. 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“ Where  is  he,  my  love?”  said  Scrooge. 

“ He’s  in  the  dining-room,  sir,  along  with  mis- 
tress. I’ll  show  you  up  stairs,  if  you  please.” 

“ Thank’ee.  He  knows  me,”  said  Scrooge, 
with  his  hand  already  on  the  dining-room  lock. 
“ I’ll  go  in  here,  my  dear.” 

He  turned  it  gently,  and  sidled  his  face  in, 
round  the  door.  They  were  looking  at  the  table 
(which  was  spread  out  in  great  array) ; for  these 
young  housekeepers  are  always  nervous  on  such 
points,  and  like  to  see  that  everything  is  right. 

“ Fred  !”  said  Scrooge. 

Dear  heart  alive,  how  his  niece  by  marriage 
started.  Scrooge  had  forgotten,  for  the  moment, 
about  her  sitting  in  the  corner  with  the  foot- 


stool, or  he  wouldn’t  have  done  it,  on  any  ac- 
count. 

“ Why,  bless  my  soul  J”  cried  Fred.  “ Who’* 
that  ?” 

“ It’s  I.  Your  uncle  Scrooge.  I have  come 
to  dinner.  Will  you  let  me  in,  Fred?” 

Let  him  in  ! It’s  a mercy  he  didn’t  shake  his 
arm  off.  He  was  at  home  in  five  minutes. 
Nothing  could  be  heartier.  His  niece  looked 
just  the  same.  So  did  Topper  when  he  came. 
So  did  the  plump  sister,  when  she  came.  So 
did  everyone  when  came.  Wonderful  par- 
ty, wonderful  games,  wonderful  unanimity,  won- 
derful happiness. 

But  he  was  early  at  the  office  next  morning. 
Oh,  he  was  early  there.  If  he  could  only  he 
there  first,  and  catch  Bob  Cratchit  coming  late. 
That  was  the  thing  he  had  set  his  heart  upon. 

And  he  did  it ; yes,  he  did  ! The  clock  struck 
nine.  No  Bob.  A quarter  past.  No  Bob.  He 
was  full  eighteen  minutes  and  a half  behind  his 
time.  Scrooge  sat  with  his  door  wide  open,  that 
he  might  see  him  come  into  the  Tank. 

His  hat  was  off  before  he  opened  the  door;  ( 
his  comforter  too.  He  was  on  his  stool  in  a 
jiffy,  driving  away  with  his  pen,  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  overtake  nine  o’clock. 

“ Hallo  !”  growled  Scrooge,  in  his  accustomed 
voice  as  near  as  he  could  feign  it.  “What  do 
you  mean  by  coming  here  at  this  time  of  day?”  | 

“ I am  very  sorry,  sir,”  said  Bob.  “ I avi 
behind  my  time.” 

“You  are!”  repeated  Scrooge.  “Yes.  I 
think  you  are.  Step  this  way,  sir,  if  you  please.” 

“ It’s  only  once  a year,  sir,”  pleaded  Bob,  ap-  ! 
pearing  from  the  Tank.  “It  shall  not  be  re- 
peated. I was  making  rather  merry,  yesterday, 
sir.” 

“ Now,  I’ll  tell  you  what,  my  friend,”  said 
Scrooge,  “ I am  not  going  to  stand  this  sort  of 
thing  any  longer.  And  therefore,”  he  continued, 
leaping  from  his  stool,  and  giving  Bob  such  a 
dig  in  the  waistcoat  that  he  staggered  back  into 
the  Tank  again:  “and  therefore  I am  about  to 
raise  your  salary  ! ” 

Bob  trembled,  and  got  a little  nearer  to  the 
ruler.  He  had  a momentary  idea  of  knocking 
Scrooge  down  with  it,  holding  him,  and  calling 
to  the  people  in  the  court  for  help  and  a strait- 
waistcoat. 

“A  merry  Christmas,  Bob!”  said  Scrooge, 
with  an  earnestness  that  could  not  be  mistaken, 
as  he  clapped  him  on  the  back.  “ A merrier 
Christmas,  Bob,  my  good  fellow,  than  I have 
given  you  for  many  a year ! I’ll  raise  your 
salary,  and  endeavor  to  assist  your  struggling 
family,  and  we  will  discuss  your  affairs  this  very 
afternoon,  over  a Christmas  bowl  of  smoking 
bishop,  Bob  ! Make  up  the  fires  and  buy  an- 
other coal-scuttle  before  you  dot  another  i,  Bob 
Cratchit ! ” 

Scrooge  was  better  than  his  word.  He  did  it 
all,  and  infinitely  more  ; and  to  Tiny  Tim,  who 
did  NOT  die,  he  was  a second  father.  He  be- 
came as  good  a friend,  as  good  a master,  and  as 
good  a man  as  the  good  old  city  knew,  or  any 
other  good  old  city,  town,  or  borough  in  the 
good  old  world.  Some  people  laughed  to  see 
the  alteration  in  him,  but  he  let  them  laugh, 
and  little  heeded  them  ; for  he  was  wise  enough 
to  know  that  nothing  ever  happened  on  this 
globe,  for  good,  at  which  some  people  did  not 
have  their  fill  of  laughter  in  the  outset ; and 


CHURCHES 


101 


CHURCHES 


i knowing  that  such  as  these  would  be  blind  any- 
way, he  thought  it  quite  as  well  that  they  should 
wrinkle  up  their  eyes  in  grins,  as  have  the  mala- 
dy in  less  attractive  forms.  His  own  heart 
laughed  : and  that  was  quite  enough  for  him. 

He  had  no  further  intercourse  with  Spirits, 
but  lived  upon  the  Total  Abstinence  Principle 
ever  afterward  ; and  it  was  always  said  of  him, 
that  he  knew  how  to  keep  Christmas  well,  if  any 
man  alive  possessed  the  knowledge.  May  that 
be  truly  said  of  us,  and  all  of  us  ! And  so,  as 
Tiny  Tim  observed,  God  bless  Us,  EveryOne  ! 

Christmas  Carol , Stave  5. 

CHURCHES— A Sunday  experience  among:. 

There  is  a pale  heap  of  books  in  the  corner 
of  my  pew,  and  while  the  organ,  which  is  hoarse 
and  sleepy,  plays  in  such  fashion  that  I can  hear 
more  of  the  rusty  working  of  the  stops  than  of 
any  music,  I look  at  the  books,  which  are  mostly 
bound  in  faded  baize  and  stuff. 

The  opening  of  the  service  recalls  my  wander- 
ing thoughts.  I then  find,  to  my  astonishment, 
that  I have  been,  and  still  am,  taking  a strong 
kind  of  invisible  snuff  up  my  nose,  into  my 
eyes,  and  down  my  throat.  I wink,  sneeze,  and 
cough.  The  clerk  sneezes,  the  clergyman  winks, 
the  unseen  organist  sneezes  and  coughs  (and 
probably  winks) ; all  our  little  party  wink, 
sneeze,  and  cough.  The  snuff  seems  to  be  made 
of  the  decay  of  matting,  wood,  cloth,  stone,  iron, 
earth,  and  something  else.  Is  the  something 
else  the  decay  of  dead  citizens  in  the  vaults  be- 
low? As  sure  as  Death  it  is  ! Not  only  in  the 
cold,  damp  February  day  do  we  cough  and 
sneeze  dead  citizens,  all  through  the  service,  but 
dead  citizeias  have  got  into  the  very  bellows  of 
the  organ,  and  half-choked  the  same.  We 
stamp  our  feet  to  warm  them,  and  dead  citizens 
arise  in  heavy  clouds.  Dead  citizens  stick  upon 
the  walls,  and  lie  pulverized  on  the  sounding- 
board  over  the  clergyman’s  head,  and,  when  a 
gust  of  air  comes,  tumble  down  upon  him. 

***** 

But  we  receive  the  signal  to  make  that  unan- 
imous dive  which  surely  is  a little  conven- 
tional— like  the  strange  rustlings  and  settlings 
and  clearings  of  throats  and  noses  which  are 
never  dispensed  with  at  certain  points  of  the 
Church  service,  and  are  never  held  to  be  neces- 
sary under  any  other  circumstances.  In  a min- 
ute more  it  is  all  over,  and  the  organ  expresses 
itself  to  be  as  glad  of  it  as  it  can  be  of  anything 
in  its  rheumatic  state,  and  in  another  minute  we 
are  all  of  us  out  of  the  church,  and  Whity- 
brown  has  locked  it  up.  Another  minute  or  little 
more,  and,  in  the  neighboring  churchyard — not 
the  yard  of  that  church,  but  of  another — a 
churchyard  like  a great  shabby  old  mignonette 
box,  with  two  trees  in  it,  and  one  tomb — I meet 
Whity-brown,  in  his  private  capacity,  fetching 
a pint  of  beer  for  his  dinner  from  the  public- 
house  in  the  corner,  where  the  keys  of  the  rotting 
fire-ladders  are  kept  and  were  never  asked  for, 
and  where  there  is  a ragged,  white-seamed,  out- 
at-elbowed  bagatelle  board  on  the  first  floor. 

***** 

In  the  course  of  my  pilgrimages  I came  upon 
one  obscure  church  which  had  broken  out  in 
the  melodramatic  style,  and  was  got  up  with 
various  tawdry  decorations,  much  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  extinct  London  Maypoles.  These 


attractions  had  induced  several  young  priests  or 
deacons,  in  black  bibs  for  waistcoats,  and  several 
young  ladies  interested  in  that  holy  order  (the 
proportion  being,  as  I estimated,  seventeen 
young  ladies  to  a deacon),  to  come  into  the  City 
as  a new  and  odd  excitement.  It  was  wonder- 
ful to  see  how  these  young  people  played  out 
their  little  play  in  the  heart  of  the  City,  all 
among  themselves,  without  the  deserted  City’s 
knowing  anything  about  it.  It  was  as  if  you 
should  take  an  empty  counting-house  on  a Sun- 
day, and  act  one  of  the  old  Mysteries  there.  They 
had  impressed  a small  school  (from  what  neigh- 
borhood I don’t  know)  to  assist  in  the  perform- 
ances ; and  it  was  pleasant  to  notice  frantic 
garlands  of  inscription  on  the  walls,  especially 
addressing  those  poor  innocents,  in  characters 
impossible  for  them  to  decipher.  There  was  a 
remarkably  agreeable  smell  of  pomatum  in  this 
congregation. 

But  in  other  cases  rot  and  mildew  and  dead 
citizens  formed  the  uppermost  scent,  while  in- 
fused into  it,  in  a dreamy  way  not  at  all  dis- 
pleasing, was  the  staple  character  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. In  the  churches  about  Mark  Lane; 
for  example,  there  was  a dry  whiff'  of  wheat ; 
and  I accidentally  struck  an  airy  sample  of  bar- 
ley out  of  an  aged  hassock  in  one  of  them.  From 
Rood  Lane  to  Tower  Street,  and  thereabouts, 
there  was  often  a subtle  flavor  of  wine  ; some- 
times of  tea.  One  church  near  Mincing  Lane 
smelt  like  a druggist’s  drawer.  Behind  the 
Monument  the  service  had  a flavor  of  damaged 
oranges,  which  a little  farther  down  towards  the 
river  tempered  into  herrings,  and  gradually 
toned  into  a cosmopolitan  blast  of  fish.  In  one 
church,  the  exact  counterpart  of  the  church  in 
the  Rake’s  Progress  where  the  hero  is  being 
married  to  the  horrible  old  lady,  there  was  no 
specialty  of  atmosphere,  until  the  organ  shook 
a perfume  of  hides  all  over  us  from  some  ad- 
jacent warehouse. 

Be  the  scent  what  it  would,  however,  there 
was  no  specialty  in  the  people.  There  were 
never  enough  of  them  to  represent  any  calling 
or  neighborhood.  They  had  all  gone  elsewhere 
overnight,  and  the  few  stragglers  in  the  many 
churches  languished  there  inexpressively. 

Among  the  uncommercial  travels  in  which  I 
have  engaged,  this  year  of  Sunday  travel  oc- 
cupies its  own  place  apart  from  all  the  rest. 
Whether  I think  of  the  church  where  the  sails 
of  the  oyster  boats  in  the  river  almost  flapped 
against  the  windows,  or  of  the  church  where  the 
railroad  made  the  bell  5 hum  as  the  train  rushed 
by  above  the  roof,  I recall  a curious  experience. 
On  summer  Sundays,  in  the  gentle  rain  or  the 
bright  sunshine — either  deepening  the  idleness  of 
the  idle  city — I have  sat,  in  that  singular  silence 
which  belongs  to  resting-places  usually  astir,  in 
scores  of  buildings,  at  the  heart  of  the  world’s 
metropolis,  unknown  to  far  greater  numbers  of 
people  speaking  the  English  tongue  than  the  an- 
cient edifices  of  the  Eternal  City,  or  the  Pyramids 
of  Egypt.  The  dark  vestries  and  registries  into 
which  I have  peeped,  and  the  little  hemmed-in 
churchyards  that  have  echoed  to  my  feet,  have 
left  impressions  on  my  memory  as  distinct  and 
quaint  as  any  it  has  in  that  way  received.  In 
all  those  dusty  registers  that  the  worms  are  eat- 
ing, there  is  not  a line  but  made  some  hearts 
leap,  or  some  tears  flow,  in  their  day.  Still  and 
dry  now,  still  and  dry ! and  the  old  tree  at  the 


CHURCH 


102 


CHURCH 


window,  with  no  room  for  its  branches,  has  seen 
them  all  out.  So  with  the  tomb  of  the  old 
Master  of  the  old  Company,  on  which  it  drips. 
His  son  restored  it  and  died,  his  daughter  re- 
stored it  and  died,  and  then  he  had  been  re- 
membered long  enough,  and  the  tree  took  pos- 
session of  him,  and  his  name  cracked  out. 

There  are  few  more  striking  indications  of 
the  changes  of  manners  and  customs  that  two  or 
three  hundred  years  have  brought  about,  than 
these  deserted  churches.  Many  of  them  are 
handsome  and  costly  structures,  several  of  them 
were  designed  by  Wren,  many  of  them  arose 
from  the  ashes  of  the  great  fire,  others  of  them 
outlived  the  plague  and  the  fire  too,  to  die  a 
slow  death  in  these  later  days.  No  one  can  be 
sure  of  the  coming  time  ; but  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say  of  it  that  it  has  no  sign,  in  its  outsetting 
tides,  of  the  reflux  to  these  churches  of  their 
congregations  and  uses.  They  remain,  like  the 
tombs  of  the  old  citizens  who  lie  beneath  them 
and  around  them,  Monuments  of  another  age. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  g. 

CHURCH. 

We  have  a church,  by  the  bye,  a hideous  tem- 
ple of  flint,  like  a great,  petrified  hay-stack. 

Reprinted  Pieces. 

CHURCH  AND  PREACHER-A  child’s 
first  experiences  of. 

Not  that  I have  any  curiosity  to  hear  powerful 
preachers.  Time  was,  when  I was  dragged  by 
the  hair  of  my  head,  as  one  may  say,  to  hear  too 
many.  On  summer  evenings,  when  every 
flower  and  tree  and  bird  might  have  better  ad- 
dressed my  soft  young  heart,  I have  in  my  day 
been  caught  in  the  palm  of  a female  hand  by 
the  crown,  have  been  violently  scrubbed  from 
the  neck  to  the  roots  of  the  hair  as  a purifica- 
tion for  the  Temple,  and  have  then  been 
carried  off,  highly  charged  with  saponaceous 
electricity,  to  be  steamed  like  a potato  in  the 
un ventilated  breath  of  the  powerful  Boanerges 
Boiler  and  his  congregation,  until  what  small 
mind  I had  was  quite  steamed  out  of  me.  In 
which  pitiable  plight  I have  been  haled  out  of 
the  place  of  meeting,  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
exercises,  and  catechised  respecting  Boanerges 
Boiler,  his  fifthly,  his  sixthly,  and  his  seventhly, 
until  I have  regarded  that  reverend  person  in 
the  light  of  a most  dismal  and  oppressive 
Charade.  Time  was,  when  I was  carried  off  to 
platform  assemblages  at  which  no  human  child, 
whether  of  wrath  or  grace,  could  possibly  keep 
its  eyes  open,  and  when  I felt  the  fatal  sleep 
stealing,  stealing  over  me,  and  when  I gradually 
heard  the  orator  in  possession  spinning  and 
humming  like  a great  top,  until  he  rolled,  col- 
lapsed, and  tumbled  over,  and  I discovered,  to 
my  burning  shame  and  fear,  that  as  to  that  last 
stage  it  was  not  he,  but  I.  I have  sat  under 
Boanerges  when  he  has  specifically  addressed 
himself  to  us — us,  the  infarlts — and  at  this  pres- 
ent writing  I hear  his  lumbering  jocularity 
(which  never  amused  us,  though  we  basely  pre- 
tended that  it  did),  and  I behold  his  big  round 
face,  and  I look  up  the  inside  of  his  outstretched 
coat  sleeve,  as  if  it  were  a telescope,  with  the 
stopper  on,  and  I hate  him  with  an  unwhole- 
some hatred  for  two  hours.  Through  such 
means  did  it  come  to  pass  that  I knew  the 
powerful  preacher  from  beginning  to  end.  all 


over  and  all  through,  while  I was  very  young, 
and  that  I left  him  behind  at  an  early  period  of 
life.  Peace  be  with  him ! More  peace  than  he 
brought  to  me ! 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  9. 

CHURCH-A  hideous. 

A very  hideous  church  with  four  lowers 
at  the  four  corners,  generally  resembling  some 
petrified  monster,  frightful  and  gigantic,  on  its 
back,  with  its  legs  in  the  air. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  //.,  Chap.  I. 

CHURCH— An  apology  to  Heaven. 

* * * * Laying  violent  hands 

upon  a quantity  of  stone  and  timber  which  be- 
longed to  a weaker  baron,  he  built  a chapel  as 
an  apology,  and  so  took  a receipt  from  Heaven, 
in  full  of  all  demands. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  6. 

CHURCHES— In  Italy. 

Sitting  in  any  of  the  churches  toward  evening, 
is  like  a mild  dose  of  opium. 

Pictures  from  Italy. 

CHURCH— A wedding-  in. 

Her  heart  beats  quicker  now,  for  Walter  tells 
her  that  their  church  is  very  near.  They  pass  a 
few  great  stacks  of  warehouses,  with  wagons  at 
the  doors,  and  busy  carmen  stopping  up  the  way 
— but  Florence  does  not  see  or  hear  them — and 
then  the  air  is  quiet,  and  the  day  is  darkened, 
and  she  is  trembling  in  a church  which  has  a 
strange  smell,  like  a cellar. 

The  shabby  little  old  man,  ringer  of  the  dis- 
appointed bell,  is  standing  in  the  porch,  and  has 
put  his  hat  in  the  font — for  he  is  quite  at  home 
there,  being  sexton.  He  ushers  them  into  an 
old,  brown,  panelled,  dusty  vestry,  like  a corner- 
cupboard  with  the  shelves  taken  out  ; where  the 
wormy  registers  diffuse  a smell  like  faded  snuff, 
which  has  set  the  tearful  Nipper  sneezing. 

Youthful,  and  how  beautiful  the  young  bride 
looks,  in  this  old  dusty  place,  with  no  kindred 
object  near  her  but  her  husband.  There  is  a 
dusty  old  clerk,  who  keeps  a sort  of  evaporated 
news-shop  underneath  an  archway  opposite,  be- 
hind a perfect  fortification  of  posts.  There  is  a 
dusty  old  pew-opener  who  only  keeps  herself, 
and  finds  that  quite  enough  to  do.  There  is  a 
dusty  old  beadle  (these  are  Mr.  Toots’s  beadle 
and  pew-opener  of  last  Sunday),  who  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  a worshipful  Company  who 
have  got  a Hall  in  the  next  yard,  with  a stained- 
glass  window  in  it  that  no  mortal  ever  saw. 
There  are  dusty  wooden  ledges  and  cornices 
poked  in  and  out  over  the  altar,  and  over  the 
screen,  and  round  the  gallery,  and  over  the  in- 
scription about  what  the  Master  and  Wardens 
of  the  Worshipful  Company  did  in  one  thou 
sand  six  hundred  and  ninety-four.  There  are 
dusty  old  sounding-boards  over  the  pulpit  and 
reading-desk,  looking  like  lids  to  be  let  down 
on  the  officiating  ministers,  in  case  of  their  giv- 
ing offence.  There  is  every  possible  provision 
for  the  accommodation  of  dust,  except  in  the 
churchyard,  where  the  facilities  in  that  respect 
are  very  limited. 

* -x-  * * * 

No  gracious  ray  of  light  is  seen  to  fall  on  Flor- 
ence, kneeling  at  the  altar  with  her  timid  head 
bowed  down.  The  morning  luminary  is  built 


CHURCHES 


103 


CHURCHYARD 


out,  and  don’t  shine  there.  There  is  a meagre 
tree  outside,  where  the  sparrows  are  chirping  a 
little  ; and  there  is  a blackbird  in  an  eyelet-hole 
of  sun  in  a dyer’s  garret,  over  against  the  win- 
dow, who  whistles  loudly  whilst  the  service  is 
performing ; and  there  is  the  man  with  the 
wooden  leg  stumping  away.  The  amens  of  the 
dusty  clerk  appear,  like  Macbeth’s,  to  stick  in 
his  throat  a little  ; but  Captain  Cuttle  helps  him 
out,  and  does  it  with  so  much  good-will  that  he 
interpolates  three  entirely  new  responses  of  that 
word,  never  introduced  into  the  service  before. 

They  are  married,  and  have  signed  their 
names  in  one  of  the  old  sneezy  registers,  and 
the  clergyman’s  surplice  is  restored  to  the  dust, 
and  the  clergyman  is  gone  home. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  57. 

CHURCHES— Old. 

The  tall  shrouded  pulpit  and  reading-desk  ; 
the  dreary  perspective  of  empty  pews  stretching 
away  under  the  galleries,  and  empty  benches 
mounting  to  the  roof  and  lost  in  the  shadow  of 
the  great  grim  organ  ; the  dusty  matting  and 
cold  stone  slabs  ; the  grisly  free  seats  in  the 
aisles  ; and  the  damp  corner  by  the  bell-rope, 
where  the  black  tressels  used  for  funerals  were 
stowed  away,  along  with  some  shovels  and 
baskets,  and  a coil  or  two  of  deadly-looking 
rope  ; the  strange,  unusual,  uncomfortable 
smell,  and  the  cadaverous  light,  were  all  in 
unison.  It  was  a cold  and  dismal  scene. 

Dombey  Sf  Son,  Chap.  28. 

The  church  was  a mouldy  old  church  in  a 
yard,  hemmed  in  by  a labyrinth  of  back  streets 
and  courts,  with  a little  burying  ground  round 
it,  and  itself  buried  in  a kind  of  vault,  formed 
by  the  neighboring  houses,  and  paved  with 
echoing  stones.  It  was  a great,  dim,  shabby 
pile,  with  high  old  oaken  pews,  among  which 
about  a score  of  people  lost  themselves  every 
Sunday  ; while  the  clergyman’s  voice  drowsily 
resounded  through  the  emptiness,  and  the  organ 
rumbled  and  rolled  as  if  the  church  had  got  the 
colic,  for  want  of  a £ongregation  to  keep  the 
wind  and  damp  out.  But  so  far  was  this  city 
church  from  languishing  for  the  company  of 
other  churches,  that  spires  were  clustered  round 
it,  as  the  masts  of  shipping  cluster  on  the  river. 
It  would  have  been  hard  to  count  them  from 
its  steeple-top,  they  were  so  many.  In  almost 
every  yard  and  blind-place  near,  there  was  a 
church.  The  confusion  of  bells  when  Susan 
and  Mr.  Toots  betook  themselves  towards  it  on 
the  Sunday  morning,  was  deafening.  There 
were  twenty  churches  close  together,  clamoring 
for  people  to  come  in. — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  56. 

CHURCH- Windows. 

So  little  light  lives  inside  the  churches  in  my 
churchyards,  when  the  two  are  coexistent,  that 
it  is  often  only  by  an  accident  and  after  long 
acquaintance  that  I discover  their  having  stained 
glass  in  some  odd  window'.  The  westering  sun 
slants  into  the  churchyard  by  some  unwonted 
entry,  a few  prismatic  tears  drop  on  an  old 
tombstone,  and  a window  that  I thought  was 
only  dirty  is  for  the  moment  all  bejewelled. 
Then  the  light  passes,  and  the  colors  die. 
Though  even  then,  if  there  be  room  enough  for 
me  to  fall  back  so  far  as  that  I can  gaze  up  to 
the  top  of  the  church  tower,  I see  the  rusty 


vane  new  burnished,  and  seeming  to  look  out 
with  a joyful  flash  over  the  sea  of  smoke  at  the 
distant  shore  of  country. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  21. 

CHURCHYARDS— In  London 

Such  strange  churchyards  hide  in  the  City  of 
London  — churchyards  sometimes  so  entirely 
detached  from  churches,  always  so  pressed  upon 
by  houses  ; so  small,  so  rank,  so  silent,  so  for- 
gotten, except  by  the  few  people  who  ever  look 
down  into  them  from  their  smoky  windows. 
As  I stand  peeping  in  through  the  iron  gates 
and  rails,  I can  peel  the  rusty  metal  off  like  bark 
from  an  old  tree.  The  illegible  tombstones  are 
all  lop-sided,  the  grave-mounds  lost  their  shape 
in  the  rains  of  a hundred  years  ago,  the  Lom- 
bardy Poplar  or  Plane-Tree  that  was  once  a dry- 
salter’s  daughter  and  several  common  council- 
men,  has  withered  like  those  worthies,  and  its 
departed  leaves  are  dust  beneath  it.  Contagion 
of  slow  ruin  overhangs  the  place.  The  dis- 
colored tiled  roofs  of  the  environing  buildings 
stand  so  awry  that  they  can  hardly  be  proof 
against  any  stress  of  weather.  Old  crazy  stacks 
of  chimneys  seem  to  look  down  as  they  over- 
hang, dubiously  calculating  how  far  they  will 
have  to  fall.  In  an  angle  of  the  walls,  what 
was  once  the  tool  house  of  the  grave-digger  rots 
away,  incrusted  with  toadstools.  Pipes  and 
spouts  for  carrying  off  the  rain  from  the  encom- 
passing gables,  broken  or  feloniously  cut  for  old 
lead  long  ago,  now  let  the  rain  drip  and  splash 
as  it  list  upon  the  weedy  earth.  Sometimes 
there  is  a rusty  pump  somewhere  near,  and,  as 
I look  in  at  the  rails  and  meditate,  I hear  it 
working  under  an  unknown  hand  with  a creak- 
ing protest,  as  though  the  departed  in  the 
churchyard  urged,  “ Let  us  lie  here  in  peace  ; 
don’t  suck  us  up  and  drink  us  !” 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  21. 

CHURCHYARD-A. 

A churchyard.  Here,  then,  the  wretched  man 
whose  name  he  had  now  to  learn,  lay  underneath 
the  ground.  It  was  a worthy  place.  Walled  in 
by  houses ; overrun  by  grass  and  weeds,  the 
growth  of  vegetation’s  death,  not  life  ; choked 
up  with  too  much  burying ; fat  with  repleted 
appetite.  A worthy  place  ! 

Christmas  Carol,  Stave  4. 

CHURCHY ARD— Little  Nell  in  an  old. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  they  reached  the 
wicket-gate  at  which  the  path  began,  and,  as  the 
rain  falls  upon  the  just  and  unjust  alike,  it  shed 
its  warm  tint  even  upon  the  resting-places  of  the 
dead,  and  bade  them  be  of  good  hope  for  its 
rising  on  the  morrow.  The  church  was  old  and 
gray,  with  ivy  clinging  to  the  walls,  and  round 
the  porch.  Shunning  the  tombs,  it  crept  about 
the  mounds,  beneath  which  slept  poor  humble 
men  ; twining  for  them  the  first  wreaths  they 
had  ever  won,  but  wreaths  less  liable  to  wither 
and  far  more  lasting  in  their  kind,  than  some 
which  were  graven  deep  in  stone  and  marble, 
and  told  in  pompous  terms  of  virtues  meekly 
hidden  for  many  a year,  and  only  revealed  at 
last  to  executors  and  mourning  legatees. 

The  clergyman’s  horse,  stumbling  with  a dull 
blunt  sound  among  the  graves,  was  cropping  the 
grass  ; at  once  deriving  orthodox  consolation 
from  the  dead  parishioners,  and  enforcing  last 


CIRCUS 


104 


CITY 


Sunday’s  text  that  this  was  what  all  flesh  came 
to  ; a lean  ass  who  had  sought  to  expound  it 
also,  without  being  qualified  and  ordained,  was 
pricking  his  ears  in  an  empty  pound  hard  by, 
and  looking  with  hungry  eyes  upon  his  priestly 
neighbor. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chop.  16. 

CIRCUS— The  philosophy  of  the. 

“ People  mutht  be  amuthed,  Thquire,  thomc- 
how,”  continued  Sleary,  rendered  more  pursy 
than  ever,  by  so  much  talking  ; “ they  can’t  be 
alwaylh  a working,  nor  yet  they  can’t  be  alwayth 
a learning.  Make  the  betht  of  uth  ; not  the 
wurtht.  I’ve  got  my  living  out  of  the  horthe- 
riding  all  my  life,  I know  ; but  I conthider  that 
I lay  down  the  philothophy  of  the  thubject  when 
I thay  to  you,  Thquire,  make  the  betht  of  uth  ; 
not  the  wurtht ! ” 

The  Sleary  philosophy  was  propounded  as 
they  went  down  stairs  ; and  the  fixed  eye  of 
Philosophy — and  its  rolling  eye,  too — soon  lost 
the  three  figures  and  the  basket  in  the  darkness 
of  the  street. — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  6. 

CIRCUS-PEOPLE— Mr.  Sleary  on. 

“ Thquire,  thake  handth,  firtht  and  latht ! 
Don’t  be  croth  with  uth  poor  vagabondth.  Peo- 
ple mutht  be  amuthed.  They  can’t  be  alwayth 
a learning,  nor  yet  they  can’t  be  alwayth  a work- 
ing, they  an’t  made  for  it.  You  mutht  have 
uth,  Thquire.  Do  the  withe  thing  and  the  kind 
thing  too,  and  make  the  betht  of  uth  ; not  the 
wortht ! 

“And  I never  thought  before,”  said  Mr. 
Sleary,  putting  his  head  in  at  the  door  again  to 
say  it,  “ that  I wath  tho  muth  of  a Cackler  !” 

Hard  Times , Book  III.,  Chap.  8. 

CIRCUS— The  performers. 

We  defy  any  one  who  has  been  to  Astley’s 
two  or  three  times,  and  is  consequently  capable 
of  appreciating  the  perseverance  with  which 
precisely  the  same  jokes  are  repeated  night  after 
night,  and  season  after  season,  not  to  be  amused 
with  one  part  of  the  performances  at  least — we 
mean  the  scenes  in  the  circle.  For  ourself,  we 
know  that  when  the  hoop,  composed  of  jets  of 
gas,  is  let  down,  the  curtain  drawn  up  for  the 
convenience  of  the  half-price  on  their  ejectment 
from  the  ring,  the  orange-peel  cleared  away,  and 
the  sawdust  shaken,  with  mathematical  preci- 
sion, into  a complete  circle,  we  feel  as  much 
enlivened  as  the  youngest  child  present ; and 
actually  join  in  the  laugh  which  follows  the 
clown’s  shrill  shout  of  “ Here  we  are  !”  just  for 
old  acquaintance  sake.  Nor  can  we  quite  divest 
ourself  of  our  old  feeling  of  reverence  for  the 
riding-master,  who  follows  the  clown  with  a 
long  whip  in  his  hand,  and  bows  to  the  audience 
with  graceful  dignity.  lie  is  none  of  your  sec- 
ond rate  riding-masters,  in  nankeen  dressing- 
gowns,  with  brown  frogs,  but  the  regular  gen- 
tleman attendant  on  the  principal  riders,  who 
always  wears  a military  uniform  with  a table- 
cloth inside  the  breast  of  the  coat,  in  which 
costume  he  forcibly  reminds  one  of  a fowl 
trussed  for  roasting.  He  is — but  why  should 
we  attempt  to  describe  that  of  which  no  de- 
scription can  convey  an  adequate  idea?  Every- 
body knows  the  man,  and  everybody  remembers 
his  polished  boots,  his  graceful  demeanor,  stiff, 
as  some  misjudging  persons  have  in  their  jeal- 
ousy considered  it,  and  the  splendid  head  of 


black  hair,  parted  high  on  the  forehead,  to  im- 
part to  the  countenance  an  appearance  of  deep 
thought  and  poetic  melancholy.  His  soft  and 
pleasing  voice,  too,  is  in  perfect  unison  with  his 
noble  bearing,  as  he  humors  the  clown  by  in- 
dulging in  a little  badinage;  and  the  striking 
recollection  of  his  own  dignity  with  which  he 
exclaims,  “ Now,  sir,  if  you  please,  inquire  for 
Miss  Woolford,  sir,”  can  never  be  forgotten. 
The  graceful  air,  too,  with  which  he  introduces 
Miss  Woolford  into  the  arena,  and  after  assist- 
ing her  to  the  saddle,  follows  her  fairy  courser 
round  the  circle,  can  never  fail  to  create  a deep 
impression  in  the  bosom  of  every  female  servant 
present. — Scenes,  Chap.  n. 

CITY— An  old  and  drowsy. 

An  ancient  city,  Cloisterham,  and  no  meet 
dwelling-place  for  any  one  with  hankerings  after 
the  noisy  world.  A monotonous,  silent  city, 
deriving  an  earthy  flavor  throughout  from  its 
Cathedral  crypt,  and  so  abounding  in  vestiges 
of  monastic  graves,  that  the  Cloisterham  chil- 
dren grow  small  salad  in  the  dust  of  abbots  and 
abbesses,  and  make  dirt-pies  of  nuns  and  friars  ; 
while  every  ploughman  in  its  outlying  fields 
renders  to  once  puissant  Lord  Treasurers,  Arch- 
bishops, Bishops,  and  such-like,  the  attention 
which  the  Ogre  in  the  story-book  desired  to 
.render  to  his  unbidden  visitor,  and  grinds  their 
bones  to  make  his  bread. 

A drowsy  city,  Cloisterham,  whose  inhabitants 
seem  to  suppose,  with  an  inconsistency  more 
strange  than  rare,  that  all  its  changes  lie  behind 
it,  and  that  there  are  no  more  to  come.  A 
queer  moral  to  derive  from  antiquity,  yet  older 
than  any  traceable  antiquity.  So  silent  are  the 
streets  of  Cloisterham  (though  prone  to  echo  on 
the  smallest  provocation),  that  of  a summer-day 
the  sunblinds  of  its  shops  scarce  dare  to  flap  in 
the  south  wind  ; while  the  sun-browned  tramps 
who  pass  along  and  stare,  quicken  their  limp  a 
little,  that  they  may  the  sooner  get  beyond  the 
confines  of  its  oppressive  respectability.  This 
is  a feat  not  difficult  of  achievement,  seeing  that 
the  streets  of  Cloisterham  city  are  little  more 
than  one  narrow  street  by  which  you  get  into  it 
and  get  out  of  it : the  rest  being  mostly  disap- 
pointing yards  with  pumps  in  them  and  no 
thoroughfare — exception  made  of  the  Cathedral 
close,  and  a paved  Quaker  settlement,  in  color 
and  general  conformation  very  like  a Quakeress’s 
bonnet,  up  in  a shady  corner. 

In  a word,  a city  of  another  and  a bygone 
time  is  Cloisterham,  with  its  hoarse  Cathedral 
bell,  its  hoarse  rooks  hovering  about  the  Cathe- 
dral tower,  its  hoarser  and  less  distinct  rooks  in 
the.  stalls  far  beneath.  Fragments  of  old  wall, 
saint’s  chapel,  chapter-house,  convent,  and  mon- 
astery have  got  incongruously  or  obstructively 
built  into  many  of  its  houses  and  gardens,  much 
as  kindred  jumbled  notions  have  become  incor- 
porated into  many  of  its  citizens’  minds.  All 
things  in  it  are  of  the  past.  Even  its  single 
pawnbroker  takes  in  no  pledges,  nor  has  he  for 
a long  time,  but  offers  vainly  an  unredeemed 
stock  for  sale,  of  which  the  costlier  articles  are 
dim  and  pale  old  watches  apparently  in  a slow 
perspiration,  tarnished  sugar-tongs  with  ineffec- 
tual legs,  and  odd  volumes  of  dismal  books. 
The  most  abundant  and  the  most  agreeable 
evidences  of  progressing  life  in  Cloisterham  are 
the  evidences  of  vegetable  life  in  its  many  gar- 


CITY 


105 


CITY 


dens  ; even  its  drooping  and  despondent  little 
theatre  has  its  poor  strip  of  garden,  receiving 
the  foul  fiend,  when  he  ducks  from  its  stage  into 
the  infernal  regions,  among  scarlet  beans  or 
oyster-shells,  according  to  the  season  of  the 
year. — Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  3. 

CITY— A quiet  nook  in  London. 

Behind  the  most  ancient  part  of  Holborn, 
London,  where  certain  gabled  houses  some  cen- 
turies of  age  still  stand  looking  on  the  public 
way,  as  if  disconsolately  looking  for  the  Old 
Bourne  that  has  long  run  dry,  is  a little  nook 
composed  of  two  irregular  quadrangles,  called 
Staple  Inn.  It  is  one  of  those  nooks,  the  turn- 
ing into  which  out  of  the  clashing  street  imparts 
to  the  relieved  pedestrian  the  sensation  of  hav- 
ing put  cotton  in  his  ears  and  velvet  soles  on 
his  boots.  It  is  one  of  those  nooks  where  a few 
smoky  sparrows  twitter  in  smoky  trees,  as 
though  they  called  to  one  another,  “ Let  us  play 
at  country,”  and  where  a few  feet  of  garden 
mould  and  a few  yards  of  gravel  enable  them  to 
do  that  refreshing  violence  to  their  tiny  under- 
standings. Moreover,  it  is  one  of  those  nooks 
which  are  legal  nooks  ; and  it  contains  a little 
Hall,  with  a little  lantern  in  its  roof;  to  what 
obstructive  purposes  devoted,  and  at  whose  ex- 
pense, this  history  knoweth  not. 

Edwin  Drood , Chap.  11. 

CITY  CROWD— Its  expressions. 

The  throng  of  people  hurried  by,  in  two  op- 
posite streams,  with  no  symptom  of  cessation  or 
exhaustion  ; intent  upon  their  own  affairs  ; and 
undisturbed  in  their  business  speculations  by 
the  roar  of  carts  and  wagons  laden  with  clash- 
ing wares,  the  slipping  of  horses’  feet  upon  the 
wet  and  greasy  pavement,  the  rattling  of  the 
rain  on  windows  and  umbrella-tops,  the  jostling 
of  the  more  impatient  passengers,  and  all  the 
noise  and  tumult  of  a crowded  street  in  the  high 
tide  of  its  occupation  ; while  the  two  poor 
strangers,  stunned  and/ bewildered  by  the  hurry 
they  beheld  but  had  no  part  in,  looked  mourn- 
fully on  ; feeling,  amidst  the  crowd,  a solitude 
which  has  no  parallel  but  in  the  thirst  of  the 
shipwrecked  mariner,  who,  tost  to  and  fro  upon 
the  billows  of  a mighty  ocean,  his  red  eyes 
blinded  by  looking  on  the  water  which  hems 
him  in  on  every  side,  has  not  one  drop  to  cool 
his  burning  tongue. 

They  withdrew  into  a low  archway  for  shelter 
from  the  rain,  and  watched  the  faces  of  those 
who  passed,  to  find  in  one  among  them  a ray  of 
encouragement  or  hope.  Some  frowned,  some 
smiled,  some  muttered  to  themselves,  some  made 
slight  gestures,  as  if  anticipating  the  conversa- 
tion in  which  they  would  shortly  be  engaged, 
some  wore  the  cunning  look  of  bargaining  and 
plotting,  some  were  anxious  and  eager,  some 
slow  and  dull ; in  some  countenances  were 
written  gain  ; in  others  loss.  It  was  like  being 
in  the  confidence  of  all  these  people  to  stand 
quietly  there,  looking  into  their  faces  as  they 
flitted  past.  In  busy  places,  where  each  man 
has  an  object  of  his  own,  and  feels  assured  that 
every  other  man  has  his,  his  character  and  pur- 
pose are  written  broadly  in  his  face.  In  the 
public  walks  and  lounges  of  the  town,  people 
go  to  see  and  to  be  seen,  and  there  the 
same  expression,  with  little  variety,  is  repeated 
a hundred  times.  The  working-day  faces 


come  nearer  to  the  truth,  and  let  it  out  more 
plainly. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  44. 

CITY  OF  PHILADELPHIA*. 

It  is  a handsome  city,  but  distractingly  regu- 
lar. After  walking  about  it  for  an  hour  or  two, 
I felt  that  I would  have  given  the  world  for  a 
crooked  street.  The  collar  of  my  coat  appeared 
to  stiffen,  and  the  brim  of  my  hat  to  expand, 
beneath  its  Quakerly  influence.  My  hair  shrunk 
into  a sleek  short  crop,  my  hands  folded  them- 
selves upon  my  breast  of  their  own  calm  accord, 
and  thoughts  of  taking  lodgings  in  Mark  Lane, 
over  against  the  Market  Place,  and  of  making 
a large  fortune  by  speculations  in  corn,  came 
over  me  involuntarily. — American  Notes, Chap.  7. 

CITY— The  approach  to  New  York. 

We  were  now  in  a narrow  channel,  with  slo- 
ping banks  on  either  side,  besprinkled  with  plea- 
sant villas,  and  made  refreshing  to  the  sight  by 
turf  and  trees.  Soon  we  shot  in  quick  succes- 
sion past  a light-house,  a mad-house  (how  the 
lunatics  flung  up  their  caps  and  roared  in 
sympathy  with  the  headlong  engine  and  the 
driving  tide  !),  a jail,  and  other  buildings,  and 
so  emerged  into  a noble  bay,  whose  waters 
sparkled  in  the  now  cloudless  sunshine,  like 
Nature’s  eyes  turned  up  to  Heaven. 

Then  there  lay  stretched  out  before  us  to  the 
right,  confused  heaps  of  buildings,  with  here 
and  there  a spire  or  steeple,  looking  down  upon 
the  herd  below : and  here  and  there  again  a 
cloud  of  lazy  smoke  ; and  in  the  foreground  a 
forest  of  ships’  masts,  cheery  with  flapping  sails 
and  waving  flags.  Crossing  from  among  them 
to  the  opposite  shore  were  steam  ferry-boats 
laden  with  people,  coaches,  horses,  wagons,  bas- 
kets, boxes  ; crossed  and  recrossed  by  other  ferry- 
boats ; all  travelling  to  and  fro,  and  never  idle. 
Stately  among  these  restless  Insects  were  two 
or  three  large  ships,  moving  with  slow,  majestic 
pace,  as  creatures  of  a prouder  kind,  disdainful 
of  their  puny  journeys,  and  making  for  the 
broad  sea.  Beyond  were  shining  heights,  and 
islands  in  the  glancing  river,  and  a distance 
scarcely  less  blue  and  bright  than  the  sky  it 
seemed  to  meet.  The  city’s  hum  and  buzz,  the 
clinking  of  capstans,  the  ringing  of  bells,  the 
barking  of  dogs,  the  clattering  of  wheels,  tin- 
gled in  the  listening  ear.  All  of  which  life  and 
stir,  coming  across  the  stirring  water,  caught 
new  life  and  animation  from  its  free  companion- 
ship ; and,  sympathizing  with  its  buoyant  spirits, 
glistened,  as  it  seemed,  in  sport  upon  its  surface, 
and  hemmed  the  vessel  round,  and  plashed  the 
water  high  about  her  sides,  and,  floating  her 
gallantly  into  the  dock,  flew  off  again  to  wel- 
come other  comers  and  speed  before  them  to 
the  busy  port. — American  Notes,  Chap.  5. 

CITY— Travellers  to  the. 

Day  after  day,  such  travellers  crept  past,  but 
always,  as  she  thought,  in  one  direction — always 
towards  the  town.  Swallowed  up  in  one  phase 
or  other  of  its  immensity,  towards  which  they 
seemed  impelled  by  a desperate  fascination,  they 
never  returned.  Food  for  the  hospitals,  the 
churchyards,  the  prisons,  the  river,  fever,  mad- 
ness, vice,  and  death, — they  passed  on  to  the 
monster,  roaring  in  the  distance,  and  were  lost. 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  33. 


CITY 


100 


CITY  SQUARE 


CITY  Approach  to  a. 

And  now  he  approached  the  great  city,  which 
lay  outstretched  before  him  like  a dark  shadow 
on  the  ground,  reddening  the  sluggish  air  with 
a deep,  dull  light,  that  told  of  labyrinths  of  pub- 
lic ways  and  shops,  and  swarms  of  busy  people. 
Approaching  nearer  and  nearer  yet,  this  halo 
began  to  fade,  and  the  causes  which  produced 
it  slowly  to  develop  themselves.  Long  lines 
of  poorly  lighted  streets  might  be  faintly  traced, 
with  here  and  there  a lighter  spot,  where  lamps 
were  clustered  about  a square  or  market,  or 
round  some  great  buildings  ; after  a time  these 
grew  more  distinct,  and  the  lamps  themselves 
were  visible  ; slight  yellow  specks,  that  seemed 
to  be  rapidly  snuffed  out,  one  by  one,  as  inter- 
vening obstacles  hid  them  from  the  sight.  Then 
sounds  arose — the  striking  of  church  clocks,  the 
distant  bark  of  dogs,  the  hum  of  traffic  in  the 
streets ; then  outlines  might  be  traced — tall 
steeples  looming  in  the  air,  and  piles  of  unequal 
roofs  oppressed  by  chimneys  ; then,  the  noise 
swelled  into  a louder  sound,  and  forms  grew 
more  distinct  and  numerous  still,  and  London — 
visible  in  the  darkness  by  its  own  faint  light, 
and  not  by  that  of  Heaven — was  at  hand. 

Barnaby  Budge , Chap.  3. 

CITY—  London  in  old  times. 

A series  of  pictures  representing  the  streets 
of  London  in  the  night,  even  at  the  compara- 
tively recent  date  of  this  tale,  would  present  to 
the  eye  something  so  very  different  in  character 
from  the  reality  which  is  witnessed  in  these 
times,  that  it  would  be  difficult  for  the  beholder 
to  recognize  his  most  familiar  walks  in  the  al- 
tered aspect  of  little  more  than  half  a century 
ago. 

They  wrere,  one  and  all,  from  the  broadest  and 
best  to  the  narrowest  and  least  frequented,  very 
dark.  The  oil  and  cotton  lamps,  though  regu- 
larly trimmed  twice  or  thrice  in  the  long  winter 
nights,  burnt  feebly  at  the  best ; and  at  a late 
hour,  when  they  were  unassisted  by  the  lamps 
and  candles  in  the  shops,  cast  but  a narrow  track 
of  doubtful  light  upon  the  footway,  leaving  the 
projecting  doors  and  house-fronts  in  the  deepest 
gloom.  Many  of  the  courts  and  lanes  were  left 
in  total  darkness  ; those  of  the  meaner  sort, 
where  one  glimmering  light  twinkled  for  a score 
of  houses,  being  favored  in  no  slight  degree. 
Even  in  these  places,  the  inhabitants  had  often 
good  reason  for  extinguishing  their  lamp  as  soon 
as  it  was  lighted  ; and  the  watch  being  utterly 
inefficient,  and  powerless  to  prevent  them,  they 
did  so  at  their  pleasure.  Thus,  in  the  lightest 
thoroughfares,  there  was  at  every  turn  some  ob- 
scure and  dangerous  spot  whither  a thief  might 
fly  for  shelter,  and  few  would  care  to  follow  ; and 
the  city  being  belted  round  by  fields,  green 
lanes,  waste  grounds,  and  lonely  roads,  dividing 
it  at  that  time  from  the  suburbs  that  have  joined 
it  since,  escape,  even  when  the  pursuit  was  hot, 
was  rendered  easy. 

There  were  many  other  characteristics — not 
quite  so  disagreeable — about  the  thoroughfares 
of  London  then,  with  which  they  had  been  long 
familiar.  Some  of  the  shops,  especially  those 
to  the  eastward  of  Temple  Bar,  still  adhered  to 
the  old  practice  of  hanging  out  a sign,  and  the 
creaking  and  swinging  of  these  boards  in  their 
iron  frames  on  windy  nights,  formed  a strange 
and  mournful  concert  for  the  cars  of  those  who 


lay  awake  in  bed  or  hurried  through  the  streets. 
Long  stands  of  hackney-chairs  and  groups  of 
chairmen,  compared  with  whom  the  coachmen 
of  our  day  are  gentle  and  polite,  obstructed  the 
way  and  filled  the  air  with  clamor ; night-cel- 
lars, indicated  by  a little  stream  of  light  cross- 
ing the  pavement,  and  stretching  out  half-way 
into  the  road,  and  by  the  stifled  roar  of  voices 
from  below,  yawned  for  the  reception  and  enter- 
tainment of  the  most  abandoned  of  both  sexes  ; 
under  every  shed  and  bulk  small  groups  of  link- 
boys  gamed  away  the  earnings  of  the  day  ; or 
one,  more  weary  than  the  rest,  gave  way  to  sleep, 
and  let  the  fragment  of  his  torch  fall  hissing  on 
the  puddled  ground. 

Then  there  was  the  watch,  with  staff  and  lan- 
thorn,  crying  the  hour,  and  the  kind  of  weather  ; 
and  those  who  woke  up  at  his  voice  and  turned 
them  round  in  bed,  were  glad  to  hear  it  rained 
or  snowed,  or  blew,  or  froze,  for  very  comfort’s 
sake.  The  solitary  passenger  was  startled  by 
the  chairmen’s  cry  of  “ By  your  leave  there  ! ” 
as  two  came  trotting  past  him  with  their  empty 
vehicle — carried  backwards  to  show  its  being 
disengaged — and  hurried  to  the  nearest  stand. 
Many  a private  chair  too,  inclosing  some  fine 
lady,  monstrously  hooped  and  furbelowed,  and 
preceded  by  running  footmen  bearing  flambeaux 
— for  which  extinguishers  are  yet  suspended  be- 
fore the  doors  of  a few  houses  of  the  better  sort — 
made  the  way  gay  and  light  as  it  danced  along, 
and  darker  and  more  dismal  when  it  had  passed. 
It  was  not  unusual  for  these  running  gentry,  who 
carried  it  with  a very  high  hand,  to  quarrel  in 
the  servants’  hall  while  waiting  for  their  masters 
and  mistresses  ; and,  falling  to  blows  either 
there  or  in  the  street  without,  to  strew  the  place 
of  skirmish  with  hair-powder,  fragments  of  bag- 
wigs,  and  scattered  nosegays.  Gaming,  the  vice 
which  ran  so  high  among  all  classes  (the  fashion 
being  of  course  set  by  the  upper),  was  generally 
the  cause  of  these  disputes  ; for  cards  and  dice 
were  as  openly  used,  and  worked  as  much  mis- 
chief, and  yielded  as  much  excitement  below 
stairs,  as  above.  While  incidents  like  these, 
arising  out  of  drums  and  masquerades  and 
parties  at  quadrille,  were  passing  at  the  west 
end  of  the  town,  heavy  stage-coaches  and  scarce 
heavier  wagons  were  lumbering  slowly  toward 
the  city,  the  coachmen,  guard,  and  passengers 
armed  to  the  teeth,  and  the  coach — a day  or  so, 
perhaps,  behind  its  time,  but  that  was  nothing — 
despoiled  by  highwaymen  ; who  made  no 
scruple  to  attack,  alone  and  single-handed,  a 
whole  caravan  of  goods  and  men,  and  some- 
times shot  a passenger  or  two,  and  were  some- 
times shot  themselves,  just  as  the  case  might  be. 
On  the  morrow,  rumors  of  this  new  act  of  dar- 
ing on  the  road  yielded  matter  for  a few  hours’ 
conversation  through  the  town,  and  a Public 
Progress  of  some  fine  gentlemen  (half  drunk) 
to  Tyburn,  dressed  in  the  newest  fashion  and 
damning  the  ordinary  with  unspeakable  gal- 
lantry and  grace,  furnished  to  the  populace  at 
once  a pleasant  excitement  and  a wholesome 
and  profound  example. 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  1 6. 

CITY  SQUARE— The  office  of  the  Cheery- 

bles. 

The  square  in  which  the  counting  house  of 
the  brothers  Cheeryble  was  situated,  although 
it  might  not  wholly  realize  the  very  sanguine 


CITY  SQUARE 


107 


CITY  NEIGHBORHOOD 


expectations  which  a stranger  would  be  disposed 
to  form  on  hearing  the  fervent  encomiums  be- 
stowed upon  it  by  Tim  Linkinwater,  was,  never- 
theless, a sufficiently  desirable  nook  in  the  heart 
of  a busy  town  like  London,  and  one  which  oc- 
cupied a high  place  in  the  affectionate  remem- 
brances of  several  grave  persons  domiciled  in 
the  neighborhood,  whose  recollections,  however, 
dated  from  a much  more  recent  period,  and 
whose  attachment  to  the  spot  was  far  less  ab- 
sorbing than  were  the  recollections  and  attach- 
ment of  the  enthusiastic  Tim. 

And  let  not  those  Londoners  whose  eyes  have 
been  accustomed  to  the  aristocratic  gravity  of 
Grosvenor  Square  and  Hanover  Square,  the 
dowager  barrenness  and  frigidity  of  Fitzroy 
Square,  or  the  gravel-walks  and  garden-seats  of 
the  Squares  of  Russell  and  Euston,  suppose  that 
the  affections  of  Tim  Linkinwater,  or  the  infe- 
rior lovers  of  this  particular  locality,  had  been 
awakened  and  kept  alive  by  any  refreshing  asso- 
ciations with  leaves,  however  dingy,  or  grass, 
however  bare  and  thin.  The  City  Square  has 
no  enclosure,  save  the  lamp-post  in  the  middle ; 
and  has  no  grass  but  the  weeds  which  spring  up 
round  its  base.  It  is  a quiet,  little-frequented, 
retired  spot,  favorable  to  melancholy  and  con- 
templation, and  appointments  of  long-waiting  ; 
and  up  and  down  its  every  side  the  Appointed 
saunters  idly  by  the  hour  together,  wakening  the 
echoes  with  the  monotonous  sound  of  his  foot- 
steps on  the  smooth,  worn  stones,  and  counting, 
first  the  windows,  and  then  the  very  bricks  of 
the  tall  silent  houses  that  hem  him  round  about. 
In  winter-time,  the  snow  will  linger  there,  long 
after  it  has  melted  from  the  busy  streets  and 
highways.  The  summer’s  sun  holds  it  in  some 
respect,  and,  while  he  darts  his  cheerful  rays 
sparingly  into  the  Square,  keeps  his  fiery  heat 
and  glare  for  noisier  and  less  imposing  pre- 
cincts. It  is  so  quiet,  that  you  can  almost  hear 
the  ticking  of  your  own  watch  when  you  stop  to 
cool  in  its  refreshing  at/mosphere.  There  is  a 
distant  hum — of  coaches,  not  of  insects — but  no 
other  sound  disturbs  the  stillness  of  the  square. 
The  ticket  porter  leans  idly  against  the  post  at 
the  corner,  comfortably  warm,  but  not  hot,  al- 
though the  day  is  broiling.  His  white  apron 
flaps  languidly  in  the  air,  his  head  gradually 
droops  upon  his  breast,  he  takes  very  long  winks 
with  both  eyes  at  once  ; even  he  is  unable  to 
withstand  the  soporific  influence  of  the  place, 
and  is  gradually  falling  asleep.  But  now,  he 
starts  into  full  wakefulness,  recoils  a step  or 
two,  and  gazes  out  before  him  with  eager  wild- 
ness in  his  eye.  Is  it  a job,  or  a boy  at  mar- 
bles? Does  he  see  a ghost,  or  hear  an  organ? 
No  ; sight  more  unwonted  still — there  is  a but- 
terfly in  the  square — a real,  live  butterfly  ! astray 
from  flowers  and  sweets,  and  fluttering  among 
the  iron  heads  of  the  dusty  area  railings. 

But  if  there  were  not  many  matters  immedi- 
ately without  the  doors  of  Cheeryble  Brothers, 
to  engage  the  attention  or  distract  the  thoughts 
of  the  young  clerk,  there  were  not  a few  within, 
to  interest  and  amuse  him.  There  was  scarcely 
an  object  in  the  place,  animate  or  inanimate, 
which  did  not  partake  in  some  degree  of  the 
scrupulous  method  and  punctuality  of  Mr.  Tim- 
othy Linkinwater.  Punctual  as  the  counting- 
house  dial,  which  he  maintained  to  be  the  best 
time-keeper  in  London  next  after  the  clock  of 
some  old,  hidden,  unknown  church  hard  by  (for 


Tim  held  the  fabled  goodness  of  that  at  the 
Horse  Guards  to  be  a pleasant  fiction,  invented 
by  jealous  Westenders),  the  old  clerk  performed 
the  minutest  actions  of  the  day,  and  arranged 
the  minutest  articles  in  the  little  room  in  a 
precise  and  regular  order,  which  could  not  have 
been  exceeded  if  it  had  actually  been  a real 
glass  case,  fitted  with  the  choicest  curiosities. 
Paper,  pens,  ink,  ruler,  sealing-wax,  wafers, 
pounce-box,  string-box,  fire-box,  Tim’s  hat, 
Tim’s  scrupulously  folded  gloves,  Tim’s  other 
coat — looking  precisely  like  a back  view  of 
himself  as  it  hung  against  the  wall — all  had 
their  accustomed  inches  of  space.  Except  the 
clock,  there  was  not  such  an  accurate  and  un- 
impeachable instrument  in  existence  as  the 
little  thermometer  which  hung  behind  the  door. 
There  was  not  a bird  of  such  methodical  and 
business-like  habits  in  all  the  world,  as  the 
blind  blackbird,  who  dreamed  and  dozed  away 
his  days  in  a large  snug  cage,  and  had  lost  his 
voice  from  old  age,  years  before  Tim  first  bought 
him.  There  was  not  such  an  eventful  story  in 
the  whole  range  of  anecdote,  as  Tim  could  tell 
concerning  the  acquisition  of  that  very  bird  ; 
how,  compassionating  his  starved  and  suffering 
condition,  he  had  purchased  him,  with  the  view 
of  humanely  terminating  his  wretched  life  ; how 
he  determined  to  wait  three  days  and  see  whether 
the  bird  revived  ; how,  before  half  the  time  was 
out,  the  bird  did  revive  ; and  how  he  went  on 
reviving  and  picking  up  his  appetite  and  good 
looks  until  he  gradually  became  what — “ what 
you  see  him  now,  sir  ! ” — Tim  would  say,  glanc- 
ing proudly  at  the  cage.  And  with  that,  Tim 
would  utter  a melodious  chirrup,  and  cry 
“ Dick  ; ” and  Dick,  who,  for  any  sign  of  life  he 
had  previously  given,  might  have  been  a wooden 
or  stuffed  representation  of  a blackbird,  indiffer- 
ently executed,  would  come  to  the  side  of  the 
cage  in  three  small  jumps,  and,  thrusting  his 
bill  between  the  bars,  would  turn  his  sightless 
head  towards  his  old  master — and  at  that  mo- 
ment it  would  be  very  difficult  to  determine 
which  of  the  two  was  the  happier,  the  bird  or 
Tim  Linkinwater. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Everything  gave  back,  be- 
sides, some  reflection  of  the  kindly  spirit  of  the 
brothers.  The  warehousemen  and  porters  were 
such  sturdy,  jolly  fellows,  that  it  was  a treat  to 
see  them.  Among  the  shipping-announcements 
and  steam-packet  lists  which  decorated  the 
counting-house  wall,  were  designs  for  alms- 
houses, statements  of  charities,  and  plans  for 
new  hospitals.  A blunderbuss  and  two  swords 
hung  above  the  chimney-piece,  for  the  terror  of 
evil-doers  ; but  the  blunderbuss  was  rusty  and 
shattered,  and  the  swords  were  broken  and 
edgeless.  Elsewhere,  their  open  display  in  such 
a condition  would  have  raised  a smile ; but 
there,  it  seemed  as  though  even  violent  and 
offensive  weapons  partook  of  the  reigning  influ- 
ence, and  became  emblems  of  mercy  and  for- 
bearance.— Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  37. 

CITY  NEIGHBORHOOD— A. 

In  that  quarter  of  London  in  which  Golden 
Square  is  situated,  there  is  a by-gone,  faded, 
tumble-down  street,  with  two  irregular  rows  of 
tall,  meagre  houses,  which  seem  to  have  stared 
each  other  out  of  countenance  years  ago.  The 
very  chimneys  appear  to  have  grown  dismal  and 
melancholy,  from  having  had  nothing  better  to 


CLEANLINESS 


108 


CLERK 


look  at  than  the  chimneys  over  the  way.  Their 
tops  are  battered,  and  broken,  and  blackened 
with  smoke  ; and,  here  and  there,  some  taller 
stack  than  the  rest,  inclining  heavily  to  one 
side,  and  toppling  over  the  roof,  seems  to  medi- 
tate taking  revenge  for  half  a century’s  neglect, 
by  crushing  the  inhabitants  of  the  garrets  be- 
neath. 

The  fowls  who  peck  about  the  kennels,  jerk- 
ing their  bodies  hither  and  thither  with  a gait 
which  none  but  town  fowls  are  ever  seen  to 
adopt,  and  which  any  country  cock  or  hen  would 
be  puzzled  to  understand,  are  perfectly  in  keep- 
ing with  the  crazy  habitations  of  their  owners. 
Dingy,  ill-plumed,  drowsy  flutterers,  sent,  like 
many  of  the  neighboring  children,  to  get  a live- 
lihood in  the  streets,  they  hop  from  stone  to 
stone,  in  forlorn  search  of  some  hidden  eatable 
in  the  mud,  and  can  scarcely  raise  a crow  among 
them.  The  only  one  with  anything  approach- 
ing to  a voice,  is  an  aged  bantam  at  the  baker’s  ; 
and  even  he  is  hoarse,  in  consequence  of  bad 
living  in  his  last  place. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  14. 

CLEANLINESS— Uncomfortable. 

Mrs.  Joe  was  a very  clean  housekeeper,  but 
had  an  exquisite  art  of  making  her  cleanliness 
more  uncomfortable  and  unacceptable  than  dirt 
itself.  Cleanliness  is  next  to  godliness,  and 
some  people  do  the  same  by  their  religion. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  4. 

CLERK— A Lawyer’s. 

“ I’ll  take  the  opportunity,  if  you  please,  of 
entering  your  name  in  our  Callers’  Book  for  the 
day.”  Young  Blight  made  another  great  show 
of  changing  the  volume,  taking  up  a pen,  suck- 
ing it,  dipping  it,  and  running  over  previous  en- 
tries before  he  wrote.  “As,  Mr.  Alley,  Mr. 
Bailey,  Mr.  Calley,  Mr.  Dailey,  Mr.  Falley,  Mr. 
Galley,  Mr.  Halley,  Mr.  Lalley,  Mr.  Malley. 
And  Mr.  Boffin.” 

“ Strict  system  here  ; eh,  my  lad  ? ” said  Mr. 
Boffin,  as  he  was  booked. 

“Yes,  sir,”  returned  the  boy.  “I  couldn’t 
get  on  without  it.” 

By  which  he  probably  meant  that  his  mind 
would  have  been  shattered  to  pieces  without  this 
fiction  of  an  occupation.  Wearing  in  his  soli- 
tary confinement  no  fetters  that  he  could  polish, 
and  being  provided  with  no  drinking-cup  that 
he  could  carve,  he  had  fallen  into  the  device  of 
ringing  alphabetical  changes  into  the  two  vol- 
umes in  question,  or  of  entering  vast  numbers 
of  persons  out  of  the  Directory  as  transacting 
business  with  Mr.  Light  wood.  It  was  the  more 
necessary  for  his  spirits,  because,  being  of  a 
sensitive  temperament,  he  was  apt  to  consider 
it  personally  disgraceful  to  himself  that  his 
master  had  no  clients. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  8. 

CLERK— An  indig-nant  (Newman  Nog-gs). 

As  the  usurer  turned  for  consolation  to  his 
books  and  papers,  a performance  was  going  on 
outside  his  office-door,  which  would  have  occa 
sioned  him  no  small  surprise,  if  he  could  by 
any  means  have  become  acquainted  with  it. 

Newman  Noggs  was  the  sole  actor.  He 
stood  at  a little  distance  from  the  door,  with  his 
face  towards  it  ; and  with  the  sleeves  of  his 
coat  turned  back  at  the  wrists,  was  occupied  in 


bestowing  the  most  vigorous,  scientific,  and 
straightforward  blows  upon  the  empty  aii 

At  first  sight,  this  would  have  appeared  mere- 
ly a wise  precaution  in  a man  of  sedentary 
habits,  with  the  view  of  opening  the  chest  and 
strengthening  the  muscles  of  the  arms.  But 
the  intense  eagerness  and  joy  depicted  in  the 
face  of  Newman  Noggs,  which  was  suffused 
with  perspiration  ; the  surprising  energy  with 
which  lie  directed  a constant  succession  of  blows 
towards  a particular  panel  about  five  feet  eight 
from  the  ground,  and  still  worked  away  in  the 
most  untiring  and  persevering  manner,  would 
have  sufficiently  explained  to  the  attentive  ob- 
server, that  his  imagination  was  threshing,  to 
within  an  inch  of  his  life,  his  body’s  most  active 
employer,  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  29. 

CLERK-  His  office. 

Every  morning,  with  an  air  ever  new,  Her- 
bert went  into  the  City  to  look  about  him.  I 
often  paid  him  a visit  in  the  dark  back-room  in 
which  he  consorted  with  an  ink-jar,  a hat-peg,  a 
coal-box,  a string-box,  an  almanac,  a desk  and 
stool,  and  a ruler  ; and  I do  not  remember  that 
I ever  saw  him  do  anything  else  but  look  about 
him.  If  wc  all  did  what  we  undertake  to  do,  as 
faithfully  as  Herbert  did,  we  might  live  in  a 
Republic  of  the  Virtues. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  34. 

CLERKS— Offices  of  merchants’. 

It  appeared  to  me  that  the  eggs  from  which 
young  Insurers  were  hatched,  were  incubated  in 
dust  and  heat,  like  the  eggs  of  ostriches,  judging 
from  the  places  to  which  those  incipient  giants 
repaired  on  a Monday  morning.  Nor  did  the 
counting-house  where  Herbert  assisted,  show  in 
my  eyes  as  at  all  a good  Observatory  ; being  a 
back  second  floor  up  a yard,  of  a grimy  pres- 
ence in  all  particulars,  and  with  a look  into  an- 
other back  second  floor,  rather  than  a look-out. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  22. 

CLERK-The  faithful  old. 

“Damn  your  obstinacy,  Tim  Linkinwater,” 
said  brother  Charles,  looking  at  him  without  the 
faintest  spark  of  anger,  and  with  a countenance 
radiant  with  attachment  to  the  old  clerk. 
“ Damn  your  obstinacy,  Tim  Linkinwater,  what 
do  you  mean,  sir?  ” 

“ It’s  forty-four  year,”  said  Tim,  making  a 
calculation  in  the  air  with  his  pen,  and  drawing 
an  imaginary  line  before  he  cast  it  up,  “ forty- 
four  year,  next  May,  since  I first  kept  the  books 
of  Cheeryble  Brothers.  I’ve  opened  the  safe 
every  morning  all  that  time  (Sundays  excepted) 
as  the  clock  struck  nine,  and  gone  over  the 
house  every  night  at  half-past  ten  (except  on 
Foreign  Post  nights,  and  then  twenty  minutes 
before  twelve)  to  see  the  doors  fastened,  and  the 
fires  out.  I’ve  never  slept  out  of  the  back  attic 
one  single  night.  There’s  the  same  mignonette 
box  in  the  middle  of  the  window,  and  the  same 
four  flower  pots,  two  on  each  side,  that  I brought 
with  me  when  I first  came.  There  ain’t — I’ve 
said  it  again  and  again,  and  I’ll  maintain  it — 
there  ain’t  such  a square  as  this  in  the  world.  I 
know  there  ain’t,”  said  Tim,  with  sudden  ener- 
gv,  and  looking  sternly  about  him.  “ Not  one. 
For  business  or  pleasure,  in  summer-time  or  win- 
ter— I don’t  care  which — there’s  nothing  like  it. 


CLERGYMEN 


109 


CTjERGYMAN 


There’s  not  such  a spring  in  England  as  the 
pump  under  the  archway.  There’s  not  such  a 
view  in  England  as  the  view  out  of  my  window. 
I’ve  seen  it  every  morning  before  I shaved,  and 
I ought  to  know  something  about  it.  I have 
slept  in  that  room,”  added  Tim,  sinking  his 
voice  a little,  “ for  four-and-forty  year ; and  if 
it  wasn’t  inconvenient,  and  didn’t  interfere 
with  business,  I should  request  leave  to  die 
there.” 

“ Damn  you,  Tim  Linkinwater,  how  dare  you 
talk  about  dying?”  roared  the  twins  by  one  im- 
pulse, and  blowing  their  old  noses  violently. 

“ That’s  what  I’ve  got  to  say,  Mr.  Edwin  and 
Mr.  Charles,”  said  Tim,  squaring  his  shoulders 
again.  “ This  isn’t  the  first  time  you’ve  talked 
about  superannuating  me  ; but,  if  you  please, 
we’ll  make  it  the  last,  and  drop  the  subject  for 
evermore.” 

With  those  words,  Tim  Linkinwater  stalked 
out,  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  glass-case,  with 
the  air  of  a man  who  had  had  his  say,  and  was 
thoroughly  resolved  not  to  be  put  down. 

The  brothers  interchanged  looks,  and  coughed 
some  half-dozen  times  without  speaking. 

“ He  must  be  done  something  with,  brother 
Ned,”  said  the  other,  warmly  ; “ we  must  disre- 
gard his  old  scruples  ; they  can’t  be  tolerated 
or  borne.  He  must  be  made  a partner,  brother 
Ned  ; and  if  he  won’t  submit  to  it  peaceably, 
we  must  have  recourse  to  violence.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  35. 

CLERGYMEN- Ad  vice  to. 

There  is  a third  head,  taking  precedence  of 
all  others,  to  which  my  remarks  on  the  discourse 
I heard  have  tended.  In  the  New  Testament 
there  is  the  most  beautiful  and  affecting  history 
conceivable  by  man,  and  there  are  the  terse 
models  for  all  prayer,  and  for  all  preaching.  As 
to  the  models,  imitate  them,  Sunday  preach- 
ers— else  why  are  they  'there,  consider  ? As  to 
the  history,  tell  it.  Some  people  cannot  read, 
some  people  will  not  read,  many  people  (this 
especially  holds  among  the  young  and  ignorant) 
find  it  hard  to  pursue  the  verse  form  in  which 
the  book  is  presented  to  them,  and  imagine  that 
those  breaks  imply  gaps  and  wants  of  continuity. 
Help  them  over  that  first  stumbling-block,  by 
setting  forth  the  history  in  narrative,  with  no 
fear  of  exhausting  it.  You  will  never  preach 
so  well,  you  will  never  move  them  so  profoundly, 
you  will  never  send  them  away  with  half  so 
much  to  think  of.  Which  is  the  better  inter- 
est— Christ’s  choice  of  twelve  poor  men  to  help 
in  those  merciful  wonders  among  the  poor  and 
rejected,  or  the  pious  bullying  of  a whole  Union- 
ful of  paupers  ? What  is  your  changed  philoso- 
pher to  wretched  me,  peeping  in  at  the  door  out 
of  the  mud  of  the  streets  and  of  my  life,  when 
you  have  the  widow’s  son  to  tell  me  about,  the 
ruler’s  daughter,  the  other  figure  at  the  door 
when  the  brother  of  the  two  sisters  was  dead, 
and  one  of  the  two  ran  to  the  mourner,  crying, 
“The  Master  is  come,  and  calleth  for  thee?” — 
Let  the  preacher  who  will  thoroughly  forget 
himself,  and  remember  no  individuality  but 
one,  and  no  eloquence  but  one,  stand  up  before 
four  thousand  men  and  women  at  the  Britannia 
Theatre  any  Sunday  night,  recounting  that  nar- 
rative to  them  as  fellow-creatures,  and  he  shall 
see  a sight ! 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  4. 


CLERGYMAN-The  true. 

So  cheerful  of  spirit  and  guiltless  of  affecta- 
tion, as  true  practical  Christianity  ever  is ! I 
read  more  of  the  New  Testament  in  the  fresh, 
frank  face  going  up  the  village  beside  me,  in 
five  minutes,  than  I have  read  in  anathematizing 
discourses  (albeit  put  to  press  with  enormous 
flourishing  of  trumpets)  in  all  my  life.  I heard 
more  of  the  Sacred  Book  in  the  cordial  voice 
that  had  nothing  to  say  about  its  owner,  than  in 
all  the  would-be  celestial  pairs  of  bellows  that, 
have  ever  blown  conceit  at  me. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  2. 

CLERGYMAN-The  Rev.  Mr.  Chadband. 

Mr.  Chadband  is  a large  yellow  man,  with  a 
fat  smile,  and  a general  appearance  of  having  a 
good  deal  of  train  oil  in  his  system.  Mrs.  Chad- 
band  is  a stern,  severe-looking,  silent  woman. 
Mr.  Chadband  moves  softly  and  cumbrously,  not 
unlike  a bear  who  has  been  taught  to  walk  up- 
right. He  is  very  much  embarrassed  about  the 
arms,  as  if  they  were  inconvenient  to  him,  and 
he  wanted  to  grovel ; is  very  much  in  a per- 
spiration about  the  head ; and  never  speaks 
without  first  putting  up  his  great  hand,  as  de- 
livering a token  to  his  hearers  that  he  is  going 
to  edify  them. — Bleak  House , Chap.  iy. 

CLERGYMAN-The  Exhortations  of  Mr. 

Chadband. 

“ Peace,  my  friends,”  says  Chadband,  rising 
and  wiping  the  oily  exudations  from  his  reverend 
visage,  “ Peace  be  with  us  ! My  friends,  why 
with  us?  Because,”  with  his  fat  smile,  “ it  can- 
not be  against  us,  because  it  must  be  for  us  ; 
because  it  is  not  hardening,  because  it  is  soften- 
ing ; because  it  does  not  make  war  like  the 
hawk,  but  comes  home  untoe  us  like  the  dove. 
Therefore,  my  friends,  peace  be  with  us  ! My 
human  boy,  come  forward  ! ” 

Stretching  forth  his  flabby  paw,  Mr.  Chadband 
lays  the  same  on  Jo’s  arm,  and  considers  whei'e 
to  station  him.  Jo,  very  doubtful  of  his  re- 
verend friend’s  intentions,  and  not  at  all  clear 
but  that  something  practical  and  painful  is  going 
to  be  done  to  him,  mutters,  “You  let  me  alone. 
I never  said  nothink  to  you.  You  let  me 
alone.” 

“No,  my  young  friend,”  says  Chadband, 
smoothly,  “ I will  not  let  you  alone.  And  why  ? 
Because  I am  a harvest-laborer,  because  I am  a 
toiler  and  a moiler,  because  you  are  delivered 
over  untoe  me,  and  are  become  as  a precious  in- 
strument in  my  hands.  My  friends,  may  I so 
employ  this  instrument  as  to  use  it  toe  your  ad- 
vantage, toe  your  profit,  toe  your  gain,  toe  your 
welfare,  toe  your  enrichment  ! My  young  friend, 
sit  upon  this  stool.” 

Jo,  apparently  possessed  by  an  impression 
that  the  reverend  gentleman  wants  to  cut  his 
hair,  shields  his  head  with  both  arms,  and  is  got 
into  the  required  position  with  great  difficulty, 
and  every  possible  manifestation  of  reluctance. 

When  he  is  at  last  adjusted  like  a lay-figure, 
Mr.  Chadband,  retiring  behind  the  table,  holds 
up  his  bear’s-paw,  and  says,  “My  friends  !” 
This  is  the  signal  for  a general  settlement  of  the 
audience.  The  ’prentices  giggle  internally,  and 
nudge  each  other.  Guster  falls  into  a staging 
and  vacant  state,  compounded  of  a stunned  ad- 
miration of  Mr.  Chadband  and  pity  for  the 
friendless  outcast,  whose  condition  touches  her 


CLERGYMAN 


110 


CLERGYMAN 


nearly.  Mrs.  Snagsby  silently  lays  trains  of 
gunpowder.  Mrs.  Chadband  composes  herself 
grimly  by  the  fire,  and  warms  her  knees  ; find- 
ing that  sensation  favorable  to  the  reception  of 
eloquence. 

It  happens  that  Mr.  Chadband  has  a pulpit 
habit  of  fixing  some  member  of  his  congrega- 
tion with  his  eye,  and  fatly  arguing  his  points 
with  that  particular  person  ; who  is  understood 
to  be  expected  to  be  moved  to  an  occasional 
grunt,  groan,  gasp,  or  other  audible  expression 
of  inward  working,  which  expression  of  inward 
working,  being  echoed  by  some  elderly  lady  in 
the  next  pew,  and  so  communicated,  like  a game 
of  forfeits,  through  a circle  of  the  more  ferment- 
able sinners  present,  serves  the  purpose  of  par- 
liamentary cheering,  and  gets  Mr.  Chadband’s 
steam  up.  From  mere  force  of  habit,  Mr.  Chad- 
band,  in  saying  '*  My  friends  ! ” has  rested  his 
eye  on  Mr.  Snagsby  ; and  proceeds  to  make  that 
ill-starred  stationer,  already  sufficiently  confused, 
the  immediate  recipient  of  his  discourse. 

****** 

“ We  have  here  among  us,  my  friends,”  says 
Chadband,  “a  Gentile  and  a Heathen,  a dweller 
in  the  tents  of  Tom  all-Alone’s,  and  a mover  on 
upon  the  surface  of  the  earth.  We  have  here 
among  us,  my  friends,”  and  Mr.  Chadband,  un- 
twisting the  point  with  his  dirty  thumb-nail,  be- 
stows an  ™ly  smile  on  Mr.  Snagsby,  signifying 
that  he  will  throw  him  an  argumentative  back- 
fall presently,  if  lie  be  not  already  down,  “a 
brother  and  a boy.” 

****** 

“ I say  this  brother,  present  here  among  us,  is 
devoid  of  parents,  devoid  of  relations,  devoid 
of  flocks  and  herds,  devoid  of  gold,  of  silver, 
and  of  precious  stones,  because  he  is  devoid  of 
the  light  that  shines  in  upon  some  of  us.  What 
is  that  light?  What  is  it?  I ask  you  what  is 
that  light.” 

Mr.  Chadband  draws  back  his  head  and 
pauses,  but  Mr.  Snagsby  is  not  to  be  lured  on  to 
his  destruction  again.  Mr.  Chadband,  leaning 
forward  over  the  table,  pierces  what  he  has  got 
to  follow,  directly  into  Mr.  Snagsby,  with  the 
thumb-nail  already  mentioned. 

“ It  is,”  says  Chadband,  “ the  ray  of  rays,  the 
sun  of  suns,  the  moon  of  moons,  the  star  of 
stars.  1 It  is  the  light  of  Terewth.” 

Mr.  Chadband  draws  himself  up  again,  and 
looks  triumphantly  at  Mr.  Snagsby,  as  if  he 
would  be  glad  to  know  how  he  feels  after  that. 

“ Of  Terewth,”  says  Mr.  Chadband,  hitting 
him  again.  “ Say  not  to  me  that  it  is  not  the 
lamp  of  lamps.  I say  to  you,  it  is,  I say  to  you, 
a million  times  over,  it  is.  It  is  ! I say  to  you 
that  I will  proclaim  it  to  you,  whether  you  like 
it  or  not  ; nay,  that  the  less  you  like  it,  the  more 
I will  proclaim  it  to  you.  With  a speaking- 
trumpet  ! I say  to  you  that  if  you  rear  your- 
self against  it,  you  shall  fall,  you  shall  be  bruised, 
you  shall  be  battered,  you  shall  be  flawed,  you 
shall  be  smashed.” 

The  present  effect  of  this  flight  of  oratory — 
much  admired  for  its  general  power  by  Mr.  Chad- 
band's  followers — being  not  only  to  make  Mr. 
Chadband  unpleasantly  warm,  but  to  represent 
the  innocent  Mr.  Snagsby  in  the  light  of  a deter- 
mined enemy  to  virtue,  with  a forehead  of  brass 
and  a heart  of  adamant,  that  unfortunate  trades- 
man becomes  yet  more  disconcerted  ; and  is  in 
a very  advanced  state  of  low  spirits  and  false 


position,  when  Mr.  Chadband  accidentally 
finishes  him. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  25. 

CLERGYMAN  The  fashionable. 

Our  curate  is  a young  gentleman  of  such  pre- 
possessing appearance  and  fascinating  manners, 
that  within  one  month  after  his  first  appearance 
in  the  parish,  half  the  young-lady  inhabitants 
were  melancholy  with  religion,  and  the  other 
half,  desponding  with  love.  Never  were  so 
many  young  ladies  seen  in  our  parish-church  on 
Sunday  before  ; and  never  had  the  little  round 
angels’  faces  on  Mr.  Tomkins’s  monument  in  the 
side  aisle,  beheld  such  devotion  on  earth  as  they 
all  exhibited.  He  was  about  five-and-twenty 
when  he  first  came  to  astonish  the  parishioners. 
He  parted  his  hair  on  the  centre  of  his  forehead 
in  the  form  of  a Norman  arch,  wore  a brilliant 
of  the  first  water  on  the  fourth  finger  of  his  left 
hand  (which  he  always  applied  to  his  left  cheek 
when  he  read  prayers),  and  had  a deep  sepul- 
chral voice  of  unusual  solemnity.  Innumerable 
were  the  calls  made  by  prudent  mammas  on  our 
new  curate,  and  innumerable  the  invitations 
with  which  he  was  assailed,  and  which,  to  do 
him  justice,  he  readily  accepted.  If  his  manner 
in  the  pulpit  had  created  an  impression  in  his 
favor,  thb  sensation  was  increased  tenfold,  by 
his  appearance  in  private  circles.  Pews  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  pulpit  or  reading- 
desk  rose  in  value  ; sittings  in  the  centre  aisle 
were  at  a premium  ; an  inch  of  room  in  the 
front  row  of  the  gallery  could  not  be  procured 
for  love  or  money,  and  some  people  even  went 
so  far  as  to  assert,  that  the  three  Miss  Browns, 
who  had  an  obscure  family  pew  just  behind  the 
churchwardens’,  were  detected,  one  Sunday,  in 
the  free  seats  by  the  communion  table,  actually 
lying  in  wait  for  the  curate  as  he  passed  to  the 
vestry ! He  began  to  preach  extempore  ser- 
mons, and  even  grave  papas  caught  the  infection. 
He  got  out  of  bed  at  half-past  twelve  o’clock 
one  winter’s  night,  to  half-baptize  a washer- 
woman’s child  in  a slop-basin,  and  the  gratitude 
of  the  parishioners  knew  no  bounds — the  very 
churchwardens  grew  generous,  and  insisted  on 
the  parish  defraying  the  expense  of  the  watch- 
box  on  wheels  which  the  new  curate  had  ordered 
for  himself,  to  perform  the  funeral  service  in,  in 
wet  weather.  He  sent  three  pints  of  gruel  and 
a quarter  of  a pound  of  tea  to  a poor  woman 
who  had  been  brought  to  bed  of  four  small 
children,  all  at  once — the  parish  was  charmed. 
He  got  up  a subscription  for  her — the  woman’s 
fortune  was  made.  He  spoke  for  one  hour  and 
twenty-five  minutes,  at  an  anti-slavery  meeting 
at  the  Goat  and  Boots — the  enthusiasm  was  at 
its  height.  A proposal  was  set  on  foot  for  pre- 
senting the  curate  with  a piece  of  plate,  as  a 
mark  of  esteem  for  his  valuable  services  rendered 
to  the  parish.  The  list  of  subscriptions  was 
filled  up  in  no  time  ; the  contest  was,  not  who 
should  escape  the  contribution,  but  who  should 
be  the  foremost  to  subscribe.  A splendid  silver 
inkstand  was  made,  and  engraved  with  an  ap- 
propriate inscription  ; the  curate  was  invited  to 
a public  breakfast,  at  the  before-mentioned  Goat 
and  Boots  ; the  inkstand  was  presented  in  a 
neat  speech  by  Mr.  Gubbins,  the  ex-church- 
warden, and  acknowledged  by  the  curate  in 
terms  which  drew  tears  into  the  eyes  of  all  pre- 
sent— the  very  waiters  were  melted. 

One  would  have  supposed  that,  by  this  time 


CLOCK 


111 


COACH 


the  theme  of  universal  admiration  was  lifted  to 
the  very  pinnacle  of  popularity.  No  such  thing. 
The  curate  began  to  cough  ; four  fits  of  cough- 
ing one  morning  between  the  Litany  and  the 
Epistle,  and  five  in  the  afternoon  service.  Here 
was  a discovery — the  curate  was  consumptive. 
How  interestingly  melancholy!  If  the  young 
ladies  were  energetic  before,  the  sympathy  and 
solicitude  now  knew  no  bounds.  Such  a man 
as  the  curate — such  a dear — such  a perfect  love 
— to  be  consumptive  ! It  was  too  much.  Anony- 
mous presents  of  black-currant  jam,  and  lozen- 
ges, elastic  waistcoats,  bosom  friends,  and  warm 
stockings,  poured  in  upon  the  curate  until  he 
was  as  completely  fitted  out  with  winter  cloth- 
ing, as  if  he  were  on  the  verge  of  an  expedition 
to  the  North  Pole  ; verbal  bulletins  of  the  state 
of  his  health  were  circulated  throughout  the 
parish  half-a-dozen  times  a day ; and  the  curate 
was  in  the  very  zenith  of  his  popularity. 

( Scenes J Sketches , Chap.  2. 

CLOCK— Its  expression. 

There  was  the  large,  hard  featured  clock  on 
the  sideboard,  which  he  used  to  see  bending  its 
figured  brows  upon  him  with  a savage  joy  when 
he  was  behind-hand  with  his  lessons,  and  which, 
when  it  was  wound  up  once  a week  with  an  iron 
handle,  used  to  sound  as  if  it  were  growling  in 
ferocious  anticipation  of  the  miseries  into  which 
it  would  bring  him. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

CLOCK-What  it  said. 

The  Doctor  was  sitting  in  his  portentous 
study,  with  a globe  at  each  knee,  books  all 
round  him,  Homer  over  the  door,  and  Minerva 
on  the  mantel  shelf.  “ And  how  do  you  do, 
Sir?”  he  said  to  Mr.  Dombey ; “and  how  is 
my  little  friend?”  Grave  as  an  organ  was  the 
Doctor’s  speech  ; and  wheji  he  ceased  the  great 
clock  in  the  hall  seemed  (to  Paul  at  least)  to 
take  him  up,  and  to  go  on  saying,  “ how,  is,  my, 
lit,  tie,  friend?  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend?”  over 
and  over  and  over  again. 

Dombey  (Sr9  Son , Chap.  II. 

CLOCKS. 

We  have  a faint  remembrance  of  an  unearthly 
collection  of  clocks,  purporting  to  be  the  work 
of  Parisian  and  Genevese  artists — chiefly  bilious- 
faced clocks,  supported  on  sickly  white  crutches, 
with  their  pendulums  dangling  like  lame  legs — 
to  which  a similar  course  of  events  occurred  for 
several  years,  until  they  seemed  to  lapse  away 
of  mere  imbecility. 

Reprinted  Pieces , English  Watering  Place. 

CO  ACH— Riding-  in  a. 

Every  shake  of  the  coach  in  which  I sat,  half 
dozing  in  the  dark,  appeared  to  jerk  some  new 
recollection  out  of  its  place,  and  to  jerk  some 
other  new  recollection  into  it ; and  in  this  state 
I fell  asleep. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

COACH— Experiences  in  a Virginia. 

The  coach  holds  nine  inside,  having  a seat 
across  from  door  to  door,  where  we  in  England 
put  our  legs  : so  that  there  is  only  one  feat  more 
difficult  in  the  performance  than  getting  in, 
and  that  is  getting  out  again.  There  is  only 
one  outside  passenger,  and  he  sits  upon  the 
box.  As  I am  that  one,  I climb  up,  and,  while 


they  are  strapping  the  luggage  on  the  roof,  and 
heaping  it  into  a kind  of  tray  behind,  have  a 
good  opportunity  of  looking  at  the  driver. 

He  is  a negro — very  black  indeed.  He  is 
dressed  in  a coarse  pepper-and-salt  suit,  exces- 
sively patched  and  darned  (particularly  at  the 
knees),  gray  stockings,  enormous  unblacked 
high-low  shoes,  and  very  short  trousers.  He 
has  two  odd  gloves — one  of  party-colored 
worsted,  and  one  of  leather.  He  has  a very 
short  whip,  broken  in  the  middle  and  bandaged 
up  with  string.  And  yet  he  wears  a low- 
crowned,  broad  brimmed  black  hat,  faintly 
shadowing  forth  a kind  of  insane  imitation  of 
an  English  coachman  ! But  somebody  in  au- 
thority cries,  “Go  ahead!”  as  I am  making 
these  observations.  The  mail  takes  the  lead  in 
a four-horse  wagon,  and  all  the  coaches  follow 
in  procession,  headed  by  No.  1. 

By  the  way,  whenever  an  Englishman  would 
cry,  “All  right!”  an  American  cries,  “Go 
ahead  ! ” which  is  somewhat  expressive  of  the 
national  character  of  the  two  countries. 

The  first  half-mile  of  the  road  is  over  bridges 
made  of  loose  planks  laid  across  two  parallel 
poles,  which  tilt  up  as  the  wheels  roll  over  them, 
and  IN  the  river.  The  river  has  a clayey  bot- 
tom and  is  full  of  holes,  so  that  half  a horse  is 
constantly  disappearing  unexpectedly,  and  can’t 
be  found  again  for  some  time. 

But  we  get  past  even  this,  and  come  to  the 
road  itself,  which  is  a series  of  alternate  swamps 
and  gravel-pits.  A tremendous  place  is  close 
before  us  ; the  black  driver  rolls  his  eyes,  screws 
his  mouth  up  very  round,  and  looks  straight 
between  the  two  leaders,  as  if  he  were  saying  to 
himself,  “We  have  done  this  often  before,  but 
now  I think  we  shall  have  a crash.”  He  takes 
a rein  in  each  hand,  jerks  and  pulls  at  both,  and 
dances  on  the  splashboard  with  both  feet  (keep- 
ing his  seat,  of  course)  like  the  late  lamented 
Ducrow  on  two  of  his  fiery  coursers.  We  come 
to  the  spot,  sink  down  in  the  mire  nearly  to  the 
coach  windows,  tilt  on  one  side  at  an  angle  of 
forty-five  degrees,  and  stick  there.  The  insides 
scream  dismally  ; the  coach  stops  ; the  horses 
flounder ; all  the  other  six  coaches  stop  ; and 
their  four-and-twenty  horses  flounder  likewise, — 
but  merely  for  company,  and  in  sympathy  with 
ours.  Then  the  following  circumstances  occur : 

Black  Driver  (to  the  horses).  “ Hi !” 

Nothing  happens.  Insides  scream  again. 

Black  Driver  (to  the  horses).  “ Ho  !” 

Horses  plunge,  and  splash  the  black  driver. 

Gentleman  inside  (looking  out).  “Why, 
what  on  airth — ” 

Gentleman  receives  a variety  of  splashes  and 
draws  his  head  in  again,  without  finishing  his 
question,  or  waiting  for  an  answer. 

Black  Driver  (still  to  the  horses).  “ Jiddy  ! 
Jiddy !” 

Horses  pull  violently,  drag  the  coach  out  of 
the  hole,  and  draw  it  up  a bank,  so  steep  that 
the  black  driver’s  legs  fly  up  into  the  air,  and 
he  goes  back  among  the  luggage  on  the  roof. 
But  he  immediately  recovers  himself,  and  cries 
(still  to  the  horses), — 

“Pill!” 

No  effect.  On  the  contrary,  the  coach  begins 
to  roll  back  upon  No.  2,  which  rolls  back  upon 
No.  3,  which  rolls  back  upon  No.  4,  and  so  on, 
until  No.  7 is  heard  to  curse  and  swear,  nearly 
a quarter  of  a mile  behind. 


COACJH 


112 


C3.V0HE3 


Black  Driver  (louder  than  before).  “Pill ! ” 

Horses  make  another  struggle  to  get  up  the 
bank,  and  again  the  coach  rolls  backward. 

Black  Driver  (louder  than  before).  “ Pe-e- 
e-ill  !” 

Horses  make  a desperate  struggle. 

Black  Driver  (recovering  spirits).  “ Hi, 
Jiddy,  Jiddy,  Pill  !” 

Horses  make  another  effort. 

Black  Driver  (with  great  vigor).  “ Ally 
Loo!  Hi.  Jiddy,  Jiddy.  Pill.  Ally  Loo!" 

Horses  almost  do  it. 

Black  Driver  (with  his  eyes  starting  out  of 
his  head).  “Lee,  den,  Lee,  clere.  Hi.  Jiddy, 
Jiddy.  Pill.  Ally  Loo.  Lee-e-e-e-e ! ” 

They  run  up  the  bank  and  go  down  again  on 
the  other  side  at  a fearful  pace.  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  stop  them,  and  at  the  bottom  there  is  a 
deep  hollow,  full  of  water.  The  coach  rolls 
frightfully.  The  insides  scream.  The  mud  and 
water  fly  about  us.  The  black  driver  dances 
like  a madman.  Suddenly  we  are  all  right  by 
some  extraordinary  means,  and  stop  to  breathe. 

A black  friend  of  the  black  driver  is  sitting 
on  a fence.  The  black  driver  recognizes  him  by 
twirling  his  head  round  and  round  like  a harle- 
quin, rolling  his  eyes,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
and  grinning  from  ear  to  ear.  He  stops  short, 
turns  to  me,  and  says  : 

“ We  shall  get  you  through,  sa,  like  a fiddle, 
and  hope  a please  you  when  we  get  you  through, 
sa.  Old  ’ooman  at  home,  sir,” — chuckling  very 
much,  “outside  gentleman,  sa,  he  often  re- 
member old  ’ooman  at  home,  sa,”  grinning 
again. 

“ Ay,  ay,  we’ll  take  care  of  the  old  woman. 
Don’t  be  afraid.” 

The  black  driver  grins  again,  but  there  is  an- 
other hole,  and  beyond  that  another  bank,  close 
before  us.  So  he  stops  short ; cries  (to  the 
horses  again),  “ Easy.  Easy  den.  Ease.  Steady. 
Hi  Jiddy.  Pill.  Ally.  Loo,”  but  never  “ Lee  ! ” 
until  we  are  reduced  to  the  very  last  extremity, 
and  are  in  the  midst  of  difficulties,  extrication 
from  which  appears  to  be  all  but  impossible. 

And  so  we  do  the  ten  miles  or  thereabouts 
in  two  hours  and  a half ; breaking  no  bones, 
though  bruising  a great  many  ; and,  in  short, 
getting  through  the  distance  “like  a fiddle.” 

This  singular  kind  of  coaching  terminates  at 
Fredericksburg,  whence  there  is  a railway  to 
Richmond. — American  Notes , Chap.  9. 

COACH— The  early  morning-. 

The  frosty  night  wears  away,  and  the  dawn 
breaks,  and  the  post-chaise  comes  rolling  on 
through  the  early  mist,  like  the  ghost  of  a chaise 
departed.  It  has  plenty  of  spectral  company,  in 
ghosts  of  trees  and  hedges,  slowly  vanishing  and 
giving  place  to  the  realities  of  day. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  55. 

COACH— An  old  style. 

We  are  as  great  friends  to  horses,  hackney- 
coach  and  otherwise,  as  the  renowned  Mr.  Mar- 
tin, '.f  costermonger  notoriety,  and  yet  we  never 
ride.  We  keep  no  horse,  but  a clothes-horse  ; 
enjoy  no  saddle  so  much  as  a saddle  of  mutton  ; 
and,  following  our  own  inclinations,  have  never 
followed  the  hounds.  Leaving  these  fleeter 
means  of  getting  over  the  ground,  or  of  de-. 
positing  oneself  upon  it,  to  those  who  like  them, 
by  hackney-coach  stands  we  take  our  stand. 


There  is  a hackney  coach  stand  under  the 
very  window  at  which  we  are  writing  ; there  is 
only  one  coach  on  it  now,  but  it  is  a fair  speci- 
men of  the  class  of  vehicles  to  which  we  have 
alluded — a great,  lumbering,  square  concern,  of 
a dingy  yellow  color  (like  a bilious  brunette), 
with  very  small  glasses,  but  very  large  frames ; 
the  panels  are  ornamented  with  a faded  coat  of 
arms,  in  shape  something  like  a dissected  bat  ; 
the  axletree  is  red,  and  the  majority  of  the 
wheels  are  green.  The  box  is  partially  covered 
by  an  old  great-coat,  with  a multiplicity  of 
capes,  and  some  extraordinary-looking  clothes; 
and  the  straw,  with  which  the  canvas  cushion  is 
stuffed,  is  sticking  up  in  several  places,  as  if  in 
rivalry  of  the  hay,  which  is  peeping  through  the 
chinks  in  the  boot.  The  horses,  with  drooping 
heads,  and  each  with  a mane  and  tail  as  scanty 
and  straggling  as  those  of  a worn-out  rocking- 
horse,  are  standing  patiently  on  some  damp 
straw,  occasionally  wincing,  and  rattling  the 
harness  , and,  now  and  then,  one  of  them  lifts 
his  mouth  to  the  ear  of  his  companion,  as  if  he 
were  saying,  in  a whisper,  that  he  should  like  to 
assassinate  the  coachman.  The  coachman  him- 
self is  in  the  watering-house ; and  the  water- 
man, with  his  hands  forced  into  his  pockets  as 
far  as  they  can  possibly  go,  is  dancing  the  “ dou- 
ble shuffle”  in  front  of  the  pump,  to  keep  his 
feet  warm. — Scenes,  Chap.  7. 

COACHES  The  ghosts  of  mail. 

“ I wonder  what  these  ghosts  of  mail-coaches 
carry  in  their  bags,”  said  the  landlord,  who  had 
listened  to  the  whole  story  with  profound  atten- 
tion. 

“ The  dead  letters,  of  course,”  said  the  Bag- 
man. 

“ Oh,  ah  ! To  be  sure/’  rejoined  the  landlord, 
“ I never  thought  of  that.” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  49. 

COACHES -decayed— the  associations  of. 

“ There  might  be  a dozen  of  them,  or  there 
might  be  more — my  uncle  was  never  quite  cer- 
tain on  this  point,  and  being  a man  of  very 
scrupulous  veracity  about  numbers,  didn’t  like 
to  say — but  there  they  stood,  all  huddled  toge- 
ther in  the  most  desolate  condition  imaginable. 
The  doors  had  been  torn  from  their  hinges  and 
removed  ; the  linings  had  been  stripped  off, 
only  a shred  hanging  here  and  there  by  a rusty 
nail  ; the  lamps  were  gone  ; the  poles  had  long 
since  vanished  ; the  iron-work  was  rusty  ; the 
paint  was  worn  away  ; the  wind  whistled  through 
the  chinks  in  the  bare  wood-work  ; and  the  rain, 
which  had  collected  on  the  roofs,  fell,  drop  by 
drop,  into  the  insides,  with  a hollow  and  melan- 
choly sound.  They  were  the  decaying  skeletons 
of  departed  mails,  and  in  that  lonely  place,  at 
that  time  of  night,  they  looked  chill  and  dismal. 

“ My  uncle  rested  his  head  upon  his  hands, 
and  thought  of  the  busy  bustling  people  who 
had  rattled  about,  years  before,  in  the  old  coaches, 
and  were  now  as  silent  and  changed  ; he  thought 
of  the  numbers  of  people  to  whom  one  of  those 
crazy,  mouldering  vehicles  had  borne,  night  after 
night,  for  many  years,  and  through  all  weathers, 
the  anxiously-expected  intelligence,  the  eagerly 
looked-for  remittance,  the  promised  assurance 
.of  health  and  safety,  the  sudden  announcement 
of  sickness  and  death.  The  merchant,  the 
lover,  the  wife,  the  widow,  the  mother,  the 


COACHES 


113 


COACHMAN 


schoolboy,  the  very  child  who  tottered  to  the 
door  at  the  postman’s  knock — how  had  they  all 
looked  forward  to  the  arrival  of  the  old  coach  ! 
And  where  were  they  all  now  ? ” 

Pickwick , Chap.  49. 

COACHES— Mr.  Weller’s  opinion  of. 

“ Coaches,  Sammy,  is  like  guns — they  requires 
to  be  loaded  with  wery  great  care,  afore  they  go 
off." — Pickwick , Chap.  23. 

COACHES— Their  autobiography. 

What  an  interesting  book  a hackney-coach 
might  produce,  if  it  could  carry  as  much  in  its 
head  as  it  does  in  its  body  ! The  autobiography 
of  a broken-down  hackney-coach  would  surely 
be  as  amusing  as  the  autobiography  of  a broken- 
down  hackneyed  dramatist,  and  it  might  tell  as 
much  of  its  travels  with  the  pole,  as  others  have 
of  their  expeditions  to  it.  How  many  stories 
might  be  related  of  the  different  people  it  had 
conveyed  on  matters  of  business  or  profit — 
pleasure  or  pain  ! And  how  many  melancholy 
tales  of  the  same  people  at  different  periods  ! 
The  country-girl — the  showy,  over-dressed  wo- 
man— the  drunken  prostitute  ! The  raw  ap- 
prentice— the  dissipated  spendthrift — the  thief  ! 

Talk  of  cabs  ! Cabs  are  all  very  well  in  cases 
of  expedition,  when  it’s  a matter  of  neck  or 
nothing,  life  or  death,  your  temporary  home  or 
your  long  one.  But,  beside  a cab’s  lacking  that 
gravity  of  deportment  which  so  peculiarly  dis- 
tinguishes a hackney-coach,  let  it  never  be  for- 
gotten that  a cab  is  a thing  of  yesterday,  and 
that  he  never  was  anything  better.  A hackney- 
cab  has  always  been  a hackney-cab,  from  his  first 
entry  into  public  life  ; whereas  a hackney-coach 
is  a remnant  of  past  gentility,  a victim  to  fashion, 
a hanger-on  of  an  old  English  family,  wearing 
their  arms,  arid,  in  days  of  yore,  escorted  by 
men  wearing  their  livery,  stripped  of  his  finery 
and  thrown  upon  the  world,  like  a once-smart 
^gotman  when  he  is  no  longer  sufficiently  juve- 
Pnle  for  his  office,  progressing  lower  and  lower  in 
the  scale  of  four-wheeled  degradation,  until  at 
last  it  comes  to — a stand ! — Scenes , Chap.  7. 

CO  ACH-TRAVELLING— The  miseries  of. 

We  have  often  wondered  how  many  months’ 
incessant  travelling  in  a post-chaise  it  would 
take  to  kill  a man  ; and,  wondering  by  anal- 
ogy, we  should  very  much  like  to  know  how 
many  months  of  constant  travelling  in  a suc- 
cession of  early  coaches  an  unfortunate  mortal 
could  endure.  Breaking  a man  alive  upon  the 
wheel  would  be  nothing  to  breaking  his  rest, 
his  peace,  his  heart — everything  but  his  fast — 
upon  four  ; ' and  the  punishment  of  Ixion  (the 
only  practical  person,  by-the-bye,  who  has  dis- 
covered the  secret  of  the  perpetual  motion) 
would  sink  into  utter  insignificance  before  the 
one  we  have  suggested.  If  we  had  been  a 
powerful  churchman  in  those  good  times  when 
blood  was  shed  as  freely  as  water  and  men  were 
mowed  down  like  grass,  in  the  sacred  cause  of 
religion,  we  would  have  lain  by  very  quietly 
till  we  got  hold  of  some  especially  obstinate 
miscreant,  who  positively  refused  to  be  converted 
to  our  faith,  and  then  we  would  have  booked 
him  for  an  inside  place  in  a small  coach  which 
travelled  day  and  night  : and  securing  the  re- 
mainder of  the  places  for  stout  men  with  a 
slight  tendency  to  coughing  and  spitting,  we 


would  have  started  him  forth  on  his  last  travels  ; 
leaving  him  mercilessly  to  all  the  tortures  which 
the  waiters,  landlords,  coachmen,  guards,  boots, 
chambermaids,  and  other  familiars  on  his  line 
of  road  might  think  proper  to  inflict. 

Scenes , Chap.  15. 

COACHMAN— A representative  of  pomp. 

There  were  some  stately  footmen  ; and  there 
was  a perfect  picture  of  an  old  coachman,  who 
looked  as  if  he  were  the  official  representative 
of  all  the  pomps  and  vanities  that  had  ever  been 
put  into  his  coach. — Bleak  House , Chap.  18. 

COACHMAN— Tom  Pinch’s  journey  with 
the. 

And  really  it  might  have  confused  a less  mod- 
est man  than  Tom  to  find  himself  sitting  next 
that  coachman  ; for  of  all  the  swells  that  ever 
flourished  a whip,  professionally,  he  might  have 
been  elected  emperor.  He  didn’t  handle  his 
gloves  like  another  man,  but  put  them  on — even 
when  he  was  standing  on  the  pavement,  quite 
detached  from  the  coach — as  if  the  four  grays 
were,  somehow  or  other,  at  the  end  of  the  fin- 
gers. It  was  the  same  with  his  hat.  He  did 
things  with  his  hat  which  nothing  but  an  un- 
limited knowledge  of  horses,  and  the  wildest 
freedom  of  the  road,  could  ever  have  made  him 
perfect  in.  Valuable  little  parcels  were  brought 
to  him  with  particular  instructions,  and  he 
pitched  them  into  his  hat,  and  stuck  it  on  again  ; 
as  if  the  laws  of  gravity  did  not  admit  of  such 
an  event  as  its  being  knocked  off  or  blown  off, 
and  nothing  like  an  accident  could  befall  it. 
The  guard,  too  ! Seventy  breezy  miles  a day 
were  written  in  his  very  whiskers.  His  man- 
ners were  a canter  ; his  conversation  a round 
trot.  He  was  a fast  coach  upon  a down-hill 
turnpike  road  ; he  was  all  pace.  A wagon 
couldn’t  have  moved  slowly,  with  that  guard  and 
his  key-bugle  on  the  top  of  it. 

These  were  all  foreshadowings  of  London, 
Tom  thought,  as  he  sat  upon  the  box,  and  looked 
about  him.  Such  a coachman  and  such  a guard 
never  could  have  existed  between  Salisbury  and 
any  other  place.  The  coach  was  none  of  your 
steady-going,  yokel  coaches,  but  a swaggering, 
rakish,  dissipated  London  coach  ; up  all  night, 
and  lying  by  all  day,  and  leading  a devil  of  a 
life.  It  cared  no  more  for  Salisbury  than  if  it 
had  been  a hamlet.  It  rattled  noisily  through 
the  best  streets,  defied  the  Cathedral,  took  the 
worst  corners  sharpest,  went  cutting  in  every- 
where, making  everything  get  out  of  its  way  ; 
and  spun  along  the  open  country-road,  blowing 
a lively  defiance  out  of  its  lcey-bugle,  as  its  last 
glad  parting  legacy. 

It  was  a charming  evening,  mild  and  bright. 
And  even  with  the  weight  upon  his  mind  which 
arose  out  of  the  immensity  and  uncertainty  of 
London,  Tom  could  not  resist  the  captivating 
sense  of  rapid  motion  through  the  pleasant  air. 
The  four  grays  skimmed  along,  as  if  they  liked 
it  quite  as  well  as  Tom  did  ; the  bugle  was  in  as 
high  spirits  as  the  grays  ; the  coachman  chimed 
in  sometimes  with  his  voice  ; the  wheels  hum- 
med cheerfully  in  unison  ; the  brass  work  on  the 
harness  was  an  orchestra  of  little  bells  ; and  thus, 
as  they  went  clinking,  jingling,  rattling  smoothly 
on,  the  whole  concern,  from  the  buckles  of  the 
leaders’  coupling-reins  to  the  handle  of  the  hind 
boot,  was  one  great  instrument  of  music. 


COLD 


114 


COMMON  SENSb 


Yoho  ! past  hedges,  gates,  and  trees  ; past  cot- 
tages, and  barns,  and  people  going  home  from 
work.  Yoho  ! past  donkey-chaises,  drawn  aside 
into  the  ditch,  and  empty  carts  with  rampant 
horses,  whipped  up  at  a bound  upon  the  little 
water-course,  and  held  by  struggling  carters 
close  to  the  five-barbed  gate,  until  the  coach  had 
passed  the  narrow  turning  in  the  road.  Yoho  ! 
by  churches  dropped  down  by  themselves  in 
quiet  nooks,  with  rustic  burial-grounds  about 
them,  where  the  graves  are  green,  and  daisies 
sleep — for  it  is  evening — on  the  bosoms  of  the 
dead.  Yoho  ! past  streams,  in  which  the  cattle 
cool  their  feet  and  where  the  rushes  grow  ; past 
paddock-fences,  farms,  and  rick-yards  ; past  last 
year’s  stacks,  cut, 'slice  by  slice,  away,  and  show- 
ing, in  the  waning  light,  like  ruined  gables,  old 
and  brown.  Yoho!  down  the  pebbly  dip,  and 
through  the  merry  water-splash,  and  up  at  a 
canter  to  the  level  road  again.  Yoho  ! Yoho  ! 

* * * * 

See  the  bright  moon  ! High  up  before  we 
know  it ; making  the  earth  reflect  the  objects  on 
its  breast  like  water.  Hedges,  trees,  low  cotta 
ges,  church  steeples,  blighted  stumps,  and  flour- 
ishing young  slips,  have  all  grown  vain  upon  the 
sudden,  and  mean  to  contemplate  their  own  fair 
images  until  morning.  The  poplars  yonder  rus- 
tle, that  their  quivering  leaves  may  see  them- 
selves upon  the  ground.  Not  so  the  oak;  trem- 
bling does  not  become  him ; and  he  watches 
himself  in  his  stout  old  burly  steadfastness, 
without  the  motion  of  a twig.  The  moss-grown 
gate,  ill-poised  upon  its  creaking  hinges,  crip- 
pled and  decayed,  swings  to  and  fro  before  its 
glass,  like  some  fantastic  dowager  ; while  our 
own  ghostly  likeness  travels  on,  Yoho  ! Yoho! 
through  ditch  and  brake,  upon  the  ploughed 
land  and  the  smooth,  along  the  steep  hill-side 
and  steeper  wall,  as  if  it  were  a phantom 
Hunter. 

Clouds  too  ! And  a mist  upon  the  Hollow  ! 
Not  a dull  fog  that  hides  it,  but  a light,  airy, 
gauze-like  mist,  which  in  our  eyes  of  modest 
admiration  gives  a new  charm  to  the  beauties 
it  is  spread  before  : as  real  gauze  has  done  ere 
now,  and  would  again,  so  please  you,  though 
we  were  the  Pope.  Yoho  ! Why  now  we  travel 
like  the  Moon  herself.  Hiding  this  minute  in 
a grove  of  trees  ; next  minute  in  a patch  of 
vapor ; emerging  now  upon  our  broad,  clear 
course  ; withdrawing  now,  but  always  dashing 
on,  our  journey  is  a counterpart  of  hers.  Yoho  ! 
A match  against  the  moon. 

The  beauty  of  the  night  is  hardly  felt,  when 
Day  comes  leaping  up.  Yoho  ! Two  stages, 
and  the  country  roads  are  almost  changed  to  a 
continuous  street.  Yoho  ! past  market-gardens, 
rows  of  houses,  villas,  crescents,  terraces,  and 
squares  ; past  wagons,  coaches,  carts  ; past  early 
workmen,  late  stragglers,  drunken  men,  and 
sober  carriers  of  loads  ; past  brick  and  mortar 
in  its  every  shape  ; and  in  among  the  rattling 
pavements,  where  a jaunty  seat  upon  a coach  is 
not  so  easy  to  preserve  ! Yoho  ! down  countless 
turnings,  and  through  countless  mazy  ways,  until 
an  old  Inn-yard  is  gained,  and  Tom  Pinch,  get- 
ting down,  quite  stunned  and  giddy,  is  in 
London  \— Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  36. 

COLD -Mrs.  Nickleby’s  cure  for  a. 

“ I had  a cold  once,”  said  Mrs.  Nickleby,  “I 
think  it  was  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and 


seventeen  ; let  me  sec,  four  and  five  are  nine,  | 
and — yes,  eighteen  hundred  and  seventeen,  that  1 
I thought  I never  should  get  rid  of;  actually  J 
and  seriously,  that  I thought  I should  never  get  J 
rid  of ; I was  only  cured  at  last  by  a remedy  j 
that  I don’t  know  whether  you  ever  happened  * 
to  hear  of,  Mr.  Pluck.  You  have  a gallon  of 
water  as  hot  as  you  can  possibly  bear  it,  with  a 1 
pound  of  salt  and  six  pen’orth  of  the  finest  bran,  i 
and  sit  with  your  head  in  it  for  twenty  minutes  I 
every  night  just  before  going  to  bed  ; at  least,  I 
don’t  mean  your  head — your  feet.  It’s  a most  j 
extraordinary  cure — a most  extraordinary  cure,  j 
I used  it  for  the  first  time,  I recollect,  the  clay 
after  Christmas  Day,  and  by  the  middle  of  April  j 
following  the  cold  was  gone.  It  seems  quite  a 
miracle,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  for  I had 
it  ever  since  the  beginning  of  September.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  26. 

COLLECTOR  Mr.  Pancks,  the. 

Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  day,  Bleed- 
ing Heart  Yard  was  in  consternation,  as  the  grim  1 
Pancks  cruised  in  it  ; haranguing  the  inhabitants  I 
on  their  backslidings  in  respect  of  payment,  de-  , 
manding  his  bond,  breathing  notices  to  quit  and 
executions,  running  down  defaulters,  sending  a 
swell  of  terror  on  before  him,  and  leaving  it  in 
his  wake.  Knots  of  people,  impelled  by  a fatal 
attraction,  lurked  outside  any  house  in  which 
he  was  known  to  be,  listening  for  fragments  of 
his  discourses  to  the  inmates  ; and,  when  he  was 
rumored  to  be  coming  down  the  stairs,  often 
could  not  disperse  so  quickly  but  that  he  would 
be  prematurely  in  among  them,  demanding  their 
own  arrears,  and  rooting  them  to  the  spot. 
Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  day,  Mr. 
Pancks’s  What  were  they  up  to?  and  What  did 
they  mean  by  it?  sounded  all  over  the  Yard. 
Mr.  Pancks  wouldn’t  hear  of  excuses,  wouldn’t 
hear  of  complaints,  wouldn’t  hear  of  repairs, 
wouldn’t  hear  of  anything  but  unconditional 
money  down.  Perspiring  and  puffing  and  dart- 
ing about  in  eccentric  directions,  and  becomin^^ 
hotter  and  dingier  every  moment,  he  lashed  the 
tide  of  the  Yard  into  a most  agitated  and  turbid 
state.  It  had  not  settled  down  into  calm  water 
again,  full  two  hours  after  he  had  been  seen 
fuming  away  on  the  horizon  at  the  top  of  the 
steps. — Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  23. 

COMMON  SENSE— Skimpole’s  idea  of. 

“ It  was  very  unfortunate  for  Richard,”  I said. 

“Do  you  think  so?”  returned  Mr.  Skimpole. 

“ Don’t  say  that,  don’t  say  that.  Let  us  suppose 
him  keeping  company  with  Common  .Sense — an 
excellent  man — a good  deal  wrinkled — dread- 
fully practical — change  for  a ten-pound  note  in 
every  pocket — ruled  account-book  in  his  hand — 
say,  upon  the  whole,  resembling  a tax-gatherer. 
Our  dear  Richard,  sanguine,  ardent,  overleap- 
ing obstacles,  bursting  with  poetry  like  a young 
bud,  says  to  this  highly  respectable  companion, 

‘ I see  a golden  prospect  before  me  ; it’s  very 
bright,  it’s  very  beautiful,  it’s  very  joyous  ; here 
I go,  bounding  over  the  landscape  to  come 
at  it!’  The  respectable  companion  instantly 
knocks  him  down  with  the  ruled  account-book  ; 
tells  him,  in  a literal,  prosaic  way,  that  he  sees 
no  such  thing  ; shows  him  it’s  nothing  but  fees, 
fraud,  horsehair  wigs,  and  black  gowns.  Now 
you  know  that’s  a painful  change  ; — sensible  in 
the  last  degree,  I have  no  doubt,  but  disagreea- 


COMPHOMISE 


115 


CONCEIT 


ble.  / can’t  do  it.  I haven’t  got  the  ruled 
account-book,  I have  none  of  the  tax-gathering 
elements  in  my  composition,  I am  not  at  all 
respectable,  and  I don’t  want  to  be.  Odd,  per- 
haps, but  so  it  is  !” — Bleak  House , Chap.  37. 

COMPROMISE-With  cleanliness- An  in- 
comprehensible. 

Durdles  then  gives  the  Dean  a good  evening, 
and  adding,  as  he  puts  his  hat  on,  “You’ll  find 
me  at  home,  Mister  Jarsper,  as  agreed,  when  you 
want  me  ; I’m  a going  home  to  clean  myself,” 
soon  slouches  out  of  sight.  This  going  home  to 
clean  himself  is  one  of  the  man’s  incomprehen- 
sible compromises  with  inexorable  facts ; he, 
and  his  hat,  and  his  boots,  and  his  clothes, 
never  showing  any  trace  of  cleaning,  but  being 
uniformly  in  one  condition  of  dust  and  grit. 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  12. 

COMPLIMENTS— Of  a lawyer. 

It  was  a maxim  with  Mr.  Brass  that  the  habit 
of  paying  compliments  kept  a man’s  tongue 
oiled  without  any  expense  ; and,  as  that  useful 
member  ought  never  to  grow  rusty  or  creak  in 
turning  on  its  hinges  in  the  case  of  a practitioner 
of  the  law,  in  whom  it  should  be  always  glib 
and  easy,  he  lost  few  opportunities  of  improving 
himself  by  the  utterance  of  handsome  speeches 
and  eulogistic  expressions.  And  this  had  passed 
into  such  a habit  with  him,  that,  if  he  could  not 
be  correctly  said  to  have  his  tongue  at  his  fin- 
gers’ ends,  he  might  certainly  be  said  to  have  it 
anywhere  but  in  his  face  : which  being,  as  we 
have  already  seen,  of  a harsh  and  repulsive 
character,  was  not  oiled  so  easily,  blit  frowned 
above  all  the  smooth  speeches — one  of  nature’s 
beacons,  warning  off  those  who  navigated  the 
shoals  and  breakers  of  the  World,  or  of  that 
dangerous  strait  the  Law,  and  admonishing 
them  to  seek  less  treacherous  harbors  and  try 
their  fortune  elsewhere. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  35. 

CONCEIT— Mr.  Podsnap  a type  of. 

Mr.  Podsnap  was  well  to  do,  and  stood  very 
high  in  Mr.  Podsnap’s  opinion.  Beginning  with 
a good  inheritance,  he  had  married  a good  in- 
heritance, and  had  thriven  exceedingly  in  the 
Marine  Insurance  way,  and  was  quite  satisfied. 
He  never  could  make  out  why  everybody  was 
not  quite  satisfied,  and  he  felt  conscious  that  he 
set  a brilliant  social  example  in  being  particu- 
larly well  satisfied  with  most  things,  and,  above 
all  other  things,  with  himself. 

Thus  happily  acquainted  with  his  own  merit 
and  importance,  Mr.  Podsnap  settled  that  what- 
ever he  put  behind  him  he  put  out  of  existence. 
There  was  a dignified  conclusiveness — not  to 
add  a grand  convenience — in  this  way  of  get- 
ting rid  of  disagreeables,  which  had  done  much 
towards  establishing  Mr.  Podsnap  in  his  lofty 
place  in  Mr.  Podsnap’s  satisfaction.  “ I don’t 
want  to  know  about  it  ; I don’t  choose  to  dis- 
cuss it;  I don’t  admit  it!”  Mr.  Podsnap  had 
even  acquired  a peculiar  flourish  of  his  right  arm 
in  often  clearing  the  world  of  its  most  difficult 
problems,  by  sweeping  them  behind  him  (and 
consequently  sheer  away)  with  those  words  and 
a flushed  face.  For  they  affronted  him. 

Mr.  Podsnap’s  world  was  not  a very  large 
world,  morally  ; no,  nor  even  geographically  ; 
seeing  that  although  his  business  was  sustained 


upon  commerce  with  other  countries,  he  con- 
sidered other  countries,  with  that  important  re- 
servation, a mistake,  and  of  their  manners  and 
customs  would  conclusively  observe,  “ Not  Eng- 
lish!” when,  Presto!  with  a flourish  of  the 
arm,  and  a flush  of  the  face,  they  were  swept 
away.  Elsewise,  the  world  got  up  at  eight, 
shaved  close  at  a quarter-past,  breakfasted  at 
nine,  went  to  the  City  at  ten,  came  home  at 
half-past  five,  and  dined  at  seven.  Mr.  Pod- 
snap’s notions  of  the  Arts  in  their  integrity 
might  have  been  stated  thus.  Literature  ; large 
print,  respectfully  descriptive  of  getting  up  at 
eight,  shaving  close  at  a quarter  past,  breakfast- 
ing at  nine,  going  to  the  City  at  ten,  coming 
home  at  half-past  five,  and  dining  at  seven. 
Painting  and  sculpture  ; models  and  portraits 
representing  professors  of  getting  up  at  eight, 
shaving  close  at  a quarter-past,  breakfasting  at 
nine,  going  to  the  City  at  ten,  coming  home  at 
half-past  five,  and  dining  at  seven.  Music  ; a 
respectable  performance  (without  variations)  on 
stringed  and  wind  instruments,  sedately  expres- 
sive of  getting  up  at  eight,  shaving  close  at  a 
quarter-past,  breakfasting  at  nine,  going  to  the 
City  at  ten,  coming  home  at  half-past  five,  and 
dining  at  seven.  Nothing  else  to  be  permitted  to 
those  same  vagrants  the  Arts,  on  pain  of  excom- 
munication. Nothing  else  To  Be — anywhere  ! 

As  a so  eminently  respectable  man,  Mr.  Pod- 
snap was  sensible  of  its  being  required  of  him  to 
take  Providence  under  his  protection.  Conse- 
quently he  always  knew  exactly  what  Providence 
meant.  Inferior  and  less  respectable  men  might 
fall  short  of  that  mark,  but  Mr.  Podsnap  was 
always  up  to  it.  And  it  was  very  remarkable 
(and  must  have  been  very  comfortable)  that 
what  Providence  meant  was  invariably  what  Mr. 
Podsnap  meant. 

These  may  be  said  to  have  been  the  articles 
of  faith  of  a school  which  the  present  chapter 
takes  the  liberty  of  calling  after  its  representa- 
tive man,  Podsnappery.  They  were  confined 
within  close  bounds,  as  Mr.  Podsnap’s  own  head 
was  confined  by  his  shirt-collar  ; and  they  were 
enunciated  with  a sounding  pomp  that  smacked 
of  the  creaking  of  Mr.  Podsnap’s  own  boots. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  /.,  Chap.  II. 

CONCEIT— The  grandeur  of  Podsnappery. 

That  they,  when  unable  to  lay  hold  of  him, 
should  respectfully  grasp  at  the  hem  of  his  man- 
tle ; that  they,  when  they  could  not  bask  in  the 
glory  of  him,  the  sun,  should  take  up  with  the 
pale  reflected  light  of  the  watery  young  moon, 
his  daughter,  appeared  quite  natural,  becom- 
ing, and  proper.  It  gave  him  a better  opinion 
of  the  discretion  of  the  Lammles  than  he  had 
heretofore  held,  as  showing  that  they  appreciated 
the  value  of  the  connection.  So,  Georgiana  re- 
pairing to  her  friend,  Mr.  Podsnap  went  out  to 
dinner,  and  to  dinner,  and  yet  to  dinner,  arm  in 
arm  with  Mrs.  Podsnap  ; settling  his  obstinate 
head  in  his  cravat  and  shirt-collar,  much  as  if  he 
were  performing  on  the  Pandean  pipes,  in  his 
own  horwr,  the  triumphal  march,  See  the  con- 
quering Podsnap  comes,  Sound  the  trumpets, 
beat  the  drums ! 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II. , Chap.  4. 

CONCEIT-  SPIRITTJ  AL-The  Experience 

of  Charles  Dickens. 

I had  experiences  of  spiritual  conceit,  for 


CONCEIT 


110 


CONSUMPTION 


which,  as  giving  me  a new  warning  against  that 
curse  of  mankind,  I shall  always  feel  grateful  to 
the  supposition  that  I was  too  far  gone  to  pro- 
test against  playing  sick  lion  to  any  stray  don- 
key with  an  itching  hoof.  All  sorts  of  people 
seemed  to  become  vicariously  religious  at  my 
expense.  I received  the  most  uncompromising 
warning  that  I was  a Heathen  ; on  the  conclu- 
sive authority  of  a field  preacher,  who,  like  the 
most  of  his  ignorant  and  vain  and  daring  class, 
could  not  construct  a tolerable  sentence  in  his 
native  tongue  or  pen  a fair  letter.  This  in- 
spired individual  called  me  to  order  roundly, 
and  knew  in  the  freest  and  easiest  way  where  I 
was  going  to,  and  what  would  become  of  me  if 
I failed  to  fashion  myself  on  his  bright  exam- 
ple, and  was  on  terms  of  blasphemous  confi- 
dence with  the  Heavenly  Host.  He  was  in 
the  secrets  of  my  heart,  and  in  the  lowest 
soundings  of  my  soul — he  ! — and  could  read 
the  depths  of  my  nature  better  than  his  ABC, 
and  could  turn  me  inside  out,  like  his  own 
clammy  glove.  But  what  is  far  more  extraordi- 
nary than  this — for  such  dirty  water  as  this 
could  alone  be  drawn  from  such  a shallow  and 
muddy  source — I found,  from  the  information 
of  a beneficed  clergyman,  of  whom  I never 
heard,  and  whom  I never  saw,  that  I had  not, 
as  I rather  supposed  I had,  lived  a life  of  some 
reading,  contemplation,  and  inquiry  ; that  I 
had  not  studied,  as  I rather  supposed  I had,  to 
inculcate  some  Christian  lessons  in  books  ; that 
I had  never  tried,  as  I rather  supposed  I had, 
to  turn  a child  or  two  tenderly  towards  the 
knowledge  and  love  of  our  Saviour  ; that  I had 
never  had,  as  I rather  supposed  I had  had,  de- 
parted friends,  or  stood  beside  open  graves  ; 
but  that  I had  lived  a life  of  “ uninterrupted 
prosperity,”  and  that  I needed  this  “ check, 
overmuch,”  and  that  the  way  to  turn  it  to  ac- 
count was  to  read  these  sermons  and  these 
poems,  enclosed,  and  written  and  issued  by  my 
correspondent ! I beg  it  may  be  understood 
that  I relate  facts  of  my  own  uncommercial  ex- 
perience, and  no  vain  imaginings.  The  docu- 
ments in  proof  lie  near  my  hand. 

A Fly-leaf  in  a life — New  Uncom.  Samples. 

CON CEIT— Self  (Theodosius  Butler). 

Mr.  Theodosius  Butler  was  one  of  those  im- 
mortal geniuses  who  are  to  be  met  with  in  almost 
every  circle.  They  have,  usually,  very  deep, 
monotonous  voices.  They  always  persuade 
themselves  that  they  are  wonderful  persons, 
and  that  they  ought  to  be  very  miserable, 
though  they  don’t  precisely  know  why.  They 
are  very  conceited,  and  usually  possess  half  an 
idea  ; but.  with  enthusiastic  young  ladies,  and 
silly  young  gentlemen,  they  are  very  wonderful 
persons.  The  individual  in  question,  Mr.  Theo- 
dosius, had  written  a pamphlet  containing 
some  very  weighty  considerations  on  the  expe- 
diency of  doing  something  or  other  ; and  as 
every  sentence  contained  a good  many  words 
of  four  syllables,  his  admirers  took  it  for  grant- 
ed that  he  meant  a good  deal.  * 

Tales , Chap.  3. 

CONFUSION-  Sometimes  agreeable. 

Confusion  is  not  always  necessarily  awk- 
ward, but  may  sometimes  present  a very  plea- 
sant appearance.-  -lulwin  Drood , Chap.  22. 


CONGRESS  of  the  United  States. 

Did  I recognize  in  this  assembly  a body  of 
men,  who,  applying  themselves  in  a new  world 
to  correct  some  of  the  falsehoods  and  vices  of 
the  old,  purified  the  avenues  to  Public  Life, 
paved  the  dirty  ways  to  Place  and  Power,  de- 
bated and  made  laws  for  the  Common  Good, 
and  had  no  party  but  their  Country  ? 

I saw  in  them  the  wheels  that  move  the 
meanest  perversion  of  virtuous  Political  Ma- 
chinery that  the  worst  tools  ever  wrought. 
Despicable  trickery  at  elections  ; underhanded 
tamperings  with  public  officers  ; cowardly  at- 
tacks upon  opponents,  with  scurrilous  newspa- 
pers for  shields,  and  hired  pens  for  daggers; 
shameful  trucklings  to  mercenary  knaves,  whose 
claim  to  be  considered  is,  that  every  day  and 
week  they  sow  new  crops  of  ruin  with  their 
venal  types,  which  are  the  dragon’s  teeth  of 
yore,  in  everything  but  sharpness ; aidings  and 
abettings  of  every  bad  inclination  in  the  popu- 
lar mind,  and  artful  suppressions  of  all  its  good 
influences:  such  things  as  these,  and,  in  a word, 
Dishonest  Faction  in  its  most  depraved  and 
most  unblushing  form,  stared  out  from  every 
corner  of  the  crowded  hall. 

Did  I see  among  them  the  intelligence  and 
refinement,  the  true,  honest,  patriotic  heart  of 
America?  Here  and  there  were  drops  of  its 
blood  and  life,  but  they  scarcely  colored  the 
stream  of  desperate  adventurers  which  sets  that 
way  for  profit  and  for  pay.  It  is  the  game  of 
these  men,  and  of  their  profligate  organs,  to 
make  the  strife  of  politics  so  fierce  and  brutal, 
and  so  destructive  of  all  self-respect  in  worthy 
men,  that  sensitive  and  delicate-minded  persons 
shall  be  kept  aloof,  and  they,  and  such  as  they, 
be  left  to  battle  out  their  selfish  views  unchecked. 
And  thus  this  lowest  of  all  scrambling  fights 
goes  on,  and  they  who  in  other  countries  would, 
from  their  intelligence  and  station,  most  aspire 
to  make  the  laws,  do  here  recoil  the  furthest 
from  that  degradation. 

That  there  are,  among  the  representatives  of 
the  people  in  both  Houses,  and  among  all  par- 
ties, some  men  of  high  character  and  great  abil- 
ities, I need  not  say.  The  foremost  among 
these  politicians  who  are  known  in  Europe  have 
been  already  described,  and  I see  no  reason  to 
depart  from  the  rule  I have  laid  down  for  my 
guidance,  of  abstaining  from  all  mention  of  in- 
dividuals. It  will  be  sufficient  to  add,  that  to 
the  most  favorable  accounts  that  have  been 
written  of  them  I more  than  fully  and  most 
heartily  subscribe  ; and  that  personal  inter- 
course and  free  communication  have  bred  with- 
in me,  not  the  result  predicted  in  the  very 
doubtful  proverb,  but  increased  admiration  and 
respect.  They  are  striking  men  to  look  at, 
hard  to  deceive,  prompt  to  act,  lions  in  energy, 
Crichtons  in  varied  accomplishments,  Indians 
in  fire  of  eye  and  gesture,  Americans  in  strong 
and  generous  impulse  ; and  they  as  well  repre- 
sent the  honor  and  wisdom  of  their  country  at 
home  as  the  distinguished  gentleman  who  is 
now  its  minister  at  the  British  Court  sustains 
its  highest  character  abroad. 

American  Notes , Chap.  8. 

CONSUMPTION. 

There  is  a dread  disease  which  so  prepare? 
its  victim,  as  it  were,  for  death  ; which  so  refines 
it  of  its  grosser  aspect,  and  throws  around  fami- 


CONSCIENCE 


117 


CONVICT 


liar  looks  unearthly  indications  of  the  coming 
change  ; a dread  disease,  in  which  the  struggle 
between  soul  and  body  is  so  gradual,  quiet,  and 
solemn,  and  the  result  so  sure,  that  day  by  day, 
and  grain  by  grain,  the  mortal  part  wastes  and 
withers  away,  so  that  the  spirit  grows  light  and 
•sanguine  with  its  lightening  load,  and,  feeling 
immortality  at  hand,  deems  it  but  a new  term 
of  mortal  life  ; a disease  in  which  death  and  life 
are  so  strangely  blended,  that  death  takes  the 
glow  and  hue  of  life,  and  life  the  gaunt  and 
grisly  form  of  death  ; a disease  which  medicine 
never  cured,  wealth  never  warded  off,  or  poverty 
could  boast  exemption  from  ; which  sometimes 
moves  in  giant  strides,  and  sometimes  at  a tardy, 
sluggish  pace,  but,  slow  or  quick,  is  ever  sure 
and  certain. — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  49. 

CONSCIENCE— Mr.  Pecksniff’s  bank. 

“ For  myself,  my  conscience  is  my  bank.  I 
have  a trifle  invested  there,  a mere  trifle,  Mr. 
Jonas  ; but  I prize  it  as  a store  of  value,  I assure 
you.” 

The  good  man’s  enemies  would  have  divided 
upon  this  question  into  two  parties.  One  would 
have  asserted  without  scruple  that  if  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff’s conscience  were  his  bank,  and  he  kept  a 
running  account  there,  he  must  have  overdrawn 
it  beyond  all  mortal  means  of  computation. 
The  other  would  have  contended  that  it  was  a 
mere  fictitious  form  ; a perfectly  blank  book  ; 
or  one  in  which  entries  were  only  made  with  a 
peculiar  kind  of  invisible  ink  to  become  legible 
at  some  indefinite  time  ; and  that  He  never 
troubled  it  at  all. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  20. 

CONSCIENCE— A troubled. 

He  stirred  the  fire.,  and  sat  down  on  one  side 
of  it.  It  struck  eleven,  and  he  made  believe  to 
compose  himself  patiently.  But  gradually  he 
took  the  fidgets  in  one  leg,  and  then  in  the  other 
leg,  and  then  in  one  arm,  and  then  in  the 
other  arm,  and  then  in  his  chin,  and  then  in  his 
back,  and  then  in  his  forehead,  and  then  in  his 
hair,  and  then  in  his  nose  ; and  then  he  stretched 
himself  recumbent  on  two  chairs,  and  groaned  ; 
and  then  he  started  up. 

“ Invisible  insects  of  diabolical  activity  swarm 
in  this  place.  I am  tickled  and  twitched  all  over. 
Mentally,  I have  now  committed  a burglary 
under  the  meanest  circumstances,  and  the  myr- 
midons of  justice  are  at  my  heels.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  /,  Chap.  13. 

CONSCIENCE— A convenient  garment . 

In  the  majority  of  cases,  conscience  is  an 
elastic  and  very  flexible  article,  which  will  bear 
a deal  of  stretching,  and  adapt  itself  to  a great 
variety  of  circumstances.  Some  people,  by  pru- 
dent management,  and  leaving  it  off  piece  by 
piece,  like  a flannel  waistcoat  in  warm  weather, 
even  contrive,  in  time,  to  dispense  with  it  alto- 
gether ; but  there  be  others  who  can  assume  the 
garment  and  throw  it  off  at  pleasure  ; and  this, 
being  the  greatest  and  most  convenient  improve- 
ment, is  the  one  most  in  vogue. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  6. 

CONTENTMENT— The  vision  of  Gabriel 

Grub. 

He  saw  that  men  who  worked  hard,  and 
earned  their  scanty  bread  with  lives  of  labor, 
were  cheerful  and  happy  ; and  that  to  the  most 


ignorant,  the  sweet  face  of  nature  was  a never- 
failing  source  of  cheerfulness  and  joy.  He  saw 
those  who  had  been  delicately  nurtured  and 
tenderly  brought  up,  cheerful  under  privations, 
and  superior  to  suffering,  that  would  have  crushed 
many  of  a rougher  grain,  because  they  bore 
within  their  own  bosoms  the  materials  of  hap- 
piness, contentment,  and  peace.  He  saw  that 
women,  the  tenderest  and  most  fragile  of  all 
God’s  creatures,  were  the  oftenest  superior  to 
sorrow,  adversity,  and  distress  ; and  he  saw  that 
it  was  because  they  bore,  in  their  own  hearts,  an 
inexhaustible  well-spring  of  affection  and  de- 
votion. Above  all,  he  saw  that  men  like  him- 
self, who  snarled  at  the  mirth  and  cheerfulness 
of  others,  were  the  foulest  weeds  on  the  fair 
surface  of  the  earth  ; and,  setting  all  the  good 
of  the  world  against  the  evil,  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  a very  decent  and  res- 
pectable sort  of  world  after  all. 

Gabriel  Grub,  in  Pickwick,  Chap.  29. 

CONTENTMENT. 

“ Ha  ! ” said  Brass,  “ no  matter.  If  there’s 
little  business  to-day,  there’ll  be  more  to-mor- 
row. A contented  spirit,  Mr.  Richard,  is  the 
sweetness  of  existence.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  56. 

CONTENT— The  tranquillity  of. 

Blessed  Sunday  Bells,  ringing  so  tranquilly  in 
their  entranced  and  happy  ears  ! Blessed  Sun- 
day pe.ace  and  quiet,  harmonizing  with  the  calm- 
ness in  their  souls,  and  making  holy  air  around 
them  ! Blessed  twilight  stealing  on,  and  shad- 
ing her  so  soothingly  and  gravely,  as  she  falls 
asleep,  like  a hushed  child,  upon  the  bosom  she 
has  clung  to  ! — Dombey  &=  Son,  Chap.  51. 

Complacent  and  affable  as  man  could  be,  Mr. 
Carker  picked  his  way  along  the  streets  and 
hummed  a soft  tune  as  he  went.  He  seemed  to 
purr,  he  was  so  glad. — Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  22. 

CONTENT— The  generosity  of. 

Mr.  Dombey’s  cup  of  satisfaction  was  so  full 
at  this  moment,  however,  that  he  felt  he  could 
afford  a drop  or  two  of  its  contents,  even  to 
sprinkle  on  the  dust  in  the  by-path  of  his  little 
daughter. — Dombey  6°  Son. 

CONTRASTS— In  life. 

In  my  solitude,  the  ticket-porters  being  all 
gone  with  the  rest,  I venture  to  breathe  to  the 
quiet  bricks  and  stones  my  confidential  wonder- 
ment why  a ticket-porter,  who  never  does  any 
work  with  his  hands,  is  bound  to  wear  a white 
apron  ; and  why  a great  Ecclesiastical  Dignitary, 
who  never  does  any  work  with  his  hands  either, 
is  equally  bound  to  wear  a black  one. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  21. 

CONTRITION— Of  Mr.  Toots. 

“ If  I could  by  any  means  wash  out  the  remem- 
brance of  that  day  at  Brighton,  when  I con- 
ducted myself — much  more  like  a Parricide  than 
a person  of  independent  property,”  said  Mr. 
Toots,  with  severe  self-accusation,  “ I should 
sink  into  the  silent  tomb  with  a gleam  of  joy.” 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  50. 

CONVICT— His  early  experiences. 

“ Dear  boy  and  Pip’s  comrade.  I am  not  a- 


CONVENTIONAL  PHRASES 


118 


COUGH 


going  fur  to  tell  you  my  life,  like  a song,  or  a 
story-book.  But  to  give  it  you  short  and  handy, 
I’ll  put  it  at  once  into  a mouthful  of  English. 
In  jail  and  out  of  jail,  in  jail  and  out  of  jail,  in 
jail  and  out  of  jail.  There,  you’ve  got  it. 
That’s  my  life  pretty  much,  down  to  such  times 
as  I got  shipped  off,  arter  Pip  stood  my  friend. 

“ I’ve  been  done’ everything  to,  pretty  well — 
except  hanged.  I’ve  been  locked  up,  as  much 
as  a silver  tea-kettle.  I’ve  been  carted  here 
and  carted  there,  and  put  out  of  this  town,  and 
put  out  of  that  town,  and  stuck  in  the  stocks, 
and  whipped  and  worried  and  drove.  I’ve  no 
more  notion  where  I was  born  than  you  have — 
if  so  much.  I first  become  aware  of  myself, 
down  in  Essex,  a-thieving  turnips  for  my  liv- 
ing. Summun  had  run  away  from  me — a man 
— a tinker — and  he’d  took  the  fire  with  him, 
and  left  me  wery  cold. 

“ I know’d  my  name  to  be  Magwitch,  chris- 
en’d  Abel.  How  did  I know  it  ? Much  as  I 
know’d  the  birds’  names  in  the  hedges  to  be 
chaffinch,  sparrer,  thrush.  I might  have  thought 
it  was  all  lies  together,  only  as  the  birds’  names 
come  out  true,  I supposed  mine  did. 

“ So  fur  as  I could  find,  there  warn’t  a soul 
that  see  young  Abel  Magwitch,  with  as  little 
on  him  as  in  him,  but  wot  caught  fright  at  him, 
and  either  drove  him  off,  or  took  him  up.  I 
was  took  up,  took  up,  took  up,  to  that  extent 
that  I reg’larly  grow’d  up  took  up. 

“ This  is  the  way  it  was,  that  when  I was  a 
ragged  little  creetur,  as  much  to  be  pitied  as 
ever  I see  (not.  that  I looked  in  the  glass,  for 
there  warn’t  many  insides  of  furnished  houses 
known  to  me),  I got  the  name  of  being  har- 
dened. ‘This  is  a- terrible  hardened  one,’  they 
says  to  prison  wisitors,  picking  out  me.  ‘ May 
be  said  to  live  in  jails,  this  boy.’  Then  they 
looked  at  me,  and  I looked  at  them,  and  they 
measured  my  head,  some  on  ’em — they  had 
better  a-measured  my  stomach — and  others  on 
’em  giv  me  tracts  what  I couldn’t  read,  and 
made  me  speeches  what  1 couldn’t  understand. 
They  always  went  on  agen  me  about  the  Devil. 
But  what  the  devil  was  I to  do  ? I must  put 
something  into  my  stomach,  mustn’t  I? — IIow- 
somever,  I’m  a-getting  low,  and  I know  what’s 
due.  Dear  boy  and  Pip’s  comrade,  don’t  you 
be  afeered  of  me  being  low. 

“ Tramping,  begging,  thieving,  working  some- 
times when  I could — though  that  warn’t  as  of- 
ten as  you  may  think,  till  you  put  the  question 
whether  you  would  ha’  been  over  ready  to  give 
me  work  yourselves — a bit  of  a poacher,  a bit 
of  a laborer,  a bit  of  a wagoner,  a bit  of  a hay- 
maker, a bit  of  a hawker,  a bit  of  most  things 
that  don’t  pay  and  lead  to  trouble,  I got  to  be 
a man.  A deserting  soldier  in  a Traveller’s 
Rest,,  what  lay  hid  up  to  the  chin  under  a lot 
of  taturs,  learned  me  to  read  ; and  a travelling 
Giant  what  signed  his  name  at  a penny  a time 
learned  me  to  write.  I warn’t  locked  up  as  of- 
ten now  as  formerly,  but  I wore  out  my  good 
share  of  key-metal  still.” 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  42. 

CONVENTIONAL  PHRASES. 

Conventional  phrases  are  a sort  of  fireworks, 
easily  let  off,  and  liable  to  take  a great  variety 
of  shapes  and  colors  not  at  all  suggested  by 
their  original  form. 

David  Coppcrjield , Chap.  41. 


COOKING— The  melodious  sounds  of. 

Mrs.  Wilfer  then  solemnly  divested  herself 
of  her  handkerchief  and  gloves,  as  a prelimi- 
nary sacrifice  to  preparing  the  frying-pan,  and 
R.  W.  himself  went  out  to  purchase  the  viand, 
lie  soon  returned,  bearing  the  same  in  a fresh 
cabbage-leaf,  where  it  coyly  embraced  a rasher 
of  ham.  Melodious  sounds  were  not  long  in 
rising  from  the  frying-pan  on  the  fire,  or  in 
seeming,  as  the  firelight  danced  in  the  mellow 
halls  of  a couple  of  full  bottles  on  the  table,  to 
play  appropriate  dance-music. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  4. 

COOKING. 

The  slow  potatoes  bubbling  up,  knocked 
loudly  at  the  saucepan-lid  to  be  let  out  and 
peeled . — Christmas  Stories. 

CORPORATIONS,  PUBLIC-BOARDS,  &c. 

- Boythorn’s  opinion  of. 

“As  to  Corporations,  Parishes,  Vestry-Boards, 
and  similar  gatherings  of  jolter-headed  clods, 
who  assemble  to  exchange  such  speeches  that, 
by  Heaven  ! they  ought  to  be  worked  in  quick- 
silver mines  for  the  short  remainder  of  their 
miserable  existence,  if  it  were  only  to  prevent 
their  detestable  English  from  contaminating  a 
language  spoken  in  the  presence  of  the  sun — as 
to  those  fellows,  who  meanly  take  advantage 
of  the  ardor  of  gentlemen  in  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge,  to  recompense  the  inestimable  ser- 
vices of  the  best  years  of  their  lives,  their  long 
study,  and  their  expensive  education,  with  pit- 
tances too  small  for  the  acceptance  of  clerks,  I 
would  have  the  necks  of  every  one  of  them 
wrung,  and  their  skulls  arranged  in  Surgeon’s 
Hall  for  the  contemplation  of  the  whole  profes- 
sion— in  order  that  its  younger  members  might 
understand  from  actual  measurement,  in  early 
life,  how  thick  skulls  may  become  ! ” 

He  wound  up  his  vehement  declaration  by 
looking  round  upon  us  with  a most  agreeable 
smile,  and  suddenly  thundering,  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
over  and  over  again,  until  anybody  else  might 
have  been  expected  to  be  quite  subdued  by  the 
exertion. — Bleak  House , Chap.  13. 

CORNS— Treading-  on  people’s. 

He  was  an  antipathetical  being,  with  a pecu- 
liar power  and  gift  of  treading  on  everybody’s 
tenderest  place.  They  talk  in  America  of  a 
man’s  “ Platform.”  I should  describe  the  Plat- 
form of  the  Long-lost  as  a Platform  composed 
of  other  people’s  corns,  on  which  he  had 
stumped  his  way,  with  all  his  might  and  main, 
to  his  present  position. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  19. 

COUGH— A choking-. 

The  company  were  seized  with  unspeakable 
consternation,  owing  to  his  springing  to  his  feet, 
turning  round  several  times  in  an  appalling 
spasmodic  whooping-cough  dance,  and  rushing 
out  at  the  door  ; he  then  became  visible  through 
the  window,  violently  plunging  and  expectora- 
ting, making  the  most, hideous  faces,  and  ap- 
parently out  of  his  mind. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  4. 

COUGH— An  expressive. 

“Yes,  sir.”  Mr.  Snagsby  turns  up  the  gas, 
and  coughs  behind  his  hand,  modestly  antici- 


COUGH 


119 


COUNTRY  GENTLEMAN 


pating  profit.  Mr.  Snagsby,  as  a timid  man,  is 
accustomed  to  cough  with  a variety  of  expres- 
sion, and  so  to  save  words. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  io. 

COUGH— The  monosyllabic. 

Mrs.  Chick  was  laboring  under  a peculiar  lit- 
tle monosyllabic  cough  ; a sort  of  primer,  or 
easy  introduction  to  the  art  of  coughing. 

Dombey  Son , Chap.  29. 

COUNTRY-The. 

Mr.  Carker  cantered  behind  the  carriage,  at 
the  distance  of  a hundred  yards  or  so,  and 
watched  it,  during  all  the  ride,  as  if  he  were 
a cat,  indeed,  and  its  four  occupants,  mice. 
Whether  he  looked  to  one  side  of  the  road  or 
to  the  other — over  distant  landscape,  with  its 
smooth  undulations,  wind-mills,  corn,  grass,  bean- 
fields,  wild-flowers,  farm-yards,  hayricks,  and  the 
spire  among  the  wood — or  upward  in  the  sunny 
air,  where  butterflies  were  sporting  round  his 
head,  and  birds  were  pouring  out  their  songs — 
or  downward,  where  the  shadows  of  the  branches 
interlaced,  and  made  a trembling  carpet  on  the 
road — or  onward,  where  the  overhanging  trees 
formed  aisles  and  arches,  dim  with  the  softened 
light  that  steeped  thi-ough  leaves — one  corner 
of  his  eye  was  ever  on  the  formal  head  of  Mr. 
Dombey. — Dombey  & Son , Chap.  27. 

COUNTRY— Mrs.  Skewton’s  Arcadia., 

“ But  seclusion  and  contemplation  are  my 
what’s-his-name — ” 

“ If  you  mean  Paradise,  Mamma,  you  had 
better  say  so,  to  render  yourself  intelligible,” 
said  the  younger  lady. 

“ My  dearest  Edith,”  returned  Mrs.  Skewton, 
“ you  know  that  I am  wholly  dependent  upon 
you  for  those  odious  names.  I assure  you,  Mr. 
Dombey,  Nature  intended  me  for  an  Arcadian. 
I am  thrown  away  in  society.  Cows  are  my 
passion.  What  I have  ever  sighed  for,  has  been 
to  retreat  to  a Swiss  farm,  and  live  entirely  sur- 
rounded by  cows — and  china.” 

This  curious  association  of  objects,  suggest- 
ing a remembrance  of  the  celebrated  bull  who 
got  by  mistake  into  a crockery  shop,  was  re- 
ceived with  perfect  gravity  by  Mr.  Dombey,  who 
intimated  his  opinion  that  Nature  was,  no  doubt, 
a very  respectable  institution. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  21. 

COUNTRY  SCENERY-Journey  of  little 
Nell. 

They  were  now  in  the  open  country ; the 
houses  wefe  very  few  and  scattered  at  long  in- 
tervals, often  miles  apart.  Occasionally  they 
came  upon  a cluster  of  poor  cottages,  some  with 
a chair  or  low  board  put  across  the  open  door, 
to  keep  the  scrambling  children  from  the  road, 
others  shut  up  close,  while  all  the  family  were 
working  in  the  fields.  These  were  often  the 
commencement  of  a little  village:  and  after  an 
interval  came  a wheelwright’s  shed  or  perhaps 
a blacksmith’s  forge  ; then  a thriving  farm,  with 
sleepy  cows  lying  about  the  yard,  and  horses 
peering  over  the  low  wall  and  scampering  away 
when  harnessed  horses  passed  upon  the  road,  as 
though  in  triumph  at  their  freedom.  There 
were  dull  pigs  too,  turning  up  the  ground  in 
search  of  dainty  food,  and  grunting  their  mo- 
notonous grumblings  as  they  prowled  about,  or 


crossed  each  other  in  their  quest ; plump  pigeons 
skimming  round  the  roof  or  strutting  on  the 
eaves : and  ducks  and  geese,  far  more  graceful 
in  their  own  conceit,  waddling  awkwardly  about 
the  edges  of  the  pond  or  sailing  glibly  on  its 
surface.  The  farm-yard  passed,  then  came  the 
little  inn,  the  humbler  beer-shop,  and  the  vil- 
lage tradesman’s ; then  the  lawyer’s  and  the 
parson’s,  at  whose  dread  names  the  beer-shop 
trembled  ; the  church  then  peeped  out  modestly 
from  a-clump  of  trees  ; then  there  were  a few 
more  cottages  ; then  the  cage,  and  pound,  and 
not  unfrequently,  on  a bank  by  the  way-side,  a 
deep,  old,  dusty  well.  Then  came  the  trim-hedged 
fields  on  either  hand,  and  the  open  road  again. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  15. 

COUNTRY-Scenery. 

The  rich,  sweet  smell  of  the  hayricks  rose  to 
his  chamber  window  ; the  hundred  perfumes  of 
the  little  flower-garden  beneath  scented  the  air 
around  ; the  deep-green  meadows  shone  in  the 
morning  dew  that  glistened  on  every  leaf  as  it 
trembled  in  the  gentle  air ; and  the  birds  sang 
as  if  every  sparkling  drop  were,  a fountain  of 
inspiration  to  them. — Pickwick , Chap.  7. 

COUNTRY  EXCURSIONS  - Of  Barnaby 
Budge. 

Their  pleasures  on  these  excursions  were  sim- 
ple enough.  A crust  of  bread  and  scrap  of  meat, 
with  water  from  the  brook  or  spring,  sufficed  for 
their  repast.  Barnaby’s  enjoyments  were,  to 
walk,  and  run,  and  leap,  till  he  was  tired  ; then 
to  lie  down  on  the  long  grass,  or  by  the  growing 
corn,  or  in  the  shade  of  some  tall  tree,  looking 
upward  at  the  light  clouds  as  they  floated  over 
the  blue  surface  of  the  sky,  and  listening  to  the 
lark  as  she  poured  out  her  brilliant  song.  There 
were  wild-flowers  to  pluck — the  bright-red  pop- 
py, the  gentle  harebell,  the  cowslip,  and  the 
rose.  There  were  birds  to  watch  ; fish  ; ants  ; 
worms  ; hares  or  rabbits,  as  they  darted  across 
the  distant  pathway  in  the  wood  and  so  were 
gone  ; millions  of  living  things  to  have  an  in- 
terest in,  and  lie  in  wait  for,  and  clap  hands  and 
shout  in  memory  of,  when  they  had  disappeared. 
In  default  of  these,  or  when  they  wearied,  there 
was  the  merry  sunlight  to  hunt  out,  as  it  crept 
in  aslant  through  leaves  and  boughs  of  trees, 
and  hid  far  down — deep,  deep,  in  hollow  places 
— like  a silver  pool,  where  nodding  branches 
seemed  to  bathe  and  sport ; sweet  scents  of  sum- 
mer air  breathing  over  fields  of  beans  or  clover  ; 
the  perfume  of  wet  leaves  or  moss  ; the  life  of 
waving  trees,  and  shadows  always  changing. 
When  these  or  any  of  them  tired,  or  in  excess 
of  pleasing  tempted  him  to  shut  his  eyes,  there 
was  slumber  in  the  midst  of  all  these  soft  de- 
lights, with  the  gentle  wind  murmuring  like 
music  in  his  ears,  and  everything  around  melt- 
ing into  one  delicious  dream. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  45. 

COUNTRY  GENTLEMAN- An  English. 

Now  this  gentleman  had  various  endearing 
appellations  among  his  intimate  friends.  By 
some  he  was  called  “ a country  gentleman  of  the 
true  school,”  by  some  “ a fine  old  country  gen- 
tleman,” by  some  “ a sporting  gentleman,”  by 
some  “ a thorough-bred  Englishman,”  by  some 
“a  genuine  John  Bull but  they  all  agreed  in 
one  respect,  and  that  was,  that  it  was  a pity 


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there  were  not  more  like  him,  and  that  because 
there  were  not,  the  country  was  going  to  rack 
and  ruin  every  day.  lie  was  in  the  commission 
of  the  peace,  and  could  write  his  name  almost 
legibly ; but  his  greatest  qualifications  were, 
tliat  he  was  more  severe  with  poachers,  was  a 
better  shot,  a harder  rider,  had  better  horses, 
kept  better  dogs,  could  eat  more  solid  food, 
drink  more  strong  wine,  go  to  bed  every  night 
more  drunk  and  get  up  every  morning  more 
sober,  than  any  man  in  the  county.  In  know- 
ledge of  horse-flesh  he  was  almost  equal  to  a 
farrier,  in  stable-learning  he  surpassed  his  own 
head  groom,  and  in  gluttony  not  a pig  on  his 
estate  was  a match  for  him.  He  had  no  seat 
in  Parliament  himself,  but  he  was  extremely 
patriotic,  and  usually  drove  his  voters  up  to  the 
poll  with  his  own  hands.  He  was  warmly  at- 
tached to  church  and  state,  and  never  appointed 
to  the  living  in  his  gift  any  but  a three-bottle 
man  and  a first-rate  fox-hunter.  He  mistrusted 
the  honesty  of  all  poor  people  who  could  read 
and  write,  and  had  a secret  jealousy  of  his  own 
wife  (a  young  lady  whom  he  had  married  for 
what  his  friends  called  “ the  good  old  English 
reason,”  that  her  father’s  property  adjoined  his 
own)  for  possessing  those  accomplishments  in  a 
greater  degree  than  himself. 

Barnaby  Budge , Chap.  47. 

COURT— Trial  in  (Old  Bailey). 

Curiosity  has  occasionally  led  us  into  both 
Courts  at  the  Old  Bailey.  Nothing  is  so  likely 
to  strike  the  person  who  enters  them  for  the  first 
time,  as  the  calm  indifference  with  which  the 
proceedings  are  conducted ; every  trial  seems  a 
mere  matter  of  business.  There  is  a great  deal 
of  form,  but  no  compassion  ; considerable  in- 
terest, but  no  sympathy.  Take  the  Old  Court, 
for  example.  There  sit  the  Judges,  with  whose 
great  dignity  everybody  is  acquainted,  and  of 
whom,  therefore,  we  need  say  no  more.  Then, 
there  is  the  Lord  Mayor  in  the  centre,  looking 
as  cool  as  a Lord  Mayor  can  look,  with  an  im- 
mense bouquet  before  him,  and  habited  in  all 
the  splendor  of  his  office.  Then,  there  are  the 
Sheriffs,  who  are  almost  as  dignified  as  the  Lord 
Mayor  himself ; and  the  Barristers,  who  are 
quite  dignified  enough  in  their  own  opinion  ; 
and  the  spectators,  who,  having  paid  for  their 
admission,  look  upon  the  whole  scene  as  if  it 
were  got  up  especially  for  their  amusement. 
Look  upon  the  whole  group  in  the  body  of  the 
Court — some  wholly  engrossed  in  the  morning 
papers,  others  carelessly  conversing  in  low  whis- 
pers, and  others,  again,  quietly  dozing  away  an 
hour — and  you  can  scarcely  believe  that  the  re- 
sult of  the  trial  is  a matter  of  life  or  death  to 
one  wretched  being  present.  But  turn  your 
eyes  to  the  dock  ; watch  the  prisoner  attentively 
for  a few  moments  ; and  the  fact  is  before  you, 
in  all  its  painful  reality.  Mark  how  restlessly 
he  has  been  engaged  for  the  last  ten  minutes, 
in  forming  all  sorts  of  fantastic  figures  with 
the  herbs  which  are  strewed  upon  the  ledge  be- 
fore him  ; observe  the  ashy  paleness  of  his  face 
when  a particular  witness  appears,  and  how  he 
changes  his  position  and  wipes  his  clammy 
forehead  and  feverish  hands  when  the  case  for 
the  prosecution  is  closed,  as  if  it  were  a relief 
to  him  to  feel  that  the  jury  knew  the  worst. 

The  defense  is  concluded  ; the  judge  pro- 
ceeds to  sum  up  the  evidence  ; and  the  prison- 


er watches  the  countenances  of  the  jury,  as  a 
dying  man,  clinging  to  life  to  the  very  last, 
vainly  looks  in  the  face  of  his  physician  for  a 
slight  ray  of  hope.  They  turn  round  to  consult ; 
you  can  almost  hear  the  man’s  heart  beat,  as  he 
bites  the  stalk  of  rosemary  with  a desperate  effort 
to  appear  composed.  They  resume  their  places 
— a dead  silence  prevails  as  the  foreman  deliv- 
ers in  the  verdict — “Guilty!”  A shriek  bursts 
from  a female  in  the  galleiy  ; the  prisoner  casts 
one  look  at  the  quarter  from  whence  the  noise 
proceeded  ; and  is  immediately  hurried  from 
the  dock  by  the  gaoler.  The  clerk  directs  one 
of  the  officers  of  the  court  to  “ take  the  woman 
out,”  and  fresh  business  is  proceeded  with,  as 
if  nothing  had  occurred. — Scenes,  Chap.  24. 

COURT  Description  of  a Doctor  of  Civil 

Law. 

The  red-faced  gentleman  in  the  tortoise-shell 
spectacles  had  got  all  the  talk  to  himself  just 
then,  and  very  well  he  was  doing  it,  too,  only 
he  spoke  very  fast,  but  that  was  habit ; and 
rather  thick,  but  that  was  good  living.  So  we 
had  plenty  of  time  to  look  about  us.  There 
was  one  individual  who  amused  us  mightily. 
This  was  one  of  the  bewigged  gentlemen  in  the 
red  robes,  who  was  straddling  before  the  fire 
in  the  centre  of  the  Court,  in  the  attitude  of  the 
brazen  Colossus,  to  the  complete  exclusion  of 
everybody  else.  He  had  gathered  up  his  robe 
behind,  in  much  the  same  manner  as  a slovenly 
woman  would  her  petticoats  on  a very  dirty 
day,  in  order  that  he  might  feel  the  full  warmth 
of  the  fire.  His  wig  was  put  on  all  awry,  with 
the  tail  straggling  about  his  neck,  his  scanty 
gray  trousers  and  short  black  gaiters,  made  in 
the  worst  possible  style,  imparted  an  additional 
inelegant  appearance  to  his  uncouth  person  ; 
and  his  limp,  badly-starched  shirt-collar  almost 
obscured  his  eyes.  We  shall  never  be  able  to 
claim  any  credit  as  a physiognomist  again,  for, 
after  a careful  scrutiny  of  this  gentleman’s  coun- 
tenance, we  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
bespoke  nothing  but  conceit  and  silliness,  when 
our  friend  with  the  silver  staff  whispered  in  our 
ear  that  he  was  no  other  than  a doctor  of  civil 
law,  and  heaven  knows  what  besides.  So  of 
course  we  were  mistaken,  and  he  must  be  a 
very  talented  man.  He  conceals  it  so  well 
though — perhaps  with  the  merciful  view  of  not 
astonishing  ordinary  people  too  much’ — that 
you  would  suppose  him  to  be  one  of  the  stupid- 
est dogs  alive. — Scenes , Chap.  8. 

COURT— Description  of  Doctors’  Commons. 

Now,  Doctors’  Commons  being  familiar  by 
name  to  everybody,  as  the  place  where  they  grant 
marriage-licenses  to  love-sick  couples,  and  di- 
vorces to  unfaithful  ones ; register  the  wills 
of  people  who  have  any  property  to  leave,  and 
punish  hasty  gentlemen  who  call  ladies  by  un- 
pleasant names,  we  no  sooner  discovered  that 
we  were  really  within  its  precincts,  than  we  felt 
a laudable  desire  to  become  better  acquainted 
therewith. 

-*  * * * * 

At  a more  elevated  desk  in  the  centre  sat  a 
very  fat  and  red-faced  gentleman,  in  tortoise- 
shell spectacles,  whose  dignified  appearance  an- 
nounced the  judge  ; and  round  a long  green 
baized  table  below,  something  like  a billiard-table 
without  the  cushions  and  pockets,  were  a nura- 


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ber  of  very  self-important  looking  personages, 
in  stiff  neckcloths,  and  black  gowns  with  white 
fur  collars,  whom  we  at  once  set  down  as  proc- 
tors. At  the  lower  end  of  the  billiard-table  was 
an  individual  in  an  arm  chair,  and  a wig,  whom 
we  afterwards  discovered  to  be  the  registrar  ; 
and  seated  behind  a little  desk,  near  the  door, 
were  a respectable  looking  man  in  black,  of 
about  twenty  stone  weight  or  thereabouts,  and 
a fat-faced,  smirking,  civil-looking  body,  in  a 
black  gown,  black  kid  gloves,  knee  shorts,  and 
silks,  with  a shirt-frill  in  his  bosom,  curls  on 
his  head,  and  a silver  staff  in  his  hand,  whom 
we  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  as  the  officer 
of  the  Court. — Scenes , Chap.  8. 

COURT— Doctors’  Commons. 

Mr.  Spenlow  conducted  me  through  a paved 
courtyard  formed  of  grave  brick  houses,  which  I 
inferred,  from  the  Doctors’  names  upon  the 
doors,  to  be  the  official  abiding-places  of  the 
learned  advocates  of  whom  Steerforth  had  told 
me  ; and  into  a large,  dull  room,  not  unlike  a 
chapel  to  my  thinking,  on  the  left  hand.  The 
upper  part  of  this  room  was  fenced  off  from  the 
rest  ; and  there,  on  the  two  sides  of  a raised 
platform  of  the  horse-shoe  form,  sitting  on  easy 
old-fashioned  dining-room  chairs,  were  sundry 
gentlemen  in  red  gowns  and  gray  wigs,  whom  I 
found  to  be  the  Doctors  aforesaid.  Blinking 
over  a little  desk  like  a pulpit-desk,  in  the  curve 
of  the  horseshoe,  was  an  old  gentleman,  whom,  if 
I had  seen  him  in  an  aviary,  I should  certainly 
have  taken  for  an  owl,  but  who,  I learned,  was 
the  presiding  judge.  In  the  space  within  the 
horse-shoe,  lower  than  these,  that  is  to  say  on 
about  the  level  of  the  floor,  were  sundry  other 
gentlemen  of  Mr.  Spenlow’s  rank,  and  dressed 
like  him  in  black  gowns  with  white  fur  upon 
them,  sitting  at  a long  green  table.  Their  cra- 
vats were  in  general  stiff,  I thought,  and  their 
looks  haughty  ; but  in  this  last  respect,  I pres- 
ently conceived  I had  done  them  an  injustice,  for 
when  two  or  three  of  them  had  to  rise  and  answer 
a question  of  the  presiding  dignitary,  I never  saw 
anything  more  sheepish.  The  public — repre- 
sented by  a boy  with  a comforter,  and  a shabby- 
genteel  man  secretly  eating  crumbs  out  of  his 
coat  pockets,  was  warming  itself  at  a stove  in 
the  centre  of  the  Court.  The  languid  stillness 
of  the  place  was  only  broken  by  the  chirping  of 
this  fire  and  by  the  voice  of  one  of  the  Doctors, 
who  was  wandering  slowly  through  a perfect 
library  of  evidence,  and  stopping  to  put  up, 
from  time  to  time,  at  little  road-side  inns  of  ar- 
gument on  the  journey.  Altogether,  I have 
never,  on  any  occasion,  made  one  at  such 
a cozy,  dozy,  old-fashioned,  time-forgotten, 
sleepy-headed  little  family-party  in  all  my  life  ; 
and  I felt  it  would  be  quite  a soothing  opiate 
to  belong  to  it  in  any  character — except  perhaps 
as  a suitor. — David  Copperfield , Chap.  23. 

COURTS— And  lawyers. 

“ What  is  a proctor,  Steerforth  ? ” said  I. 

“ Why,  he  is  a sort  of  monkish  attorney,”  re- 
plied Steerforth.  “ He  is,  to  some  faded  courts 
held  in  Doctors’  Commons — a lazy  old  nook 
near  St.  Paul’s  Churchyard — what  solicitors  aie 
to  the  courts  of  law  and  equity.  He  is  a func- 
tionary whose  existence,  in  the  natural  course 
of  things,  would  have  terminated  about  two 
hundred  years  ago.  I can  tell  you  best  what 


he  is,  by  telling  you  what  Doctors’  Commons  is. 
It’s  a little  out-of-the-way  place,  where  they  ad- 
minister what  is  called  ecclesiastical  law,  and 
play  all  kinds  of  tricks  with  obsolete  old  mon- 
sters of  Acts  of  Parliament,  which  three-fourths 
of  the  world  know  nothing  about,  and  the  other 
fourth  supposes  to  have  been  dug  up,  in  a fossil 
state,  in  the  days  of  the  Edwards.  It’s  a place 
that  has  an  ancient  monopoly  in  suits  about 
people’s  wills  and  people’s  marriages,  and  dis- 
putes among  ships  and  boats.” 

“ Nonsense,  Steerforth  ! ” I exclaimed.  “ You 
don’t  mean  to  say  that  there  is  any  affinity  be- 
tween nautical  matters  and  ecclesiastical  mat- 
ters ? ” 

“ I don’t,  indeed,  my  dear  boy,”  he  returned  ; 
“ but  I mean  to  say  that  they  are  managed  and 
decided  by  the  same  set  of  people,  down  in  that 
same  Doctors’  Commons.  You  shall  go  there 
one  day,  and  find  them  blundering  through 
half  the  nautical  terms  in  Young’s  Dictionary, 
apropos  of  the  ‘ Nancy  ’ having  run  down  the 
‘Sarah  Jane,’  or  Mr.  Peggotty  and  the  Yar- 
mouth boatmen  having  put  off  in  a gale  of  wind 
with  an  anchor  and  cable  to  the  ‘ Nelson  ’ India- 
man  in  distress  ; and  you  shall  go  there  another 
day,  and  find  them  deep  in  the  evidence,  pro 
and  con,  respecting  a clergyman  who  has  mis- 
behaved himself ; and  you  shall  find  the  judge 
in  the  nautical  case  the  advocate  in  the  clergy- 
man’s case,  or  contrariwise.  They  are  like  ac- 
tors ; now  a man’s  a judge,  and  now  he’s  not  a 
judge  ; now  he’s  one  thing,  now  he’s  another  ; 
now  he’s  something  else,  change  and  change 
about  ; but  it’s  always  a very  pleasant,  pro- 
fitable little  affair  of  private  theatricals,  pre- 
sented to  an  uncommonly  select  audience.” 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  23. 

COURT— The  Insolvent. 

In  a lofty  room,  ill  lighted  and  worse  venti- 
lated, situated  in  Portugal  Street,  Lincoln’s  Inn 
Fields,  there  sit  nearly  the  whole  year  round, 
one,  two,  three,  or  four  gentlemen  in  wigs,  as 
the  case  may  be,  with  little  writing-desks  before 
them,  constructed  after  the  fashion  of  those  used 
by  the  judges  of  the  land,  barring  the  French 
polish.  There  is  a box  of  barristers  on  their 
right  hand  ; there  is  an  inclosure  of  insolvent 
debtors  on  their  left  ; and  there  is  an  inclined 
plane  of  most  especially  dirty  faces  in  their  front. 
These  gentlemen  are  the  Commissioners  of  the 
Insolvent  Court,  and  the  place  in  which  they 
sit  is  the  Insolvent  Court  itself. 

It  is,  and  has  been,  time  out  of  mind,  the  re- 
markable fate  of  this  Court  to  be,  somehow  or 
other,  held  and  understood,  by  the  general  con- 
sent of  all  the  destitute  shabby-genteel  people  in 
London,  as  their  common  resort,  and  place  of 
daily  refuge.  It  is  always  full.  The  steams  of 
beer  and  spirits  perpetually  ascend  to  the  ceiling, 
and,  being  condensed  by  the  heat,  roll  down  the 
walls  like  rain  ; there  are  more  old  suits  of 
clothes  in  it  at  one  time  than  will  be  offered  for 
sale  in  all  Houndsditch  in  a twelvemonth  ; more 
unwashed  skins  and  grizzly  beards  than  all  the 
pumps  and  shaving-shops  between  Tyburn  and 
Whitechapel  could  render  decent  between  sun- 
rise and  sunset. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  any  of  these 
people  have  the  least  shadow  of  business  in,  or 
the  remotest  connection  with,  the  place  they  so 
indefaligably  attend.  If  they  had,  it  would  be 


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no  matter  of  surprise,  and  the  singularity  of  the 
thing  would  cease.  Some  of  them  sleep  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  sitting  ; others  carry 
small  portable  dinners  wrapped  in  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs or  sticking  out  of  their  worn-out  pock- 
ets, and  mijnch  and  listen  with  ecpial  relish  ; 
but  no  one  among  them  was  ever  known  to  have 
the  slightest  personal  interest  in  any  case  that 
was  ever  brought  forward.  Whatever  they  do, 
there  they  sit  from  the  first  moment  to  the  last. 
When  it  is  heavy,  rainy  weather,  they  all  come 
in  wet  through  ; and  at  such  times  the  vapors 
of  the  Court  are  like  those  of  a fungus-pit. 

A casual  visitor  might  suppose  this  place  to 
be  a Temple  dedicated  to  the  Genius  of  Seedi- 
ness. There  is  not  a messenger  or  process- 
server  attached  to  it  who  wears  a coat  that  was 
made  for  him  ; not  a tolerably  fresh,  or  whole- 
some-looking man  in  the  whole  establishment, 
except  a little  white-headed,  apple-faced  tipstaff, 
and  even  he,  like  an  ill-conditioned  cherry  pre- 
served in  brandy,  seems  to  have  artificially  dried 
and  withered  up  into  a state  of  preservation  to 
which  he  can  lay  no  natural  claim.  The  very 
barristers’  wigs  are  ill-powdered,  and  their  curls 
lack  crispness. 

But  the  attorneys,  who  sit  at  a large  bare  table 
below  the  Commissioners,  are,  after  all,  the 
greatest  curiosities.  The  professional  establish- 
ment of  the  more  opulent  of  these  gentlemen, 
consists  of  a blue  bag  and  a boy — generally  a 
youth  of  the  Jewish  persuasion.  They  have  no 
fixed  offices,  their  legal  business  being  transacted 
in  the  parlors  of  public-houses,  or  the  yards  of 
prisons — whither  they  repair  in  crowds,  and 
canvass  for  customers  after  the  manner  of  omni- 
bus cads.  They  are  of  a greasy  and  mildewed 
appearance  ; and  if  they  can  be  said  to  have  any 
vices  at  all,  perhaps  drinking  and  cheating  are 
the  most  conspicuous  among  them.  Their  resi- 
dences are  usually  on  the  outskirts  of  “ the 
Rules,”  chiefly  lying  within  a circle  of  one  mile 
from  the  obelisk  in  St.  George’s  Fields.  Their 
looks  are  not  prepossessing,  and  their  manners 
are  peculiar. 

Mr.  Solomon  Pell,  one  of  this  learned  body, 
was  a fat,  flabby,  pale  man,  in  a surtout  which 
looked  green  one  minute  and  brown  the  next, 
with  a velvet  collar  of  the  same  chameleon  tints. 
His  forehead  was  narrow,  his  face  wide,  his  head 
large,  and  his  nose  all  on  one  side,  as  if  Nature, 
indignant  with  the  propensities  she  observed  in 
him  in  his  birth,  had  given  it  an  angry  tweak 
which  it  had  never  recovered.  Being  short- 
necked and  asthmatic,  however,  he  respired  prin- 
cipally through  this  feature  ; so,  perhaps,  what 
it  wanted  in  ornament,  it  made  up  in  usefulness. 

Pickwick , Chap.  43. 

COURT— Examination  of  Sam  Weller. 

Serjeant  Buzfuz  now  rose  with  more  impor- 
tance than  he  had  yet  exhibited,  if  that  were 
possible,  and  vociferated  : “ Call  Samuel  Weller.” 

It  was  quite  unnecessary  to  call  Samuel  Wel- 
ler ; for  Samuel  Weller  stepped  briskly  into  the 
box  the  instant  his  name  was  pronounced  ; and 
placing  his  hat  on  the  floor,  and  his  arms  on  the 
rail,  took  a bird’s-eye  view  of  the  bar,  and  a 
comprehensive  survey  of  the  bench,  with  a re- 
markably cheerful  and  lively  aspect. 

“ What’s  your  name,  sir  ? ” inquired  the  judge. 

“Sam  Weller,  my  lord,”  replied  the  gentle- 
man. 


“ Do  you  spell  it  with  a ‘ V ' or  a * W ? ’ ” in- 
quired the  judge. 

“ That  depends  upon  the  taste  and  fancy  of 
the  speller,  my  lord,"  replied  Sam.  “ I never  had 
occasion  to  spell  it  more  than  once  or  twice  in 
my  life,  but  I spells  it  with  a ‘ V.’  " 

Here  a voice  in  the  gallery  exclaimed  aloud, 
“Quite  right  too,  Samivel,  quite  right.  Put  it 
down  a we,  my  lord,  put  it  down  a we.” 

“ Who  is  that,  who  dares  to  address  the 
court?”  said  the  little  judge,  looking  up. 
“ Usher.” 

“ Yes,  my  lord.” 

“ Bring  that  person  here  instantly.” 

“ Yes,  my  lord.” 

But  as  the  usher  didn’t  find  the  person,  he 
didn’t  bring  him  ; and,  aftera  great  commotion, 
all  the  people  who  had  got  up  to  look  for  the 
culprit,  sat  down  again.  The  little  judge  turned 
to  the  witness  as  soon  as  his  indignation  would 
allow  him  to  speak,  and  said, 

“ Do  you  know  who  that  was,  sir?” 

“ I rayther  suspect  it  was  my  father,  my  lord,” 
replied  Sam. 

“ Do  you  see  him  here  now  ?”  said  the  judge. 

“ No,  I don’t,  my  lord,”  replied  Sam,  staring 
right  up  into  the  lantern  in  the  roof  of  the 
court. 

“ If  you  could  have  pointed  him  out,  I would 
have  committed  him  instantly,”  said  the  judge. 

Sam  bowed  his  acknowledgments,  and  turned 
with  unimpaired  cheerfulness  of  countenance 
towards  Serjeant  Buzfuz. 

“ Nowr,  Mr.  Weller,”  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz. 

“ Now,  sir,”  replied  Sam. 

“ I believe  you  are  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, the  defendant  in  this  case.  Speak  up,  if 
you  please,  Mr.  Weller.” 

“ I mean  to  speak  up,  sir,”  replied  Sam  ; “ I 
am  in  the  service  o’  that  'ere  gen’l’man,  and  a 
wery  good  service  it  is.” 

“ Little  to  do,  and  plenty  to  get,  I suppose,” 
said  Serjeant  Buzfuz,  with  jocularity. 

“ Oh,  quite  enough  to  get,  sir,  as  the  soldier 
said  ven  they  ordered  him  three  hundred  and 
fifty  lashes,”  replied  Sam. 

“You  must  not  tell  us  wdiat  the  soldier,  or 
any  other  man,  said,  sir,”  interposed  the  judge  ; 
“ it’s  not  evidence.” 

“ Wery  good,  my  lord,”  replied  Sam. 

“ Do  you  recollect  anything  particular  hap- 
pening on  the  morning  when  you  were  first 
engaged  by  the  defendant;  eh,  Mr.  Weller?” 
said  Serjeant  Buzfuz. 

“Yes,  I do,  sir,”  replied  Sam. 

“ Have  the  goodness  to  tell  the  jury  what  it 
wras.” 

“ I had  a reg’lar  new  fit  out  o’  clothes  that 
mornin’,  gen’l’men  of  the  jury,”  said  Sam,  “ and 
that  w7as  a wery  partickler  and  uncommon  cir- 
cumstance vith  me  in  those  days.” 

Hereupon  there  w'as  a general  laugh  ; and  the 
little  judge,  looking  with  an  angry  countenance 
over  his  desk,  said,  “ You  had  better  be  careful, 
sir.” 

“ So  Mr.  Pickwick  said  at  the  time,  my  lord,” 
replied  Sam  ; “and  I w^as  wery  careful  o’  that 
’ere  suit  o’  clothes  ; wery  careful  indeed,  my 
lord.” 

The  judge  looked  sternly  at  Sam  for  full  two 
minutes,  but  Sam’s  features  were  so  perfectly 
calm  and  serene  that  the  judge  said  nothing,  and 
motioned  Serjeant  Buzfuz  to  proceed. 


COURT 


123 


COURT 


“ Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Weller,”  said 
Serjeant  Buzfuz,  folding  his  arms  emphatically, 
and  turning  half  round  to  the  jury,  as  if  in 
mute  assurance  that  he  would  bother  the  witness 
yet ; “ Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Weller, 
that  you  saw  nothing  of  this  fainting  on  the 
part  of  the  plaintiff  in  the  arms  of  the  defend- 
ant, which  you  have  heard  described  by  the 
witnesses  ? ” 

“ Certainly  not,”  replied  Sam,  “ I was  in  the 
passage  till  they  called  me  up,  and  then  the  old 
lady  was  not  there.” 

“Now,  attend,  Mr.  Weller,”  said  Serjeant 
Buzfuz,  dipping  a large  pen  into  the  inkstand 
before  him,  for  the  purpose  of  frightening  Sam 
with  a show  of  taking  down  his  answer.  “ You 
were  in  the  passage,  and  yet  saw  nothing  of 
what  was  going  forward.  Have  you  a pair  of 
eyes,  Mr.  Weller?” 

“Yes,  I have  a pair  of  eyes,”  replied  Sam, 
“ and  that’s  just  it.  If  they  wos  a pair  o’  patent 
double  million  magnifyin’  gas  microscopes  of 
hextra  power,  p’raps  I might  be  able  to  see 
through  a flight  o’  stairs  and  a deal  door  ; but 
bein’  only  eyes,  you  see,  my  wision’s  limited.” 

At  this  answer,  which  was  delivered  without 
the  slightest  appearance  of  irritation,  and  with 
the  most  complete  simplicity  and  equanimity  of 
manner,  the  spectators  tittered,  the  little  judge 
smiled,  and  Serjeant  Buzfuz  looked  particularly 
foolish.  After  a short  consultation  with  Dod- 
son and  Fogg,  the  learned  Serjeant  again  turned 
towards  Sam,  and  said,  with  a painful  effort 
to  conceal  his  vexation,  “Now,  Mr.  Weller,  I’ll 
ask  you  a question  on  another  point,  if  you 
please.” 

“ If  you  please,  sir,”  rejoined  Sam,  with  the 
utmost  good-humor. 

“ Do  you  remember  going  up  to  Mrs.  Bardell’s 
house,  one  night  in  November  last  ?” 

“ Oh  yes,  wery  well.” 

“ Oh,  you  do  remember  that,  Mr.  Weller,” 
said  Serjeant  Buzfuz,  recovering  his  spirits  ; “ I 
thought  we  should  get  at  something  at  last.” 

“ I rayther  thought  that,  too,  sir,”  replied 
Sam,  and  at  this  the  spectators  tittered  again. 

“Well  ; I suppose  you  went  up  to  have  a 
little  talk  about  this  trial — eh,  Mr.  Weller  ? ” 
said  Serjeant  Buzfuz,  looking  knowingly  at  the 
jury. 

“ I went  up  to  pay  the  rent ; but  we  did  get  a 
talkin’  about  the  trial,”  replied  Sam. 

“ Oh,  you  did  get  a talking  about  the  trial,” 
said  Serjeant  Buzfuz,  brightening  up  with  the 
anticipation  of  some  important  discovery. 
“ Now  what  passed  about  the  trial  ; will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  tell  us,  Mr.  Weller?” 

“ Vith  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  sir,”  replied 
Sam.  “Arter  a few  unimportant  obserwations 
from  the  two  wirtuous  females  as  has  been  ex- 
amined here  to-day,  the  ladies  gets  into  a very 
great  state  o’  admiration  at  the  honorable  con- 
duct of  Mr.  Dodson  and  Fogg — them  two 
gent’l’men  as  is  settin’  near  you  now.”  This, 
of  course,  drew  general  attention  to  Dodson 
and  Fogg,  who  looked  as  virtuous  as  possible. 

“ The  attorneys  for  the  plaintiff,”  said  Mr. 
Serjeant  Buzfuz.  “Well!  They  spoke  in  high 
praise  of  the  honorable  conduct  of  Messrs.  Dod- 
son and  Fogg,  the  attorneys  for  the  plaintiff, 
did  they  ? ” 

“Yes,”  said  Sam,  “they  said  what  a wery 
gen’rous  thing  it  was  o’  them  to  have  taken  up 


the  case  on  spec,  and  to  charge  nothing  at  all 
for  costs,  unless  they  got  ’em  out  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick.” 

At  this  very  unexpected  reply,  the  spectators 
tittered  again,  and  Dodson  and  Fogg,  turning 
very  red,  leant  over  to  Serjeant  Buzfuz,  and 
in  a hurried  manner  whispered  something  in 
his  ear. 

“ You  are  quite  right,”  said  Serjeant  Buzfuz 
aloud,  with  affected  composure.  “ It’s  perfectly 
useless,  my  lord,  attempting  to  get  at  any  evi- 
dence through  the  impenetrable  stupidity  of 
this  witness.  I will  not  trouble  the  court  by 
asking  him  any  more  questions.  Stand  down, 
sir.” 

“ Would  any  other  genTman  like  to  ask  me 
anythin’  ? ” inquired  Sam,  taking  up  his  hat, 
and  looking  round  most  deliberately. 

“ Not  I,  Mr.  Weller,  thank  you,”  said  Serjeant 
Snubbin,  laughing. 

“You  may  go  down,  sir,”  said  Serjeant  Buz- 
fuz, waving  his  hand  impatiently. 

Pickwick , Chap.  34. 

COURT— Trial  of  the  convict. 

The  trial  was  very  short  and  very  clear.  Such 
things  as  could  be  said  for  him,  were  said — how 
he  had  taken  to  industrious  habits,  and  had 
thriven  lawfully  and  reputably.  But  nothing 
could  unsay  the  fact  that  he  had  returned,  and 
was  there  in  the  presence  of  the  Judge  and  Jury. 
It  was  impossible  to  try  him  for  that,  and  do 
otherwise  than  find  him  Guilty. 

At  that  time  it  was  the  custom  (as  I learned 
from  my  terrible  experience  of  that  Sessions)  to 
devote  a concluding  day  to  the  passing  of  Sen- 
tences, and  to  make  a finishing  effect  with  the 
Sentence  of  Death.  But  for  the  indelible  pic- 
ture that  my  remembrance  now  holds  before  me, 
I could  scarcely  believe,  even  as  I write  these 
words,  that  I saw  two-and-thirty  men  and  wo- 
men put  before  the  Judge  to  receive  that  sentence 
together.  Foremost  among  the  two-and-thirty, 
was  he  ; seated,  that  he  might  get  breath  enough 
to  keep  life  in  him. 

The  whole  scene  starts  out  again  in  the  vivid 
colors  of  the  moment,  down  to  the  drops  of 
April  rain  on  the  windows  of  the  court,  glitter- 
ing in  the  rays  of  April  sun.  Penned  in  the 
dock,  as  I again  stood  outside  it  at  the  corner, 
with  his  hand  in  mine,  were  the  two-and-thirty 
men  and  women  ; some  defiant,  some  stricken 
with  terror,  some  sobbing  and  weeping,  some 
covering  their  faces,  some  staring  gloomily 
about.  There  had  been  shrieks  from  among 
the  women  convicts,  but  they  had  been  stilled, 
and  a hush  had  succeeded.  The  sheriffs,  with 
their  great  chains  and  nosegays,  other  civic  gew- 
gaws and  monsters,  criers,  ushers,  a great  gal- 
lery full  of  people — a large  theatrical  audience — 
looked  on,  as  the  two-and-thirty  and  the  Judge 
were  solemnly  confronted.  Then,  the  Judge 
addressed  them.  Among  the  wretched  creatures 
before  him  whom  he  must  single  out  for  special 
address,  was  one  who  almost  from  his  infancy 
had  been  an  offender  against  the  laws ; who, 
after  repeated  imprisonments  and  punishments, 
had  been  at  length  sentenced  to  exile  fora  term 
of  years  ; and  who,  under  circumstances  of  great 
violence  and  daring,  had  made  his  escape  and 
been  re-sentenced  to  exile  for  life.  That  miser- 
able man  would  seem  for  a time  to  have  be- 
come convinced  of  his  errors,  when  far  removed 


COURT 


124 


COURT 


from  the  scenes  of  his  old  offences,  and  to  have 
lived  a peaceable  and  honest  life.  But  in  a fatal 
moment,  yielding  to  those  propensities  and  pas- 
sions, the  indulgence  of  which  had  so  long  ren- 
dered him  a scourge  to  society,  he  had  quitted 
his  haven  of  rest  and  repentance,  and  had  come 
back  to  the  country  where  he  was  proscribed. 
Being  here  presently  denounced,  he  had  for  a 
time  succeeded  in  evading  the  officers  of  Jus- 
tice, but  being  at  length  seized  while  in  the  act 
of  flight,  he  had  resisted  them,  and  had — he  best 
knew  whether  by  express  design,  or  in  the  blind- 
ness of  his  hardihood — caused  the  death  of  his 
denouncer,  to  whom  his  whole  career  was 
known.  The  appointed  punishment  for  his 
return  to  the  land  that  had  cast  him  out,  being 
Death,  and  his  case  being  this  aggravated  case, 
he  must  prepare  himself  to  Die. 

The  sun  was  striking  in  at  the  great  windows 
of  the  court,  through  the  glittering  drops  of  rain 
upon  the  glass,  and  it  made  a broad  shaft  of 
light  between  the  two  and  thirty  and  the  Judge, 
linking  both  together,  and  perhaps  reminding 
some  among  the  audience,  how  both  were  pass- 
ing on,  with  absolute  equality,  to  the  greater 
Judgment  that  knoweth  all  things  and  cannot 
err.  Rising  for  a moment,  a distinct  speck  of 
face  in  this  way  of  light,  the  prisoner  said,  “ My 
Lord,  I have  received  my  sentence  of  Death 
from  the  Almighty,  but  I bow  to  yours,”  and  sat 
down  again.  There  was  some  hushing,  and  the 
Judge  went  on  with  what  he  had  to  say  to  the 
rest.  Then,  they  were  all  formally  doomed,  and 
some  of  them  were  supported  out,  and  some  of 
them  sauntered  out  with  a haggard  look  of  bra- 
very, and  a few  nodded  to  the  gallery,  and  two 
or  three  shook  hands,  and  others  went  out  chew- 
ing the  fragments  of  herb  they  had  taken  from 
the  sweet  herbs  lying  about.  He  went  last  of 
all,  because  of  having  to  be  helped  from  his 
chair  and  to  go  very  slowly  ; and  he  held  my 
hand  while  all  the  others  were  removed,  and 
while  the  audience  got  up  (putting  their  dresses 
right,  as  they  might  at  church  or  elsewhere), 
and  pointed  down  at  this  criminal  or  at  that, 
and  most  of  all  at  him  and  me. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  56. 

COURT— Pickwick  in. 

Mr.  Pickwick  stood  up  in  a state  of  great  agi- 
tation, and  took  a glance  at  the  court.  There 
were  already  a pretty  large  sprinkling  of  specta- 
tors in  the  gallery,  and  a numerous  muster  of 
gentlemen  in  wigs,  in  the  barristers’  seats  : who 
presented,  as  a body,  all  that  pleasing  and  ex- 
tensive variety  of  nose  and  whisker  for  which 
the  bar  of  England  is  so  justly  celebrated.  Such 
of  the  gentlemen  as  had  a brief  to  carry,  carried 
it  in  as  conspicuous  a manner  as  possible,  and 
occasionally  scratched  their  noses  therewith,  to 
impress  the  fact  more  strongly  on  the  observa- 
tion of  the  spectators.  Other  gentlemen  who 
had  no  briefs  to  show,  carried  under  their  arms 
goodly  octavos,  with  a red  label  behind,  and 
that  underdone-pie-crust-colored  cover  which  is 
technically  known  as  “ law  calf.”  Others,  who 
had  neither  briefs  nor  books,  thrust  their  hands 
into  their  pockets,  and  looked  as  wise  as  they 
conveniently  could  ; others,  again,  moved  here 
and  there  with  great  restlessness  and  earnest- 
ness of  manner,  content  to  awaken  thereby  the 
admiration  and  astonishment  of  the  uninitiated 
strangers. — Pickwick , Chap.  34. 


COURT  The  Judge  and  witness. 

“Now,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Skimpin,  “have  the 
goodness  to  let  his  Lordship  and  the  jury  know 
what  your  name  is,  will  you?*’  and  Mr.  Skimpin 
inclined  his  head  on  one  side  to  listen  with  great 
sharpness  to  the  answer,  and  glanced  at  the  jury 
meanwhile,  as  if  to  imply  that  he  rather  expected 
Mr.  Winkle’s  natural  taste  for  perjury  would 
induce  him  to  give  some  name  which  did  not 
belong  to  him. 

“Winkle,”  replied  the  witness. 

“What’s  your  Christian  name,  sir?”  angrily 
inquired  the  little  judge. 

“ Nathaniel,  sir.” 

“ Daniel — any  other  name?” 

“Nathaniel,  sir — my  Lord,  I mean.” 

“Nathaniel  Daniel,  or  Daniel  Nathaniel?” 

“No,  my  Lord,  only  Nathaniel;  not  Daniel 
at  all.” 

“ What  did  you  tell  me  it  was  Daniel  for,  then, 
sir?”  inquired  the  judge. 

“ I didn’t,  my  Lord,”  replied  Mr.  Winkle. 

“You  did,  sir,”  replied  the  judge,  with  a se- 
vere frown.  “ How  could  I have  got  Daniel  on 
my  notes,  unless  you  told  me  so,  sir?” 

This  argument,  was,  of  course,  unanswerable. 

Pickwick , Chap.  34. 

COURT— The  juryman. 

“ Here,”  said  the  green-grocer. 

“ Thomas  Groffin.  ” 

“ Here,”  said  the  chemist. 

“Take  the  book,  gentlemen.  You  shall  well 
and  truly  try—” 

“ I beg  this  court’s  pardon,”  said  the  chem- 
ist, who  was  a tall,  thin,  yellow-visaged  man, 
“ but  I hope  this  court  will  excuse  my  attend- 
ance.” 

“On  what  grounds,  sir?”  said  Mr.  Justice 
Stareleigh. 

“ I have  no  assistant,  my  Lord,”  said  the 
chemist. 

“ Swear  the  gentleman,”  said  the  judge,  per- 
emptorily. 

The  officer  had  got  no  further  than  the  “You 
shall  well  and  truly  try,”  when  he  was  again  in- 
terrupted by  the  chemist. 

“I  am  to  be  sworn,  my  Lord,  am  I?”  said 
the  chemist. 

“ Certainly,  sir,”  replied  the  testy  little  judge. 

“ Very  well,  my  Lord,”  replied  the  chemist, 
in  a resigned  manner.  “ Then  there’ll  be  mur- 
der before  this  trial’s  over ; that’s  all.  Swear 
me  if  you  please,  sir  ; ” and  sworn  the  chemist 
was,  before  the  judge  could  find  words  to  utter. 

“ I merely  wanted  to  observe,  my  Lord,” 
said  the  chemist,  taking  his  seat  with  great  de- 
liberation, “ that  I’ve  left  nobody  but  an  errand- 
boy  in  my  shop.  He  is  a veiy  nice  boy,  my 
Lord,  but  he  is  not  acquainted  with  drugs  ; and 
I know  that  the  prevailing  impression  on  his 
mind  is,  that  Epsom  salts  means  oxalic  acid  ; 
and  syrup  of  senna,  laudanum.  That’s  all,  my 
Lord.”  With  this,  the  tall  chemist  composed 
himself  into  a comfortable  attitude,  and,  assum- 
ing a pleasant  expression  of  countenance,  ap- 
peared to  have  prepared  himself  for  the  worst. 

Pickwick , Chap.  34. 

COURT-The  Judge. 

Serjeant  Buzfuz,  who  had  proceeded  with 
such  volubility  that  his  face  was  perfectly  crim- 
son, here  paused  for  breath.  The  silence 


COURT 


125 


COURT 


awoke  Mr.  Justice  Stareleigh,  who  immediately 
wrote  down  something  with  a pen  without  any 
ink  in  it  and  looked  unusually  profound,  to  im- 
press the  jury  with  the  belief  that  he  always 
thought  most  deeply  with  his  eyes  shut. 

Pickwick , Chap.  34. 

COURT— Serjeant  Buzfuz’s  appeal  for  dam- 
ages. 

“ And  now,  gentlemen,  but  one  word  more. 
Two  letters  have  passed  between  these  parties, 
letters  which  are  admitted  to  be  in  the  hand- 
writing of  the  defendant,  and  which  speak  vol- 
umes indeed.  These  letters,  too,  bespeak  the 
character  of  the  man.  They  are  not  open,  fer- 
vent, eloquent  epistles,  breathing  nothing  but 
the  language  of  affectionate  attachment.  They 
are  covert,  sly,  underhanded  communications, 
but,  fortunately,  far  more  conclusive  than  if 
couched  in  the  most  glowing  language  and  the 
most  poetic  imagery — letters  that  must  be 
viewed  with  a cautious  and  suspicious  eye — 
letters  that  were  evidently  intended  at  the 
time,  by  Pickwick,  to  mislead  and  delude  any 
third  parties  into  whose  hands  they  might  fall. 
Let  me  read  the  first : — ‘ Garraway’s,  twelve 
o’clock.  Dear  Mrs.  B. — Chops  and  Tomata 
sauce.  Yours,  Pickwick.’  Gentlemen,  what 
does  this  mean?  Chops  and  Tomata  sauce. 
Yours,  Pickwick  1 Chops!  Gracious  heavens! 
and  Tomata  sauce!  Gentlemen,  is  the  happi- 
ness of  a sensitive  and  confiding  female  to  be 
trifled  away  by  such  shallow  artifices  as  these  ? 
The  next  has  no  date  whatever,  which  is  in  it- 
self suspicious.  ‘ * Dear  Mrs.  B.,  I shall  not  be 
at  home  till  to-morrow.  Slow  coach.’  And 
then  follows,  this  very  remarkable  expression, 
‘Don’t  trouble  yourself  about  the  warming- 
pan.’  The  warming-pan  ! Why,  gentlemen, 
who  does  trouble  himself  about  a warming-pan  ! 
When  was  the  peace  of  mind  of  man  or  woman 
broken  or  disturbed  by  a warming-pan,  which 
is  in  itself  a harmless,  a useful,  and  I will  add, 
gentlemen,  a comforting  article  of  domestic 
furniture?  Why  is  Mrs.  Bardell  so  earnestly 
entreated  not  to  agitate  herself  about  this 
warming-pan,  unless  (as  is  no  doubt  the  case)  it 
is  a mere  cover  for  hidden  fire — a mere  substi- 
tute for  some  endearing  word  or  promise,  agree- 
ably to  a preconcerted  system  of  correspond- 
ence, artfully  contrived  by  Pickwick  with  a 
view  to  his  contemplated  desertion,  and  which 
I am  not  in  a condition  to  explain?  And 
what  does  this  allusion  to  the  slow  coach  mean  ? 
For  aught  1 know,  it  may  be  a reference  to 
Pickwick  himself,  who  has  most  unquestionably 
been  a criminally  slow  coach  during  the  whole 
of  this  transaction,  but  whose  speed  will  now 
be  very  unexpectedly  accelerated,  and  whose 
wheels,  gentlemen,  as  he  will  find  to  his  cost, 
will  very  soon  be  greased  by  you  ! ” 

* * * * * 

“ But  enough  of  this,  gentlemen,”  said  Mr. 
Serjeant  Buzfuz,  “it  is  difficult  to  smile  with 
an  aching  heart  ; it  is  ill  jesting  when  our  deep- 
est sympathies  are  awakened.  My  client’s 
hopes  and  prospects  are  ruined,  and  it  is  no  fig- 
ure of  speech  to  say  that  her  occupation  is  gone 
indeed.  The  bill  is  down — but  there  is  no  ten- 
ant. Eligible  single  gentlemen  pass  and  re- 
pass— but  there  is  no  invitation  for  them  to  in- 
quire within  or  without.  All  is  gloom  and 
silence  in  the  house ; even  the  voice  of'  the 


child  is  hushed  ; his  infant  sports  are  disre- 
garded when  his  mother  weeps  ; his  ‘ alley  tors  ’ 
and  his  ‘ commoneys  ’ are  alike  neglected  ; he 
forgets  the  long  familiar  cry  of  ‘ knuckle  down,’ 
and  at  tip-cheese,  or  odd  and  even,  his  hand  is 
out.  But  Pickwick,  gentlemen,  Pickwick,  the 
ruthless  destroyer  of  this  domestic  oasis  in  the 
desert  of  Goswell  street — Pickwick,  who  has 
choked  up  the  well,  and  thrown  ashes  on  the 
sward — Pickwick,  who  comes  before  you  to-day 
with  his  heartless  Tomata  sauce  and  warming- 
pans — Pickwick  still  rears  his  head  with  un- 
blushing effrontery,  and  gazes  without  a sigh 
on  the  ruin  he  has  made.  Damages,  gentlemen 
— heavy  damages — is  the  only  punishment  with 
which  you  can  visit  him  ; the  only  recompense 
you  can  award  to  my  client.  And  for  those 
damages  she  now  appeals  to  an  enlighfened,  a 
high-minded,  a right-feeling,  a conscientious,  a 
dispassionate,  a sympathizing,  a contemplative 
jury  of  her  civilized  countrymen.”  With  this 
beautiful  peroration,  Mr.  Serjeant  Buzfuz  sat 
down,  and  Mr.  Justice  Stareleigh  woke  up. 

Pickwick , Chap.  34. 

COURT -A  trial  in. 

Everybody  present,  except  the  one  wigged 
gentleman  who  looked  at  the  ceiling,  stared  at 
him.  All  the  human  breath  in  the  place  rolled 
at  him,  like  a sea,  or  a wind,  or  a fire.  Eager 
faces  strained  round  pillars  and  corners,  to  get 
a sight  of  him  ; spectators  in  back  rows  stood 
up,  not  to  miss  a hair  of  him  ; people  on  the 
floor  of  the  court  laid  their  hands  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  people  before  them,  to  help 
themselves,  at  anybody’s  cost,  to  a view  of  him — 
stood  a-tiptoe,  got  upon  ledges,  stood  upon  next 
to  nothing,  to  see  every  inch  of  him.  Conspicuous 
among  these  latter,  like  an  animated  bit  of  the 
spiked  wall  of  Newgate,  Jerry  stood  ; aiming  at 
the  prisoner  the  beery  breath  of  a whet  he  had 
taken  as  he  came  along,  and  discharging  it  to 
mingle  with  the  waves  of  other  beer,  and  gin, 
and  tea,  and  coffee,  and  what  not,  that  flowed  at 
him,  and  already  broke  upon  the  great  windows 
behind  him  in  an  impure  mist  and  rain. 

The  object  of  all  this  staring  and  blaring  was 
a young  man  of  about  five-and-twenty,  well- 
grown,  and  well-looking,  with  a sunburnt  cheek 
and  a dark  eye.  His  condition  was  that  of  a 
young  gentleman.  He  was  plainly  dressed  in 
black,  or  very  dark  gray,  and  his  hair,  which  was 
long  and  dark,  was  gathered  in  a ribbon  at  the 
back  of  his  neck  : more  to  be  out  of  his  way  than 
for  ornament.  As  an  emotion  of  the  mind  will 
express  itself  through  any  covering  of  the  body, 
so  the  paleness  which  his  situation  engendered 
came  through  the  brown  upon  his  cheek,  show- 
ing the  soul  to  be  stronger  than  the  sun.  Lie 
was  otherwise  quite  self-possessed,  bowed  to  the 
Judge,  and  stood  quiet. 

The  sort  of  interest  with  which  this  man  was 
stared  and  breathed  at,  was  not  a sort  that  ele- 
vated humanity.  Had  he  stood  in  peril  of  a 
less  horrible  sentence — had  there  been  a chance 
of  any  one  of  its  savage’  details  being  spared — 
by  just  so  much  would  he  have  lost  in  his  fasci- 
nation. The  form  that  was  to  be  doomed  to  be 
so  shamefully  mangled,  was  the  sight ; the  im- 
mortal creature  that  was  to  be  so  butchered  and 
torn  asunder,  yielded  the  sensation.  Whatever 
gloss  the  various  spectators  put  upon  the  in- 
terest, according  to  their  several  arts  and  powers 


COURT 


120 


COURT  OP  CHANCERY 


of  self-deceit,  the  interest  was,  at  the  root  of  it, 
Ogreish. — Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  II. , Chap.  2. 

COURT  The  Lord  Chancellor  in. 

When  we  came  to  the  court,  there  was  the 
Lord  Chancellor — the  same  whom  I had  seen  in 
his  private  room  in  Lincoln’s  Inn — sitting  in 
great  state  and  gravity,  on  the  bench  ; with  the 
mace  and  seals  on  a red  table  below  him,  and 
an  immense  flat  nosegay,  like  a little  garden, 
which  scented  the  whole  court.  Below  the 
table,  again,  was  a long  row  of  solicitors,  with 
bundles  of  papers  on  the  matting  at  their  feet  ; 
and  then  there  were  the  gentlemen  of  the  bar  in 
wigs  and  gowns — some  awake  and  some  asleep, 
and  one  talking,  and  nobody  paying  much  at- 
tention to  what  he  said.  The  Lord  Chancellor 
leaned  back  in  his  very  easy  chair,  with  his 
elbow  on  the  cushioned  arm,  and  his  forehead 
resting  on  his  hand  : some  of  those  who  were 
present,  dozed : some  read  the  newspapers ; 
some  walked  about,  or  whispered  in  groups  ; all 
seemed  perfectly  at  their  ease,  by  no  means  in 
a hurry,  very  unconcerned,  and  extremely  com- 
fortable. 

To  see  everything  going  on  so  smoothly,  and 
to  think  of  the  roughness  of  the  suitors’  lives 
and  deaths  ; to  see  all  that  full  dress  and  cere- 
mony, and  to  think  of  the  waste,  and  want,  and 
beggared  misery  it  represented  ; to  consider  that 
while  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred  was  raging 
in  so  many  hearts,  this  polite  show  went  calmly 
on  from  clay  to  day,  and  year  to  year,  in  such 
good  order  and  composure  ; to  behold  the  Lord 
Chancellor,  and  the  wdiole  array  of  practitioners 
under  him,  looking  at  one  another  and  at  the 
spectators,  as  if  nobody  had  ever  heard  that  all 
over  England  the  name  in  which  they  were  as- 
sembled was  a bitter  jest  ; was  held  in  universal 
horror,  contempt,  and  indignation  ; was  known 
for  something  so  flagrant  and  bad,  that  little 
short  of  a miracle  could  bring  any  good  out  of 
it  to  any  one. 

❖ ^ ^ Hs 

When  we  had  been  there  half  an  hour  or  so, 
the  case  in  progress — if  I may  use  a phrase  so 
ridiculous  in  such  a connection — seemed  to  die 
out  of  its  own  vapidity,  without  coming,  or  being 
by  anybody  expected  to  come,  to  any  result.  The 
Lord  Chancellor  then  threw  down  a bundle  of 
papers  from  his  desk  to  the  gentlemen  below 
him,  and  somebody  said,  “ Jarndyce  and 
Jarndyce.”  Upon  this  there  was  a buzz,  and 
a laugh,  and  a general  withdrawal  of  the  by- 
standers, and  a bringing  in  of  great  heaps,  and 
piles,  and  bags  and  bagsfull  of  papers. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  24. 

COURT  OE  CHANCER  Y-Jamdyce  v.  Jarn- 
dyce. 

Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  drones  on.  This 
scarecrow  of  a suit  has  in  course  of  time  become 
so  complicated,  that  no  man  alive  knows  what 
it  means.  The  parties  to  it  understand  it  least ; 
but  it  has  been  observed  that  no  two  Chancery 
lawyers  can  talk  about  it  for  five  minutes  with- 
out coming  to  a total  disagreement  as  to  all  the 
premises.  Innumerable  children  have  been 
born  into  the  cause  ; innumerable  young  people, 
have  married  into  it  ; innumerable  old  people 
have  died  out  of  it.  Scores  of  persons  have 
deliriously  found  themselves  made  parties  in 
Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce,  without  knowing  how 


or  why  ; whole  families  have  inherited  legend- 
ary hatreds  with  the  suit.  The  little  plaintiff 
or  defendant,  who  was  promised  a new  rocking- 
horse  when  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  should  be 
settled,  has  grown  up,  possessed  himself  of  a 
real  horse,  and  trotted  away  into  the  other  world. 
Fair  wards  of  court  have  faded  into  mothers 
and  grandmothers  ; a long  procession  of  Chan- 
cellors has  come  in  and  gone  out  ; the  legion  of 
bills  in  the  suit  have  been  transformed  into  mere 
bills  of  mortality  ; there  are  not  three  Jarndyce# 
left  upon  the  earth  perhaps,  since  old  Tom  Jarn- 
dyce in  despair  blew  his  brains  out  at  a coffee- 
house in  Chancery  Lane;  but  Jarndyce  and 
Jarndyce  still  drags  its  dreary  length  before  the 
court,  perennially  hopeless. 

Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  has  passed  into  a joke. 
That  is  the  only  good  that  has  ever  come  of  it. 
It  has  been  death  to  many,  but  it  is  a joke  in 
the  profession.  Every  master  in  Chancery  has 
had  a reference  out  of  it.  Every  Chancellor 
was  “ in  it,”  for  somebody  or  other,  when  he  was 
counsel  at  the  bar.  Good  things  have  been  said 
about  it  by  blue-nosed,  bulbous-shoed  old  bench- 
ers, in  select  port-wine  committee  after  din- 
ner in  hall.  Articled  clerks  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  flashing  their  legal  wit  upon  it.  The 
last  Lord  Chancellor  handled  it  neatly,  when, 
correcting  Mr.  Blowers,  the  eminent  silk  gown 
who  said  that  such  a thing  might  happen  when 
the  sky  rained  potatoes,  he  observed,  “or  when, 
we  get  through  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce,  Mr. 
Blowers  ; ” — a pleasantry  that  particularly  tickled 
the  maces,  bags,  and  purses. 

How  many  people  out  of  the  suit  Jarndyce 
and  Jarndyce  has  stretched  forth  its  unwhole- 
some hand  to  spoil  and  corrupt,  would  be  a very 
wide  question.  From  the  master,  upon  whose 
impaling  files  reams  of  dusty  warrants  in  Jarn- 
dyce and  Jarndyce  have  grimly  writhed  into 
many  shapes,  down  to  the  copying-clerk  in  the 
Six  Clerks’  Office,  who  has  copied  his  tens  of 
thousands  of  Chancery-folio-pages  under  that 
eternal  heading;  no  man’s  nature  has  been 
made  better  by  it.  In  trickery,  evasion,  pro- 
crastination, spoliation,  botheration,  under  false 
pretences  of  all  sorts,  there  are  influences  that 
can  never  come  to  good.  The  very  solicitors’ 
boys  who  have  kept  the  wretched  suitors  at  bay, 
by  protesting  time  out  of  mind  that  Mr.  Chizzle, 
Mizzle,  or  otherwise,  was  particularly  engaged, 
and  had  appointments  until  dinner,  may  have 
got  an  extra  moral  twist  and  shuffle  into  them- 
selves out  of  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce.  The  re- 
ceiver in  the  cause  has  acquired  a goodly  sum 
of  money  by  it,  but  has  acquired  too  a distrust 
for  his  own  mother,  and  a contempt  for  his  own 
kind.  Chizzle,  Mizzle,  and  otherwise,  have 
lapsed  into  a habit  of  vaguely  promising  them- 
selves that  they  will  look  into  that  outstanding 
little  matter,  and  see  what  can  be  done  for  Driz- 
zle— who  was  not  well  used — when  Jarndyce 
and  Jarndyce  shall  be  got  out  of  the  office. 
Shirking  and  sharking,  in  all  their  many  varieties, 
have  been  sown  broadcast  by  the  ill-fated  cause  ; 
and  even  those  who  have  contemplated  its  his- 
tory from  the  outermost  circle  of  such  evil,  have 
been  insensibly  tempted  into  a loose  way  of  let- 
ting bad  things  alone  to  take  their  own  bad 
course,  and  a loose  belief  that  if  the  world  go 
wrong,  it  was,  in  some  off-hand  manner,  never 
meant  to  go  right. 

Thus,  in  the  midst  of  the  mud  and  at  the  heart 


COURT  OP  CHANCERY 


127 


COURT  OF  CHANCERY 


of  the  fog,  sits  the  Lord  High  Chancellor  in  his 
High  Court  of  Chancery. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  I. 

COURT  OF  CHANCERY  — Jarndyce  v. 

Jarndyce. 

“ Mlud,”  says  Mr.  Tangle.  Mr.  Tangle  knows 
more  of  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  than  anybody. 
He  is  famous  for  it — supposed  never  to  have 
read  anything  else  since  he  left  school. 

“ Have  you  nearly  concluded  your  argu- 
ment ? ” 

“ Mlud,  no — variety  of  points — feel  it  my  duty 
tsubmit — ludship,”  is  the  reply  that  slides  out  of 
Mr.  Tangle. 

“ Several  members  of  the  bar  are  still  to  be 
heard,  I believe?”  says  the  Chancellor,  with  a 
slight  smile. 

Eighteen  of  Mr.  Tangle’s  learned  friends,  each 
armed  with  a little  summary  of  eighteen  hun- 
dred sheets,  bob  up  like  eighteen  hammers  in  a 
piano-forte,  make  eighteen  bows,  and  drop  into 
their  eighteen  places  of  obscurity. 

“ We  will  proceed  with  the  hearing  on  Wednes- 
day fortnight,”  says  the  Chancellor.  For,  the 
question  at  issue  is  only  a question  of  costs,  a 
mere  bud  on  the  forest-tree  of  the  parent  suit, 
and  really  will  come  to  a settlement  one  of  these 
days. 

Hi  * * ❖ # % 

The  Chancellor  has  dexterously  vanished. 
Everybody  else  quickly  vanishes  too.  A bat- 
tery of  blue  bags  is  loaded  with  heavy  charges 
of  papers,  and  carried  off  by  clerks  ; the  little 
mad  old  woman  marches  off  with  her  docu- 
ments ; the  empty  court  is  locked  up.  If  all 
the  injustice  it  has  committed,  and  all  the  misery 
it  has  caused,  could  only  be  locked  up  with  it, 
and  the  whole  burnt  away  in  a great  funeral 
pyre — why,  so  much  the  better  for  other  parties 
than  the  parties  in  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  ! 

Bleak  House , Chap.  I. 

COURT  OF  CHANCERY- The. 

Never  can  there  come  fog  too  thick,  never 
can  there  come  mud  and  mire  too  deep,  to  as- 
sort with  the  groping  and  floundering  condition 
which  this  High  Court  of  Chancery,  most  pesti- 
lent of  hoary  sinners,  holds,  this  day,  in  the 
sight  of  heaven  and  earth. 

On  such  an  afternoon,  if  ever,  the  Lord  High 
Chancellor  ought  to  be  sitting  here — as  here  he 
is — with  a foggy  glory  round  his  head,  softly 
fenced  in  with  crimson  cloth  and  curtains,  ad- 
dressed by  a large  advocate  with  great  whiskers, 
a little  voice,  and  an  interminable  brief,  and 
outwardly  directing  his  contemplation  to  the 
lantern  in  the  roof,  where  he  can  see  nothing 
but  fog.  On  such  an  afternoon,  some  score  of 
members  of  the  High  Court  of  Chancery  bar 
ought  to  be — as  here  they  are — mistily  engaged 
in  one  of  the  ten  thousand  stages  of  an  endless 
cause,  tripping  one  another  up  on  slippery  pre- 
cedents, groping  knee-deep  in  technicalities, 
running  their  goat-hair  and  horse-hair  warded 
heads  against  walls  of  words,  and  making  a pre- 
tence of  equity  with  serious  faces,  as  players 
might. , On  such  an  afternoon,  the  various  soli- 
citors of  the  cause,  some  two  or  three  of  whom 
have  inherited  it  from  their  fathers,  who  made  a 
fortune  by  it,  ought  to  be — as  are  they  not  ? — 
ranged  in  a line,  in  a long  matted  well  (but  you 
might  look  in  vain  for  Truth  at  the  bottom  of 


it),  between  the  register’s  red  table  and  the  silk 
gowns,  with  bills,  cross-bills,  answers,  rejoinders, 
injunctions,  affidavits,  issues,  references  to  mas- 
ters, masters’  reports,  mountains  of  costly  non- 
sense, piled  before  them.  Well  may  the  court 
be  dim,  with  wasting  candles  here  and  there ; 
well  may  the  fog  hang  heavy  in  it,  as  if  it  would 
never  get  out  ; well  may  the  stained  glass  win- 
dows lose  their  color,  and  admit  no  light  of  day 
into  the  place  ; well  may  the  uninitiated  from 
the  streets,  M ho  peep  in  through  the  glass  panes 
in  the  door,  be  deterred  from  entrance  by  its 
owlish  aspect,  and  by  the  drawl  languidly  echo- 
ing to  the  roof  from  the  padded  dais  where  the 
Lord  High  Chancellor  looks  into  the  lantern 
that  has  no  light  in  it,  and  where  the  attendant 
M’igs  are  all  stuck  in  a fog-bank ! This  is  the 
Court  of  Chancery ; which  has  its  decaying 
houses  and  its  blighted  lands  in  every  shire  ; 
M'hich  has  its  worn-out  lunatic  in  every  mad- 
house. and  its  dead  in  every  churchyard  ; which 
has  its  ruined  suitor,  with  his  slipshod  heels 
and  threadbare  dress,  borrowing  and  begging 
through  the  round  of  every  man’s  acquaintance  ; 
which  gives  to  moneyed  might  the  means,  abund- 
antly, of  wearying  out  the  right ; M'hich  so  ex- 
hausts finances,  patience,  courage,  hope  ; so 
overthrows  the  brain  and  breaks  the  heart ; that 
there  is  not  an  honorable  man  among  its  prac- 
titioners who  would  not  give — who  does  not 
often  give — the  M'arning,  “ Suffer  any  M rong 
that  can  be  done  you,  rather  than  come  here  !” 

Who  happen  to  be  in  the  Lord  Chancellor’s 
court  this  murky  afternoon  besides  the  Lord 
Chancellor,  the  counsel  in  the  cause,  two  or  three 
counsel  who  are  never  in  any  cause,  and  the 
well  of  solicitors  before  mentioned?  There  is 
the  registrar,  below  the  judge  in  M'ig  and  gown  ; 
and  there  are  tM'O  or  three  maces,  or  petty  bags, 
or  privy  purses,  or  whatever  they  may  be,  in 
legal  court  suits.  These  are  all  yawning  ; for 
no  crumb  of  amusement  ever  falls  from  Jarn- 
dyce and  Jarndyce  (the  cause  in  hand),  which 
was  squeezed  dry  years  upon  years  ago.  The 
short-hand  writers,  the  reporters  of  the  court, 
and  the  reporters  of  the  neu'spapers,  invariably 
decamp  M'ith  the  rest  of  the  regulars  M'hen  Jarn- 
dyce and  Jarndyce  comes  on.  Their  places  are 
a blank.  Standing  on  a seat  at  the  side  of  the 
hall,  the  better  Lo  peer  into  the  curtained  sanc- 
tuary, is  a little  mad  old  woman  in  a squeezed 
bonnet,  M’ho  is  always  in  court,  from  its  sitting 
to  its  rising,  and  alM'ays  expecting  some  incom- 
prehensible judgment  to  be  given  in  her  favor. 
Some  say  she  really  is,  or  M'as,  a party  to  a suit ; 
but  no  one  knows  for  certain,  because  no  one 
cares.^  She  carries  some  small  litter  in  a reticule, 
M'hich  she  calls  her  documents  ; principally  con- 
sisting of  paper  matches  and  dry  lavender. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  i. 

COURT  OF  CHANCERY  — Its  bedevil- 
ments. 

“ Of  course,  Esther,”  he  said,  “ you  don’t  un- 
derstand this  Chancery  business?” 

And  of  course  I shook  my  head. 

“ I don’t  know  M'ho  does,”  he  returned. 
“ The  laM'yers  have  tM'isted  it  into  such  a state 
of  bedevilment  that  the  original  merits  of  the 
case  have  long  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the 
earth.  It’s  about  a Will,  and  the  trusts  under 
a Will — or  it  M'as,  once.  It’s  about  nothing  but 
Costs,  now.  We  are  ahvays  appearing,  and  dis- 


COURT  OF  CHANCERY 


128 


COURT  OF  CHANCERY 


appearing,  and  swearing,  and  interrogating,  and 
filing,  and  cross  filing,  and  arguing,  and  sealing, 
and  motioning,  and  referring,  and  reporting, 
and  revolving  , about  the  Lord  Chancellor  and 
all  his  satellites,  and  equitably  waltzing  our- 
selves off  to  dusty  death,  about  Costs.  That’s 
the  great  question.  All  the  rest,  by  some  ex- 
traordinary means,  has  melted  away.” 

“ But  it  was,  sir.”  said  I,  to  bring  him  back, 
for  he  began  to  rub  his  head,  “about  a Will?” 

“ Why,  yes,  it  was  about  a Will  when  it  was 
about  anything,”  he  returned.  “A  certain  Jarn- 
dyce,  in  an  evil  hour,  made  a great  fortune,  and 
made  a great  Will.  In  the  question  how  the 
trusts  under  that  Will  are  to  be  administered, 
the  fortune  left  by  the  Will  is  squandered  away  ; 
the  legatees  under  the  Will  are  reduced  to  such 
a miserable  condition  that  they  would  be  suf- 
ficiently punished,  if  they  had  committed  an 
enormous  crime  in  having  money  left  them  ; 
and  the  Will  itself  is  made  a dead  letter.  All 
through  the  deplorable  cause,  everything  that 
everybody  in  it,  except  one  man,  knows  already, 
is  referred  to  that  only  one  man  who  don’t 
know  it,  to  find  out — all  through  the  deplora- 
ble cause,  everybody  must  have  copies,  over  and 
over  again,  of  everything  that  has  accumulated 
about  it  in  the  way  of  cart-loads  of  papers  (or 
must  pay  for  them  without  having  them,  which 
is  the  usual  course,  for  nobody  wants  them) ; 
and.  must  go  down  the  middle  and  up  again, 
through  such  an  infernal  country-dance  of  costs 
and  fees  and  nonsense  and  corruption,  as  was 
never  dreamed  of  in  the  wildest  visions  of  a 
Witch’s  Sabbath.  Equity  sends  questions  to 
I. aw,  Law  sends  questions  back  to  Equity  ; 
Law  finds  it  can’t  do  this,  Equity  finds  it  can’t 
do  that ; neither  can  so  much  as  say  it  can’t  do 
anything,  without  this  solicitor  instructing  and 
this  counsel  appearing  for  A,  and  that  solicitor 
instructing  and  that  counsel  appearing  for  B ; 
and  so  on  through  the  whole  alphabet,  like  the 
history  of  the  Apple  Pie.  And  thus,  through 
years  and  years,  and  lives  and  lives,  everything 
goes  on,  constantly  beginning  over  and  over 
again,  and  nothing  ever  ends.  And  we  can’t  get 
out  of  the  suit  on  any  terms,  for  we  are  made 
parties  to  it,  and  must  be  parties  to  it,  whether 
we  like  it  or  not.  But  it  won’t  do  to  think  of 
it ! When  my  great-uncle,  poor  Tom  Jarn- 
dyce,  began  to  think  of  it,  it  was  the  beginning 
of  the  end  ! ” — Bleak  House , Chap.  8. 

COURT  OF  CHANCERY- Its  Wigrlomera- 
tion. 

“ However,”  said  Mr.  Jarndyce,  “ to  return  to 
our  gossip.  Here’s  Rick,  a fine  young  fellow  full 
of  promise.  What’s  to  be  done  with  him  ? ” 

O my  goodness,  the  idea  of  asking  my  advice 
on  such  a point  ! 

“ Here  he  is,  Esther,”  said  Mr.  Jarndyce, 
comfortably  putting  his  hands  into  his  pockets 
and  stretching  out  his  legs.  “ He  must  have  a 
piofession  ; he  must  make  some  choice  for  him- 
self. There  will  be  a world  more  Wiglomera- 
tion  about  it,  I suppose,  but  it  must  be  done.” 

“ Moie  what,  Guardian  !”  said  I. 

“ More  Wiglomeration,”  said  he.  “It's  the 
only  name  I know  for  the  thing,  lie  is  a ward 
in  Chancery,  my  dear.  Kenge  and  Carboy  will 
have  something  to  say  about  it  ; Master  Some- 
body— a sort  of  ridiculous  Sexton,  digging  graves 
for  the  merits  of  causes  in  a back  room  at  the 


end  of  Quality  Court,  Chancery  Lane — will 
have  something  to  say  about  it ; Counsel  will 
have  something  to  say  about  it ; the  Chancellor 
will  have  something  to  say  about  it  ; the  Satel- 
lites will  have  something  to  say  about  it ; they 
will  all  have  to  be  handsomely  fee’d,  all  round, 
about  it  ; the  whole  thing  will  be  vastly  cere- 
monious, wordy,  unsatisfactory,  and  expensive, 
and  I call  it  in  general  Wiglomeration.  How 
mankind  ever  came  to  be  afflicted  with  Wiglom- 
eration. or  for  whose  sins  these  young  people 
ever  fell  into  a pit  of  it,  I don’t  know  ; so  it 'is.' 

He  began  to  rub  his  head  again,  and  to  hint 
he  felt  the  wind.  But  it  was  a delightful  in- 
stance of  his  kindness  towards  me,  that  whether 
he  rubbed  his  head,  or  walked  about,  or  did 
both,  his  face  was  sure  to  recover  its  benignant 
expression  as  it  looked  at  mine  ; and  he  was 
sure  to  turn  comfortable  again,  and  put  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  stretch  out  his  legs. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  8. 

COURT— The  end  of  Jarndyce  vs.  Jarndyce. 

“ Is  this  Will  considered  a genuine  docu- 
ment, sir  ? ” said  Allan  ; “ will  you  tell  us  that  ? ” 

“ Most  certainly,  if  I could,”  said  Mr.  Kenge  ; 
“ but  we  have  not  gone  into  that,  we  have  not 
gone  into  that.” 

“ We  have  not  gone  into  that,”  repeated  Mr. 
Vholes,  as  if  his  low  inward  voice  were  an  echo. 

“You  are  to  reflect,  Mr.  Woodcourt,”  ob- 
served Mr.  Kenge,  using  his  silver  trowel,  per- 
suasively and  smoothingly,  “ that  this  has  been 
a great  cause,  that  this  has  been  a protracted 
cause,  that  this  has  been  a complex  cause. 
Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce  has  been  termed,  not 
inaptly,  a Monument  of  Chancery  practice.” 

“And  Patience  has  sat  upon  it  a long  time,” 
said  Allan. 

“ Very  well  indeed,  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Kenge, 
with  a certain  condescending  laugh  he  had. 
“Very  well!  You  are  further  to  reflect,  Mr. 
Woodcourt,”  becoming  dignified  almost  to  se- 
verity, “ that  on  the  numerous  difficulties,  con- 
tingencies, masterly  fictions,  and  forms  of  pro- 
cedure in  this  great  cause,  there  has  been  ex- 
pended study,  ability,  eloquence,  knowledge,  in- 
tellect, Mr.  Woodcourt,  high  intellect.  P’or 
many  years,  the — a — I would  say  the  flower  of 
the  Bar,  and  the — a — I would  presume  to  add, 
the  matured  autumnal  fruits  of  the  Woolsack 
— have  been  lavished  upon  Jarndyce  and  Jarn- 
dyce. If  the  public  have  the  benefit,  and  if 
the  country  have  the  adornment,  of  this  great 
Grasp,  it  must  be  paid  for  in  money  or  money’s 
worth,  sir.” 

“ Mr.  Kenge,”  said  Allan,  appearing  enlight- 
ened all  in  a moment.  “ Excuse  me,  our  time 
presses.  Do  I understand  that  the  whole  es- 
tate is  found  to  have  been  absorbed  in  costs?” 

“ Hem  ! I believe  so,”  returned  Mr.  Kenge. 
“ Mr.  Vholes,  what  do  you  say  ? ” 

“ I believe  so,”  said  Mr.  Vholes. 

“ And  that  thus  the  suit  lapses  and  melts 
away  ? ” 

“ Probably,”  returned  Mr.  Kenge.  “ Mr. 
Vholes  ? ” 

“Probably,”  said  Mr.  Vholes. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  65. 

COURT  OF  CHANCERY  — Boythorn’s 
opinion  of  the. 

“ There  never  was  such  an  infernal  caldron 


COURTS 


129 


CRIME 


as  that  Chancery,  on  the  face  of  the  earth  ! ” 
said  Mr.  Boythorn.  “Nothing  but  a mine  be- 
low it  on  a busy  day  in  term  time,  with  all  its 
records,  rules,  and  precedents  collected  in  it, 
and  every  functionary  belonging  to  it  also,  high 
and  low,  upward  and  downward,  from  its  son 
the  Accountant-General  to  its  father  the  Devil, 
and  the  whole  blown  to  atoms  with  ten  thou- 
sand hundred-weight  of  gunpowder,  would  re- 
form it  in  the  least ! ” 

It  was  impossible  not  to  laugh  at  the  ener- 
getic gravity  with  which  he  recommended  this 
strong  measure  of  reform.  When  we  laughed, 
he  threw  up  his  head,  and  shook  his  broad 
chest,  and  again  the  whole  country  seemed  to 
echo  to  his  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! It  had  not  the 
least  effect  in  disturbing  the  bird,  whose  sense 
of  security  was  complete  ; and  who  hopped 
about  the  table  with  its  quick  head  now  on  this 
sideband  now  on  that,  turning  its  bright  sud- 
den eye  on  its  master,  as  if  he  wrere  no  more 
than  another  bird. — Bleak  House , Chap.  9. 

COURTS— Like  powder-mills  (Betsey  Trot- 
wood.) 

My  aunt  regarded  all  Courts  of  Law  as  a sort 
of  powder-mills  that  might  blow  up  at  any  time. 

David  Copper  fields  Chap.  23. 

CRIME  AND  FILTH  I11  London. 

Wheresoever  Mr.  Rogers  turns  the  flaming 
eye,  there  is  a spectral  figure  rising,  unshrouded, 
from  a grave  of  rags.  Who  is  the  landlord 
here? — I am,  Mr.  Field  ! says  a bundle  of  ribs 
and  parchment  against  the  wall,  scratching  itself. 
— Will  you  spend  this  money  fairly,  in  the  morn- 
ing, to  buy  coffee  for  ’em  all? — Yes  Sir,  I will ! 
— O he’ll  do  it,  Sir,  he’ll  do  it  fair.  He’s  honest ! 
cry  the  spectres.  And  with  thanks  and  Good 
Night  sink  into  their  graves  again. 

Thus,  we  make  our  New  Oxford  Streets,  and 
our  other  new  streets,  never  heeding,  never  ask- 
ing, where  the  wretches  whom  we  clear  out, 
crowd.  With  such  scenes  at  our  doors,  with  all 
the  plagues  of  Egypt  tied  up  with  bits  of  cob- 
web in  kennels  so  near  our  homes,  we  timo- 
rously make  our  Nuisance  Bills  and  Boards  of 
Health  nonentities,  and  think  to  keep  away  the 
Wolves  of  Crime  and  Filth  by  our  electioneer- 
ing ducking  to  little  vestrymen  and  our  gentle- 
manly handling  of  Red  Tape  ! 

* * ■ * * ❖ 

Wherever  the  turning  lane  of  light  becomes 
stationary  for  a moment,  some  sleeper  appears 
at  the  end  of  it,  submits  himself  to  be  scru 
tinized,  and  fades  away  into  the  darkness. 

There  should  be  strange  dreams  here,  Deputy. 
They  sleep  sound  enough,  says  Deputy,  taking 
the  candle  out  of  the  blacking  bottle,  snuffing 
it  with  his  fingers,  throwing  the  snuff  into  the 
bottle,  and  corking  it  up  with  the  candle,  that’s 
all.  / know.  What  is  the  inscription,  Deputy, 
on  all  the  discolored  sheets?  A precaution 
against  loss  of  linen.  Deputy  turns  down  the 
rug  of  an  unoccupied  bed  and  discloses  it. 
Stop  Thief  ! 

To  lie  at  night,  wrapped  in  the  legend  of  my 
slinking  life  ; to  take  the  cry  that  pursues  me, 
waking,  to  my  breast  in  sleep  ; to  have  it  star- 
ing at  me,  and  clamoring  for  me,  as  soon  as  con- 
sciousness returns  ; to  have  it  for  my  first-foot 
on  New  Year’s  day,  my  Valentine,  my  Birthday 


salute,  my  Christmas  greeting,  my  parting  with 
the  old  year.  Stop  Thief  ! 

And  to  know  that  I must  be  stopped,  come 
what  will.  To  know  that  I am  no  match  for  this 
individual  energy  and  keenness,  or  this  organized 
and  steady  system  ! Come  across  the  street, 
here,  and,  entering  by  a little  shop,  and  yard, 
examine  these  intricate  passages  and  do.ors,  con- 
trived for  escape,  flapping  and  counter-flapping, 
like  the  lids  of  the  conjuror’s  boxes.  But  what 
avail  they  ? Who  gets  in  by  a nod,  and  shows 
their  secret  working  to  us  ? Inspector  Field. — On 
Duty  with  Inspector  Field.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

CRIME— A kind  of  disorder. 

The  man  was  not  unnaturally  cruel  or  hard- 
hearted. He  had  come  to  look  upon  felony  as 
a kind  of  disorder,  like  the  scarlet  fever  or  ery- 
sipelas ; some  people  had  it — some  hadn’t — 
just  as  it  might  be. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  61. 

CRIMINALS— Their  strug-gles  with  crime. 

If  great  criminals  told  the  truth — which,  be- 
ing great  criminals,  they  do  not — they  would 
very  rarely  tell  of  their  struggles  against  the 
crime.  Their  struggles  are  towards  it.  They 
buffet  with  opposing  waves,  to  gain  the  bloody 
shore,  n6t  to  recede  from  it. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  III.,  Chap.  n. 

CRIME— The  fascination  of. 

“You  have  a strong  fancy,”  said  the  blind 
man,  with  a smile. 

“ Strengthen  yours  with  blood,  and  see  what 
it  will  come  to.” 

He  groaned,  and  rocked  himself,  and  look- 
ing up  for  the  first  time,  said,  in  a low,  hollow 
voice : 

“ Eight-and-twenty  years  ! Eight-and-twenty 
years  ! He  has  never  changed  in  all  that  time, 
never  grown  older,  nor  altered  in  the  least  de- 
gree. He  has  been  before  me  in  the  dark  night, 
and  the  broad  sunny  day  ; in  the  twilight,  the 
moonlight,  the  sunlight,  the  light  of  fire,  and 
lamp,  and  candle,  and  in  the  deepest  gloom. 
Always  the  same  ! In  company,  in  solitude,  on 
land,  on  shipboard  ; sometimes  leaving  me  alone 
for  months,  and  sometimes  always  with  me.  I 
have  seen  him  at  sea,  come  gliding  in  the  dead 
of  night  along  the  bright  reflection  of  the  moon 
in  the  calm  water  ; and  I have  seen  him,  on 
quays  and  market-places,  with  his  hand  uplifted, 
towering,  the  centre  of  a busy  crowd,  uncon- 
scious of  the  terrible  form  that  had  its 
silent  stand  among  them.  Fancy  ! Are  you 
real  ? Am  I ? Are  these  iron  fetters,  riveted 
on  me  by  the  smith’s  hammer,  or  are  they 
fancies  I can  shatter  at  a blow  ? ” 

* * * * * 

“ Why  did  you  return  ? ” said  the  blind  man. 

“ Why  is  blood  red  ? I could  no  more  help 
it  than  I could  live  without  breath.  I struggled 
against  the  impulse,  but  I was  drawn  back, 
through  every  difficult  and  adverse  circumstance, 
as  by  a mighty  engine.  Nothing  could  stop  me. 
The  day  and  hour  were  none  of  my  choice. 
Sleeping  and  waking,  I had  been  among  the 
old  haunts  for  years — had  visited  my  own  grave. 
Why  did  I come  back?  Because  this  jail  was 
gaping  for  me,  and  he  stood  beckoning  at  the 
door.” 

“ You  wrere  not  known?  ” said  the  blind  man. 


CROWD 


130 


CUPBOARD 


“ I was  a man  who  hacl  been  twenty-two  years 
dead.  No.  I was  not  known.” 

“You  should  have  kept  your  secret  better.” 

“ My  secret?  Mine?  It  was  a secret  any 
breath  of  air  could  whisper  at  its  will.  The 
stars  had  it  in  their  twinkling,  the  water  in  its 
flowing,  the  leaves  in  their  rustling,  the  seasons 
in  their  return.  It  lurked  in  strangers’  faces, 
and  their  voices.  Everything  had  lips  on  which 
it  always  trembled — My  secret.” 

“ It  was  revealed  by  you  own  act,  at  any  rate,” 
said  the  blind  man. 

“The  act  was  not  mine.  I did  it,  but  it  was 
not  mine.  I was  forced  at  times  to  wander 
round,  and  round,  and  round  that  spot.  If  you 
had  chained  me  up  when  the  fit  was  on  me,  I 
should  have  broken  away,  and  gone  there.  As 
truly  as  the  loadstone  draws  iron  towards  it,  so 
he,  lying  at  the  bottom  of  his  grave,  could  draw 
me  near  him  when  he-  would.  Was  that  fancy? 
Did  I like  to  go  there,  or  did  I strive  and  wres- 
tle with  the  power  that  forced  me  ? ” 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap . 62. 

CROWD- A. 

From  the  dimly-lighted  passages  of  the  court, 
the  last  sediment  of  the  human  stew  that  had 
been  boiling  there  all  day,  was  straining  off. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  4. 

CROWD— Passing1. 

Who  could  sit  upon  anything  in  Fleet  Street 
during  the  busy  hours  of  the  day,  and  not  be 
dazed  and  deafened  by  two  immense  proces- 
sions, one  ever  tending  westward  with  the  sun, 
the  other  ever  tending  eastward  from  the  sun, 
both  ever  tending  to  the  plains  beyond  the  range 
of  red  and  purple  where  the  sun  goes  down  ! 

With  his  straw  in  his  mouth,  Mr.  Cruncher 
sat  watching  the  two  streams,  like  the  heathen 
rustic  who  has  for  several  centuries  been  on 
duty  watching  one  stream — saving  that  Jerry 
had  no  expectation  of  their  ever  running  dry. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  14. 

CRUPP— Mrs.— Her  “ spazzums.” 

At  about  this  time,  too,  I made  three  dis- 
coveries : first,  that  Mrs.  Crupp  was  a martyr  to 
a curious  disorder  called  “ the  spazzums,”  which 
was  generally  accompanied  with  inflammation 
of  the  nose,  and  required  to  be  constantly  treated 
with  peppermint  ; secondly,  that  something  pe- 
culiar in  the  temperature  of  my  pantry,  made 
the  brandy-bottles  burst ; thirdly,  that  I was 
alone  in  the  world,  and  much  given  to  record 
that  circumstance  in  fragments  of  English  versi- 
fication.— David  Copperfield,  Chap.  26. 

CRUPP— Mrs.— Her  advice  01a  love. 

She  came  up  to  me  one  evening,  when  I was 
very  low,  to  ask  (she  being  then  afflicted  with 
the  disorder  I have  mentioned)  if  I could  oblige 
her  with  a little  tincture  of  cardamoms  mixed 
with  rhubarb,  and  flavored  with  seven  drops  of 
the  essence  of  cloves,  which  was  the  best  remedy 
for  her  complaint  ; — or,  if  I had  not  such  a thing 
by  me,  with  a little  brandy,  which  was  the  next 
bi  I not,  he  remarked,  as  palatable  to 
her,  but  it  was  the  next  best.  As  I had  never 
even  heard  of  the  fii  1 remedy,  and  always  had 
the  second  in  the  closet,  I gave  Mrs.  Crupp  a 
glass  of  the  second,  which  (that  I might  have 


no  suspicion  of  its  being  devoted  to  any  impro- 
per use)  she  began  to  take  in  my  presence. 

“Cheer  up,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Crupp.  “I  can’t 
abcar  to  see  you  so,  sir : I’m  a mother  myself.” 

I did  not  quite  perceive  the  application  of 
this  fact  to  myself,  but  I smiled  on  Mrs.  Crupp 
as  benignly  as  was  in  my  power. 

“Come,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Crupp.  " Excuse  me, 

I know  what  it  is,  sir.  There’s  a lady  in  the 
case.” 

“Mrs.  Crupp  !”  I returned,  reddening. 

“Oh,  bless  you!  Keep  a good  heart,  sir!” 
said  Mrs.  Crupp,  nodding  encouragement. 

“ Never  say  die,  sir!  If  she  don’t  smile  upon 
you,  there’s  a many  as  will.  You  are  a young 
gentleman  to  be  smiled  on,  Mr.  Copperl'ull,  and 
you  must  learn  your  walue,  sir.” 

Mrs.  Crupp  always  called  me  Mr.  Copperfull  , 
firstly,  no  doubt,  because  it  was  not  my  name  ; 
and  secondly,  I am  inclined  to  think  in  some 
indistinct  association  with  a washing-day. 

“ What  makes  you  suppose  there  is  any  young 
lady  in  the  case,  Mrs.  Crupp?  ” said  I. 

“Mr.  Copperfull,”  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  with  a 
great  deal  of  feeling,  “ I’m  a mother  myself.” 

For  some  time  Mrs.  Crupp  could  only  lay  her 
hand  upon  her  nankeen  bosom,  and  fortify  her- 
self against  returning  pain  with  sips  of  her 
medicine.  At  length  she  spoke  again. 

“ When  the  present  set  were  took  for  you  by 
your  dear  aunt,  Mr.  Copperfull,”  said  Mrs.  Crupp, 

“ my  remark  were,  I had  now  found  summun  I 
could  care  for.  ‘ Thank  Ev’in  ! ’ were  the  expres- 
sion, ‘ I have  now  found  summun  I can  care 
for  ! ’ — You  don’t  eat  enough,  sir,  nor  yet  drink.” 

“ Is  that  what  you  found  your  supposition  on,  | 
Mrs.  Crupp?”  said  I. 

“Sir,”  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  in  a tone  approaching  j 
to  severity,  “ I’ve  laundressed  other  young 
gentlemen  besides  yourself.  A young  gentleman 
may  be  over-careful  of  himself,  or  he  may  be 
under-careful  of  himself.  He  may  brush  his 
hair  too  regular,  or  too  unregular.  He  may 
wear  his  boots  much  too  large  for  him,  or  much 
too  small.  That  is  according  as  the  young  gen- 
tleman has  his  original  character  formed.  But 
let  him  go  to  which  extreme  he  may,  sir,  there’s 
a young  lady  in  both  of  ’em.” 

* * % * * 

“ It  was  but  the  gentleman  which  died  here 
before  yourself,”  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  “ that  fell  in 
love — with  a barmaid — and  had  his  waistcoats 
took  in  directly,  though  much  swelled  by  drink- 
ing.” 

“ Mrs.  Crupp,”  said  I,  “ I must  beg  you  not 
to  connect  the  young  lady  in  my  case  with  a 
barmaid,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  if  you  please.”  I 

“Mr.  Copperfull,”  returned  Mrs.  Crupp,  “I’m 
a mother  myself,  and  not  likely.  I ask  your 
pardon,  sir,  if  I intrude.  I should  never  wish 
to  intrude  where  I were  not  welcome.  But  you 
are  a young  gentleman,  Mr.  Copperfull,  and  my  ; 
advice  to  you  is,  to  cheer  up,  sir,  to  keep  a good  I 
heart,  and  to  know  your  own  walue.  If  you 
was  to  take  to  something,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  i 
“ if  you  was  to  take  to  skittles,  now,  which  is  j 
healthy,  you  might  find  it  divert  your  mind,  and  , 
do  you  good.” — David  Copperfeld , Chap.  26. 

CUPBOARD  Mrs.  Crisparkle’s. 

As,  whenever  the  Reverend  Septimus  fell  ! 
a-musing,  his  good  mother  took  it  to  be  an  in-  ; 
fallible  sign  that  he  “ wanted  support,”  the 


CUPBOARD 


131 


DANCE 


blooming  old  lady  made  all  haste  to  the  dining- 
room closet,  to  produce  from  it  the  support  em- 
bodied in  a glass  of  Constantia  and  a home- 
made biscuit.  It  was  a most  wonderful  closet, 
worthy  of  Cloisterham  and  of  Minon  Canon  Cor- 
ner. Above  it,  a portrait  of  Handel,  in  a flow- 
ing wig,  beamed  down  at  the  spectator,  with  a 
knowing  air  of  being  up  to  the  contents  of  the 
closet,  and  a musical  air  of  intending  to  com- 
bine all  its  harmonies  in  one  delicious  fugue. 
No  common  closet  with  a vulgar  door  on  hinges, 
open  able  all  at  once,  and  leaving  nothing  to  be 
disclosed  by  degrees,  this  rare  closet  had  a lock 
in  mid-air,  where  two  perpendicular  slides  met  ; 
the  one  falling  down,  and  the  other  pushing  up. 
The  upper  slide,  on  being  pulled  down  (leaving 
the  lower  a double  mystery),  revealed  deep 
shelves  of  pickle-jars,  jam-pots,  tin-canisters, 
spice-boxes,  and  agreeably  outlandish  vessels 
of  blue  and  white,  the  luscious  lodgings  of  pre- 
served tamarinds  and  ginger.  Every  benevo- 
lent inhabitant  of  this  retreat  had  his  name  in- 
scribed upon  his  stomach.  The  pickles,  in  a 
uniform  . of  rich  brown  double-breasted  but- 
toned coat,  and  yellow  or  sombre  drab  continua- 
tions, announced  their  portly  forms,  in  printed 
capitals,  as  Walnut,  Gherkin,  Onion,  Cabbage, 
Cauliflower,  Mixed,  and  other  members  of  that 
noble  family.  The  jams,  as  being  of  a less 
masculine  temperament,  and  as  wearing  curl- 
papers, announced  themselves  in  feminine  calig- 
raphy,  like  a soft  whisper,  to  be  Raspberry, 
Gooseberry,  Apricot,  Plum,  Damson,  Apple, 
and  Peach.  The  scene  closing  on  these  charm- 
ers, and  the  lower  slide  ascending,  oranges 
were  revealed,  attended  by  a mighty  japanned 
sugar-box,  to  temper  their  acerbity  if  unripe. 
Home-made  biscuits  waited  at  the  Court  of 
these  Powers,  accompanied  by  a goodly  frag- 
ment of  plum-cake,  and  various  slender  ladies’ 
fingers,  to  be  dipped  into  sweet  wine  and  kissed. 
Lowest  of  all,  a compact  leaden  vault  enshrined 
the  sweet  wine  and  a stock  of  cordials  : whence 
issued  whispers  of  Seville,  Orange,  Lemon,  Al- 
mond, and  Caraway-seed.  There  was  a crown- 
ing air  upon  this  closet  of  closets,  of  having 
been  for  ages  hummed  through  by  the  Cathe- 
dral bell  and  organ,  until  those  venerable  bees 
had  made  sublimated  honey  of  everything  in 
store  ; and  it  was  always  observed  that  every 
dipper  among  the  shelves  (deep,  as  has  been 
noticed,  and  swallowing  up  head,  shoulders, 
and  elbows)  came  forth  again  mellow-faced, 
and  seeming  to  have  undergone  a saccharine 
transfiguration. 

The  Reverend  Septimus  yielded  himself  up 
quite  as  willing  a victim  to  a nauseous  medici- 
nal herb  closet,  also  presided  over  by  the  china 
shepherdess,  as  to  this  glorious  cupboard.  To 
what  amazing  infusions  of  gentian,  peppermint, 
gilliflower,  sage,  parsley,  thyme,  rue,  rosemary, 
and  dandelion,  did  his  courageous  stomach 
submit  itself  ! In  what  wonderful  wrappers,  en- 
closing layers  of  dried  leaves,  would  he  swathe 
his  rosy  and  contented  face,  if  his  mother  sus- 
pected him  of  a toothache  ! What  botanical 
blotches  would  he  cheerfully  stick  upon  his 
cheek,  or  forehead,  if  the  dear  old  lady  con- 
victed him  of  an  imperceptible  pimple  there  ! 
Into  this  herbaceous  penitentiary,  situated  on 
an  upper  staircase-landing, — a low  and  narrow 
whitewashed  cell,  where  bunches  of  dried  leaves 
hung  from  rusty  hooks  in  the  ceiling,  and  were 


spread  out  upon  shelves,  in  company  with  por- 
tentous bottles, — would  the  Reverend  Septimus 
submissively  be  led,  like  the  highly  popular 
lamb  who  has  so  long  and  unresistingly  been 
led  to  the  slaughter,  and  there  would  he,  unlike 
that  lamb,  bore  nobody  but  himself.  Not  even 
doing  that  much,  so  that  the  old  lady  were  busy 
and  pleased,  he  would  quietly  swallow  what 
was  given  him,  merely  taking  a corrective  dip 
of  hands  and  face  into  the  great  bowl  of  dried 
rose-leaves  and  into  the  other  great  bowl  of 
dried  lavender,  and  then  would  go  out,  as  con- 
fident in  the  sweetening  powers  of  Cloisterham 
Weir  and  a wholesome  mind,  as  Lady  Macbeth 
was  hopeless  of  those  of  all  the  seas  that  roll. 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  io. 

CURSES. 

“ The  curse  may  pass  your  lips,”  said  Ed- 
ward, “ but  it  will  be  but  empty  breath.  I do 
not  believe  that  any  man  on  earth  has  greater 
power  to  call  one  down  upon  his  fellow — least 
of  all,  upon  his  own  child — than  he  has  to  make 
one  drop  of  rain  or  flake  of  snow  fall  from  the 
clouds  above  us  at  his  impious  bidding.” 

Barnaby  Rudge}  Chap.  32. 

CYNICS.  - 

He  knew  himself  well,  and  choosing  to  ima- 
gine that  all  mankind  were  cast  in  the  same 
mould,  hated  them  ; for,  though  no  man  hat*1" 
himself — the  coldest  among  us  having  too  much 
self-love  for  that — yet  most  men  unconsciously 
judge  the  world  from  themselves,  and  it  will  be 
very  generally  found  that  those  who  sneer  habit- 
ually at  human  nature,  and  affect  to  despise  it, 
are  among  its  worst  and  least  pleasant  samples. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  44. 


D. 

DANCE— A negro. 

The  corpulent  black  fiddler,  and  his  friend 
who  plays  the  tambourine,  stamp  upon  the  board- 
ing of  the  small  raised  orchestra  in  which  they 
sit,  and  play  a lively  measure.  Five  or  six 
couple  come  upon  the  floor,  marshalled  by  a 
lively  young  negro,  who  is  the  wit  of  the  as- 
sembly, and  the  greatest  dancer  known.  He 
never  leaves  off  making  queer  faces,  and  is  the 
delight  of  all  the  rest,  who  grin  from  ear  to  ear 
incessantly.  Among  the  dancers  are  two  young 
mulatto  girls,  with  large,  black,  drooping  eyes, 
and  head-gear  after  the  fashion  of  the  hostess, 
who  are  as  shy,  or  feign  to  be,  as  though  they 
never  danced  before,  and  so  look  down  before 
the  visitors,  that  their  partners  can  see  nothing 
but  the  long,  fringed  lashes. 

But  the  dance  commences.  Every  gentleman 
sets  as  long  as  he  likes  to  the  opposite  lady,  and 
the  opposite  lady  to  him,  and  all  are  so  long 
about  it  that  the  sport  begins  to  languish,  when 
suddenly  the  lively  hero  dashes  in  to  the  res- 
cue. Instantly  the  fiddler  grins,  and  goes  at  it 
tooth  and  nail ; there  is  new  energy  in  the  tam- 
bourine ; new  laughter  in  the  dancers  ; new  smiles 
in  the  landlady  ; new  confidence  in  the  landlord  ; 


DANCE 


132 


DANDYISM 


new  brightness  in.  the  very  candles.  Single 
shuffle,  double  shuffle,  cut  and  cross-cut  ; snap- 
ping his  fingers,  rolling  his  eyes,  turning  in  his 
knees,  presenting  the  backs  of  his  legs  in  front, 
spinning  about  on  his  toes  and  heels  like  noth- 
ing but  the  man’s  fingers  on  the  tambourine  ; 
dancing  with  two  left  legs,  two  right  legs,  two 
wooden  legs,  two  wire  legs,  two  spring  legs, — 
all  sorts  of  legs  and  no  legs, — what  is  this  to 
him?  And  in  what  walk  of  life,  or  dance  of 
life,  does  man  ever  get  such  stimulating  applause 
as  thunders  about  him,  when,  having  danced  his 
partner  off  her  feet,  and  himself  too,  he  finishes 
by  leaping  gloriously  on  the  bar-counter,  and 
calling  for  something  to  drink,  with  the  chuckle 
of  a million  of  counterfeit  Jim  Crows  in  one 
inimitable  sound  ! — American  Notes,  Chap.  6. 

DANCE— A country. 

Not  like  opera-dancers.  Not  at  all.  And 
not  like  Madame  Anybody’s  finished  pupils. 
Not  the  least.  It  was  not  quadrille  dancing,  nor 
minuet  dancing,  nor  even  country-dance  danc- 
ing. It  was  neither  in  the  old  style,  nor  the 
new  style,  nor  the  French  style,  nor  the  English 
style  ; though  it  may  have  been,  by  accident,  a 
trifle  in  the  Spanish  style,  which  is  a free  and 
joyous  one,  I am  told,  deriving  a delightful  air 
of  off-hand  inspiration  from  the  chirping  little 
castanets.  As  they  danced  among  the  orchard 
trees,  and  down  the  groves  of  stems  and  back 
again,  and  twirled  each  other  lightly  round  and 
round,  the  influence  of  their  airy  motion  seemed 
to  spread  and  spread,  in  the  sun-lighted  scene, 
like  an  expanding  circle  in  the  water.  Their 
streaming  hair  and  fluttering  skirts,  the  elastic 
grass  beneath  their  feet,  the  boughs  that  rustled 
in  the  morning  air,  the  flashing  leaves,  the 
speckled  shadows  on  the  soft  green  ground,  the 
balmy  wind  that  swept  along  the  landscape, 
glad  to  turn  the  distant  windmill  cheerily — 
everything  between  the  two  girls  and  the  man 
and  team  at  plough  upon  the  ridge  of  land, 
where  they  showed  against  the  sky  as  if  they 
were  the  last  things  in  the  world — seemed-danc- 
ing  too. — Battle  of  Life , Chap.  i. 

DANCE— A Christmas. 

In  came  a fiddler  with  a music-book,  and 
went  up  to  the  lofty  desk,  and  made  an  orchestra 
of  it,  and  tuned  like  fifty  stomach-aches.  In 
came  Mrs.  Fezziwig,  one  vast  substantial  smile. 
In  came  the  three  Miss  Fezziwigs,  beaming  and 
loveable.  In  came  the  six  young  followers  whose 
hearts  they  broke.  In  came  all  the  young  men 
and  women  employed  in  the  business.  In  came 
the  housemaid,  with  her  cousin,  the  baker.  In 
came  the  cook,  with  her  brother’s  particular 
friend,  the  milkman.  In  came  the  boy  from  over 
the  way,  who  was  suspected  of  not  having  board 
enough  from  his  master  ; trying  to  hide  himself 
behind  the  girl  from  next  door  but  one,  who 
was  proved  to  have  had  her  ears  pulled  by  her 
mistress.  In  they  all  came,  one  after  another; 
some  shyly,  some  boldly,  some  gracefully,  some 
awkwardly,  some  pushing,  some  pulling  ; in  they 
all  came,  anyhow  and  everyhow.  Away  they  all 
went,  twenty  couple  at  once  ; hands  half  round 
and  back  again  the  other  way  ; down  the  mid- 
dle and  up  again  ; round  and  round  in  various 
stages  of  affectionate  grouping  ; old  top  couple 
always  turning  up  in  the  wrong  place  ; new  top 
couple  starting  off  again,  as  soon  as  they  got 


there  ; all  top  couples  at  last,  and  not  a bottom 
one  to  help  them  ! When  this  result  was 
brought  about,  old  Fezziwig,  clapping  his  hands 
to  stop  the  dance,  cried  out,  “ Well  done  !”  and 
the  fiddler  plunged  his  hot  face  into  a pot  of 
porter,  especially  provided  for  that  purpose. 
Hut  scorning  rest  upon  his  reappearance,  he  in- 
stantly began  again,  though  there  were  no  dan- 
cers yet,  as  if  the  other  fiddler  had  been  carried 
home,  exhausted,  on  a shutter,  and  he  were  a 
bran-new  man  resolved  to  beat  him  out  of  sight, 
or  perish. — Christmas  Carol , Stave  2. 

DANCE  A solemn. 

We  danced  for  an  hour  with  great  gravity; 
the  melancholy  child  doing  wonders  with  his 
lower  extremities,  in  which  there  appeared  to 
be  some  sense  of  enjoyment,  though  it  never 
rose  above  his  waist. — Bleak  House , Chap.  38. 

DANCING— A trial  to  the  feelings. 

Could  he  believe  his  eyes  ! Mrs.  Budger  was 
dancing  with  Mr.  Tracy  Tupman,  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  fact.  There  was  the  widow  be- 
fore him,  bouncing  bodily  here  and  there,  with 
unwonted  vigor;  and  Mr.  Tracy  Tupman  hop- 
ping about,  with  a face  expressive  of  the  most 
intense  solemnity,  dancing  (as  a good  many  peo- 
ple do)  as  if  a quadrille  were  not  a thing  to  be 
laughed  at,  but  a severe  trial  to  the  feelings, 
which  it  requires  inflexible  resolution  to  en- 
counter.— Pickwick , Chap.  2. 

DANDYISM— In  religion  and  politics. 

On  Sunday,  the  chill  little  church  is  almost 
warmed  by  so  much  gallant  company,  and  the 
general  flavor  of  the  Dedlock  dust  is  quenched 
in  delicate  perfumes. 

The  brilliant  and  distinguished  circle  compre- 
hends within  it  no  contracted  amount  of  educa- 
tion, sense,  courage,  honor,  beauty,  and  virtue. 
Yet  there  is  something  a little  wrong  about  it, 
in  despite  of  its  immense  advantages.  What 
can  it  be? 

Dandyism?  There  is  no  King  George  the 
Fourth  now  (more’s  the  pity  !)  to  set  the  dandy 
fashion  ; there  are  no  clear-starched  jack-towel 
neckcloths,  no  short-waisted  coats,  no  false 
calves,  no  stays.  There  are  no  caricatures  now, 
of  effeminate  Exquisites  so  arrayed,  swooning 
in  opera-boxes  with  excess  of  delight,  and  being 
revived  by  other  dainty  creatures,  poking  long- 
neckecl  scent-bottles  at  their  noses.  There  is 
no  beau  whom  it  takes  four  men  at  once  to  shake 
into  his  buckskins,  or  who  goes  to  see  all  the 
executions,  or  who  is  troubled  with  the  self- 
reproach  of  having  once  consumed  a pea.  But 
is  there  Dandyism  in  the  brilliant  and  distin- 
guished circle  notwithstanding,  Dandyism  of  a 
more  mischievous  sort,  that  has  got  below  the 
surface,  and  is  doing  less  harmless  things  than 
jack-towelling  itself  and  stopping  its  own  di- 
gestion, to  which  no  rational  person  need  par- 
ticularly object  ? 

Why,  yes.  It  cannot  be  disguised.  There 
are,  at  Chesney  Wold  this  January  week,  some 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  newest  fashion,  who 
have  set  up  a Dandyism — in  religion, for  instance. 
Who,  in  mere  lackadaisical  want  of  an  emotion, 
have  agreed  upon  a little  dandy  talk  about  the 
Vulgar  wanting  faith  in  things  in  general  ; 
meaning,  in  the  things  that  have  been  tried  and 
found  wanting,  as  though  a low  fellow  should 


DANTE 


133 


DEAF  AND  DUMB 


j unaccountably  lose  faith  in  a bad  shilling,  after 
finding  it  out!  Who  would  make  the  Vulgar 
very  picturesque  and  faithful,  by  putting  back 
the  hands  upon  the  Clock  of  Time,  and  cancel- 
I ling  a few  hundred  years  of  history. 

There  are  also  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  an- 
other  fashion,  not  so  new,  but  very  elegant,  w.ho 
I have  agreed  to  put  a smooth  glaze  on  the  world, 
and  to  keep  down  all  its  realities.  For  whom 
1 everything  must  be  languid  and  pretty.  Who 
have  found  out  the  perpetual  stoppage.  Who 
are  to  rejoice  at  nothing,  and  be  sorry  for 
i nothing.  Who  are  not  to  be  disturbed  by  ideas. 
On  whom  even  the  Fine  Arts,  attending  in  pow- 
der, and  walking  backward  like  the  Lord 
Chamberlain,  must  array  themselves  in  the  mil- 
liners’ and  tailors’  patterns  of  past  generations, 
and  be  particularly  careful  not  to  be  in  earnest, 
or  to  receive  any  impress  from  the  moving  age. 

Then  there  is  my  Lord  Boodle,  of  consider- 
able reputation  with  his  party,  who  has  known 
what  office  is,  and  who  tells  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock  with  much  gravity,  after  dinner,  that  he 
really  does  not  see"  to  what  the  present  age  is 
tending.  A debate  is  not  what  a debate  used  to 
be  ; the  House  is  not  what  the  House  used  to 
be  ; even  a Cabinet  is  not  what  it  formerly  was. 
He’ perceives  with  astonishment,  that,  supposing 
the  present  Government  to  be  overthrown,  the 
limited  choice  of  the  Crown,  in  the  formation 
of  a new  Ministry,  would  lie  between  Lord 
Coodle  and  Sir  Thomas  Doodle-supposing  it 
to  be  impossible  for  the  Duke  of  hoodie  to  act 
with  Goodie,  which  may  be  assumed  to  be  the 
case  in  consequence  of  the  breach  arising  out  of 
that  affair  with  Hoodie.  Then,  giving  the 
Home  Department  and  the  Leadership  of  the 
House  of  Commons  to  Joodle,  the  Exche- 
quer to  ICoodle,  the  Colonies  to  Loodle,  and  the 
Foreign  Office  to  Moodle,  what  are  you  to  do 
with  Noodle  ? You  can’t  offer  him  the  Presi- 
dency of  the  Council ; that  is  reserved  for 
Poodle.  You  can’t  put  him  in  the  Woods  and 
Forests  ; that  is  hardly  good  enough  for  Quoodle. 
What  follows?  That  the  country  is  shipwrecked, 
lost,  and  gone  to  pieces  (as  is  made  manifest  to 
the  patriotism  of  Sir  Leicester  Dedlock),  because 
vou  can’t  provide  for  Noodle  ! 

3 * 1 * * * * 

In  this,  too,  there  is  perhaps  more  Dandyism 
at  Chesney  Wold  than  the  brilliant  and  distin- 
guished circle  will  find  good  for  itself  in  the 
long  run.  For  it  is,  even  with  the  stillest  and 
politest  circles,  as  with  the  circle  the  necroman- 
cer draws  around  him — very  strange  appearances 
may  be  seen  in  active  motion  outside.  With 
this  difference  ; that,  being  realities  and  not 
phantoms,  there  is  the  greater  danger  of  their 
breaking  in. — Bleak  House , Chap.  12. 

D ANT  E-Mr.  Sparkler’s  idea  of. 

Miss  Fanny  showed  to  great  advantage  on  a 
sofa,  completing  Mr.  Sparkler’s  conquest  with 
some  remarks  upon  Dante — known  to  that  gentle- 
man as  an  eccentric  man  in  the  nature  of  an 
Old  File,  who  used  to  put  leaves  round  his  head, 
and  sit  upon  a stool  for  some  unaccountable 
purpose,  outside  the  cathedral  at  Florence. 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  II.,  Chap.  6. 

DARING— Death. 

“ As  to  what  I dare,  I’m  a old  bird  now,  as  has 
dared  all  manner  of  traps  since  first  he  was 


fledged,  and  I’m  not  afeerd  to  perch  upon  a 
scarecrow.  If  there’s  Death  hid  inside  of  it, 
there  is,  and  lei  him  come  out,  and  I’ll  face  him, 
and  then  I’ll  believe  in  him  and  not  afore.” 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  40. 

DAVID  COPPERFIELD— Dickens’  love  of. 

Of  all  my  books,  I like  this  the  best.  It  will 
be  easily  believed  that  I am  a fond  parent  to 
every  child  of  my  fancy,  and  that  no  one  can 
ever  love  that  family  as  clearly  as  I love  them. 
But,  like  many  fond  parents,  I have  in  my  heart 
of  hearts  a favorite  child.  And  his  name  is 
David  Copperfield. — Preface. 

DAWN— Description  of.  • 

Dawn,  with  its  passionless  blank  face,  steals 
shivering  to  the  church  beneath  which  lies  the 
dust  of  little  Paul  and  his  mother,  and  looks  in 
at  the  windows.  It  is  cold  and  dark.  Night 
crouches  yet  upon  the  pavement,  and  broods, 
sombre  and  heavy,  in  nooks  and  corners  of  the 
building.  The  steeple-clock,  perched  up  above 
the  houses,  emerging  from  beneath  another  of 
the  countless  ripples  in  the  tide  of  time  that  re- 
gularly roll  and  break  on  the  eternal  shore,  is 
grayly  visible — like  a stone  beacon,  recording 
how  the  sea  flows  on  ; but  within  doors,  dawn, 
at  first,  can  only  peep  at  night,  and  see  that  it  is 
there. 

Hovering  feebly  round  the  church,  and  look- 
ing in,  dawn  moans  and  weeps  for  its  short  reign, 
and  its  tears  trickle  on  the  window-glass,  and 
the  trees  against  the  church-wall  bow  their 
heads,  and  wring  their  many  hands  in  sympathy. 
Night,  growing  pale  before  it,  gradually  fades 
out  of  the  church,  but  lingers  in  the  vaults  be- 
. low,  and  sits  upon  the  coffins.  And  now  comes 
bright  day,  burnishing  the  steeple-clock,  and 
reddening  the  spire,  and  drying  up  the  tears  of 
dawn,  and  stifling  its  complaining  ; and  the 
scared  dawn,  following  the  night,  and  chasing 
it  from  its  last  refuge,  shrinks  into  the  vaults 
itself  and  hides,  with  a frightened  face,  among 
the  dead;  until  night  returns,  refreshed,  to  drive 
it  out. — Dombey  Cf  Son. 

DEAF  AND  DUMB— Their  responsibility. 

« Here,  woman,”  he  said,  “ here’s  your  deaf 
and  dumb  son.  You  may  thank  me  for  restor- 
ing him  to  you.  He  was  brought  before  me, 
this  morning,  charged  with  theft  ; and  with  any 
other  boy  it  would  have  gone  hard,  I assure  you. 
But,  as  I had  compassion  on  his  infirmities,  and 
thought  he  might  have  learnt  no  better,  I have 
managed  to  bring  him  back  to  you.  Lake  more 
care  of  him  for  the  future.” 

“ And  won’t  you  give  me  back  my  son  ? ” said 
the  other  woman,  hastily  rising  and  confronting 
him.  “ Won’t  you  give  me  back  my  son,  sir, 
who  was  transported  for  the  same  offence  ? ” 

“ Was  he  deaf  and  dumb,  woman  ? ” asked  the 
gentleman,  sternly. 

“ Was  he  not,  sir  ? ” 

“ You  know  he  was  not.” 

“ He  was,”  cried  the  woman.  “ Fie  was  deaf, 
dumb,  and  blind,  to  all  that  was  good  and  right, 
from  his  cradle.  Her  boy  may  have  learnt  no 
better ! where  did  mine  learn  better  ? where 
could  he  ? who  was  there  to  teach  him  better, 
or  where  was  it  to  be  learnt  ? ” 

“Peace,  woman,”  said  the  gentleman,  “your 
boy  was  in  possession  of  all  his  senses.’ 


DEAD 


134 


DEAD-HOUSE 


“ He  was,"  cried  the  mother;  “and  he  was 
the  more  easy  to  be  led  astray  because  he  had 
them.  If  you  save  this  boy  because  he  may  not 
know  right  from  wrong,  why  did  you  not  save 
mine  who  was  never  taught  the  difference?  You 
gentlemen  have  as  good  a right  to  punish  her 
boy,  that  God  has  kept  in  ignorance  of  sound 
and  speech,  as  you  have  to  punish  mine,  that 
you  kept  in  ignorance  yourselves.  How  many 
of  the  girls  and  boys — ah,  men  and  women  too 
— that  are  brought  before  you  and  you  don’t 
pity,  are  deaf  and  dumb  in  their  minds,  and  go 
wrong  in  that  state,  and  are  punished  in  that 
state,  body  and  soul,  while  you  gentlemen  are 
quarrelling  among  yourselves  whether  they  ought 
to  leafti  this  or  that  ! — Be  a just  man,  sir,  and 
give  me  back  my  son.” 

Old  Cm iosity  Shop,  Chap.  45. 

DEAD -The  memory  of. 

It  is  an  exquisite  and  beautiful  thing  in  our 
nature,  that  when  the  heart  is  touched  and  soft- 
ened by  some  tranquil  happiness  or  affectionate 
feeling,  the  memory  of  the  dead  comes  over  it 
most  powerfully  and  irresistibly.  It  would  al- 
most seem  as  though  our  better  thoughts  and 
sympathies  were  charms,  in  virtue  of  which  the 
soul  is  enabled  to  hold  some  vague  and  mysteri- 
ous intercourse  with  the  spirits  of  those  whom 
we  dearly  loved  in  life.  Alas  ! how  often  and 
how  long  may  those  patient  angels  hover  above 
us,  watching  for  the  spell  which  is  so  seldom 
uttered,  and  so  soon  forgotten. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  43. 

DEAD— The  influence  of  the. 

“ And  do  you  think,”  said  the  schoolmaster, 
marking  the  glance  she  had  thrown  around, 
“ that  an  unvisited  grave,  a withered  tree,  a 
faded  flower  or  two,  are  tokens  of  forgetfulness 
or  cold  neglect  ? Do  you  think  there  are  no 
deeds,  far  away  from  here,  in  which,  thesp  dead 
may  be  best  remembered?  Nell,  Nell,  there 
may  be  people  busy  in  the  world  at  this  instant, 
in  whose  good  actions  and  good  thoughts  these 
very  graves — neglected  as  they  look  to  us — are 
the  chief  instruments.” 

“ Tell  me  no  more,”  said  the  child  quickly. 
“Tell  me  no  more.  I feel,  I know  it.  How 
could  / be  unmindful  of  it,  when  I thought  of 
you  ?” 

“ There  is  nothing,”  cried  her  friend,  “ no, 
nothing  innocent  or  good,  that  dies,  and  is  for- 
gotten. Let  us  hold  to  that  faith,  or  none.  An 
infant,  a prattling  child,  dying  in  its  cradle,  will 
live  again  in  the  better  thoughts  of  those  who 
loved  it,  and  will  play  its  part,  through  them,  in 
the  redeeming  actions  of  the  world,  though  its 
body  be  burnt  to  ashes  or  drowned  in  the 
deepest  sea.  There  is  not  an  angel  added  to 
the  Host  of  Heaven  but  does  its  blessed  work 
on  earth  in  those  that  loved  it  here.  Forgotten  ! 
oh,  if  the  good  deeds  of  human  creatures  could 
be  traced  to  their  source,  how  beautiful  would 
even  death  appear ; for  how  much  charity, 
mercy,  and  purified  affection,  would  be  seen  to 
have  their  growth  in  dusty  graves  ! ” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  54. 

DEAD  Memory  of  the. 

Passion  seemed  not  only  to  do  wrong  and 
violence  lo  the  memory  of  the  dead,  but  to  be 
infected  by  death,  and  to  droop  and  decline  be- 


side it.  All  the  living  knaves  and  liars  in  the 
world  were  nothing  to  the  honesty  and  truth  of 
one  dead  friend. — Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap,  33. 

“ Wal’r,  my  dear  lad,”  said  the  Captain,  “ fare- 
well ! Wal’r,  my  child,  my  boy,  and  man,  I 
loved  you  ! lie  warn’t  my  flesh  and  blood,” 
said  the  Captain,  looking  at  the  fire — “ I an’t 
got  none — but  something  of  what  a father  feels 
when  he  loses  a son,  I feel  in  losing  Wal’r.  For 
why?”  said  the  Captain,  “because  it  an’t  one 
loss,  but  a round  dozen.  Where's  that  there 
young  schoolboy  with  the  rosy  face  and  curly 
hair,  that  used  to  be  as  merry  in  this  here  parlor, 
come  round  every  week,  as  a piece  of  music? 
Gone  down  with  Wal’r.  Where’s  that  there 
fresh  lad,  that  nothing  couldn’t  tire  nor  put  out, 
and  that  sparkled  up  and  blushed  so,  when  we 
joked  him  about  Heart’s  Delight,  that  he  was 
beautiful  to  look  at?  Gone  down  with  Wal’r. 
Where’s  that  there  man’s  spirit,  all  afire,  that 
wouldn’t  see  the  old  man  hove  down  for  a min- 
ute, and  cared  nothing  for  itself?  Gone  down 
with  Wal’r.  It  an’t  one  Wal'r.  There  was  a 
dozen  Wal’rs  that  I know’d  and  loved,  all  hold- 
ing round  his  neck  when  he  went  down,  and 
they’re  a holding  round  mine  now  !” 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  15. 

DEAD— The  memory  of  Lady  Dedlock. 

It  is  known  for  certain  that  the  handsome 
Lady  Dedlock  lies  in  the  mausoleum  in  the  park, 
where  the  trees  arch  darkly  overhead,  and  the 
owl  is  heard  at  night  making  the  woods  ring  ; 
but  whence  she  was  brought  home,  to  be  laid 
among  the  echoes  of  that  solitary  place,  or  how 
she  died,  is  all  mystery.  Some  of  her  old 
friends,  principally  to  be  found  among  th^ 
peachy-cheeked  charmers  with  the  skeleton 
throats,  did  once  occasionally  say,  as  they  toyed 
in  a ghastly  manner  with  large  fans — like  charm- 
ers reduced  to  flirting  with  grim  Death,  after 
losing  all  their  other  beaux — did  once  occasion- 
ally say,  when  the  World  assembled  together, 
that  they  wondered  the  ashes  of  the  Dedlocks, 
entombed  in  the  mausoleum,  never  rose  against 
the  profanation  of  her  company.  But  the  dead- 
and-gone  Dedlocks  take  it  very  calmly,  and  have 
never  been  known  to  object. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  66. 

DEAD-HOUSE— In  Paris. 

Those  who  have  never  seen  the  Morgue  may 
see  it  perfectly  by  presenting  to  themselves  an  in- 
differently paved  coach-house,  accessible  from 
the  street  by  a pair  of  folding-gates  ; on  the  left 
of  the  coach-house,  occupying  its  width,  any 
large  London  tailor’s  or  linen-draper’s  plate-glass 
window,  reaching  to  the  ground  ; within  the  win- 
dow, on  two  rows  of  inclined  planes,  what  the 
coach-house  has  to  show  ; hanging  above,  like 
irregular  stalactites  from  the  roof  of  a cave,  a 
quantity  of  clothes — the  clothes  of  the  dead  and 
buried  shows  of  the  coach-house. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  18. 

DEAD-HOUSE— The  g-hosts  of  the  Morgue. 

Whenever  I am  at  Paris,  I am  dragged  by  in- 
visible force  into  the  Morgue.  I never  want  to 
go  there,  but  am  always  pulled  there.  One 
Christmas  day,  when  I would  rather  have  been 
anywhere  else,  I was  attracted  in  to  see  an  old 
gray  man  lying  all  alone  on  his  cold  bed,  with 


DEATH 


135 


DEAD 


; a tap  of  water  turned  on  over  his  gray  hair,  and 
; running,  drip,  drip,  drip,  down  his  wretched  face 
until  it  got  to  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  where  it 
took  a turn,  and  made  him  look  sly.  One  iSlew 
Year’s  morning  (by  the  same  token,  the  sun  was 
shining  outside,  and  there  was  a mountebank, 
balancing  a feather  on  his  nose,  within  a yard 
of  the  gate),  I was  pulled  in  again  to  look  at  a 
flaxen-haired  boy  of  eighteen  with  a heart  hang- 
ing on  his  breast, — “ From  his  mother,”  was  en- 
graven on  it, — who  had  come  into  the  net  across 
the  river,  with  a bullet-wound  in  his  fair  fore- 
head, and  his  hands  cut  with  a knife,  but  whence 
or  how  was  a blank  mystery.  This  time  I was 
forced  into  the  same  dread  place  to  see  a large, 
dark  man,  whose  disfigurement  by  water  was  in 
a frightful  manner  comic,  and  whose  expression 
was  that  of  a prize-fighter  who  had  cLosed  his 
eyelids  under  a heavy  blow,  but  was  going  im- 
mediately to  open  them,  shake  his  head,  and 
“ come  up  smiling.”  Oh,  what  this  large  dark 
man  cost  me  in  that  bright  city  ! 

* 4:  sfc  * 

Of  course  I knew  perfectly  well  that  the  large 
dark  creature  was  stone  dead,  and  that  I should 
no  more  come  upon  him  out  of  the  place  where 
I had  seen  him  dead  than  I should  come  upon 
the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  in  an  entirely  new 
situation.  What  troubled  me  was  the  picture 
of  the  creature  ; and  that  had  so  curiously  and 
strongly  painted  itself  upon  my  brain,  that  I 
could  not  get  rid  of  it  until  it  was  worn  out. 

I noticed  the  peculiarities  of  this  possession, 
while  it  was  a real  discomfort  to  me.  That  very 
day,  at  dinner,  some  morsel  on  my  plate  looked 
like  a piece  of  him,  and  I was  glad  to  get  up 
and  go  out. 

^ 

There  was  rather  a sickly  smell  (not  at  all  an 
unusual  fragrance  in  Paris)  in  the  little  ante- 
room of  my  apartment  at  the  hotel.  The  large 
dark  creature  in  the  Morgue  was  by  no  direct 
experience  associated  with  my  sense  of  smell, 
because,  when  I came  to  the  knowledge  of  him, 
he  lay  behind  a wall  of  thick  plate-glass,  as  good 
as  a wall  of  steel  or  marble,  for  that  matter. 
Yet  the  whiff  of  the  room  never  failed  to  repro- 
duce him.  What  was  more  curious  was  the 
capriciousnesS  with  which  his  portrait  seemed  to 
light  itself  up  in  my  mind  elsewhere.  I might 
be  walking  in  the  Palais  Royal,  lazily  enjoying 
the  shop  windows,  and  might  be  regaling  myself 
with  one  of  the  ready-made  clothes  shops  that 
are  set  out  there.  My  eyes,  wandering  over  im- 
possible-waisted  dressing-gowns,  and  luminous 
waistcoats,  would  fall  upon  the  master,  or  the 
shopman,  or  even  the  very  dummy  at  the  door, 
and  would  suggest  to  me,  “ something  like 
him  i ” — and  instantly  I was  sickened  again. 

This  would  happen  at  the  theatre  in  the  same 
manner.  Often  it  would  happen  in  the  street, 
when  I certainly  was  not  looking  for  the  like- 
ness, and  when  probably  there  was  no  likeness 
there.  It  was  not  because  the  creature  was  dead 
that  I was  so  haunted,  because  I know  that  I 
might  have  been  (and  I know  it  because  I have 
been)  equally  attended  by  the  image  of  a living 
aversion.  This  lasted  about  a week.  The  pic- 
ture did  not  fade  by  degrees,  in  the  sense  'that 
it  became  a whit  less  forcible  and  distinct,  but 
in  the  sense  that  it  obtruded  itself  less  and 
less  frequently.  The  experience  may  be 
worth  considering  by  some  who  have  the  care  of 


children.  It  would  be  difficult  to  overstate  the 
intensity  and  accuracy  of  an  intelligent  child's 
observation.  At  that  impressible  time  of  life, 
it  must  sometimes  produce  a fixed  impression. 
If  the  fixed  impression  be  of  an  object  terrible 
to  the  child,  it  will  be  (for  want  of  reasoning 
upon)  inseparable  from  great  fear.  Force  the 
child  at  such  a time,  be  Spartan  with  it,  send  it 
into  the  dark  against  its  will,  leave  it  in  a lonely 
bedroom  against  its  will,  and  you  had  better 
murder  it. — Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  7. 

DEAD— Flowers  above  the  (Little  Nell). 

“You  were  telling  me,”  she  said,  “about 
your  gardening.  Do  you  ever  plant  things 
here  ? ” 

“In  the  churchyard?”  returned  the  sexton. 
“Not  I.” 

“ I have  seen  some  flowers  and  little  shrubs 
about,”  the  child  rejoined;  “there  are  some 
over  there,  you  see.  I thought  they  were  of 
your  rearing,  though  indeed  they  grow  but. 
poorly.” 

“ They  grow  as  Heaven  wills,”  said  the  old 
man  ; “ and  it  kindly  ordains  that  they  shall 
never  flourish  here.” 

“ I do  not  understand  you.” 

“ Why,  this  it  is,”  said  the  sexton.  “ They 
mark  the  graves  of  those  who  had  very  tender, 
loving  friends.” 

“ I was  sure  they  did  !”  the  child  exclaimed. 
“ I am  very  glad  to  know  they  do  ! ” 

“Aye,”  returned  the  old  man,  “but  stay. 
Look  at  them.  See  how  they  hang  their  heads, 
and  droop,  and  wither.  Do  you  guess  the  rea- 
son ? ” 

“ No,”  the  child  replied. 

“ Because  the  memory  of  those  who  lie  be- 
low passes  away  so  soon.  At  first  they  tend 

them,  morning,  noon,  and  night ; they  soon  be- 
gin to  come  less  frequently  ; from  once  a day, 
to  once  a week ; from  once  a week,  to  once  a 
month  ; then,  at  long  and  uncertain  intervals 

then,  not  at  all.  Such  tokens  seldom  flourish 
long.  I have  known  the  briefest  summer  flow- 
ers outlive  them.” 

“ I grieve  to  hear  it,”  said  the  child. 

“ Ah  ! so  say  the  gentlefolks  who  come  down 
here  to  look  about  them,”  returned  the  old 
man,  shaking  his  head,  “ but  I say  otherwise. 
‘ It’s  a pretty  custom  you  have  in  this  part  of 
the  country,’  they  say  to  me  sometimes,  ‘ to 
plant  the  graves,  but  it’s  melancholy  to  see 
these  things  all  withering  or  dead.’  I crave 
their  pardon  and  tell  them  that,  as  I take  it, 
’tis  a good  sign  for  the  happiness  of  the  living. 
And  so  it  is.  It’s  nature.” 

“ Perhaps  the  mourners  learn  to  look  to  the 
blue  sky  by  day,  and  to  the  stars  by  night,  and 
to  think  that  the  dead  are  there,  and  not  in 
graves,”  said  the  child  in  an  earnest  voice. 

“ Perhaps  so,”  replied  the  old  man  doubt- 
fully. “ It  may  be.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap . 54. 

DEAD— Of  a city. 

Westminster  Abbey  was  fine  gloomy  society 
for  another  quarter  of  an  hour  ; suggesting  a 
wonderful  procession  of  its  dead  among  the 
dark  arches  and  pillars,  each  century  more 
amazed  by  the  century  following  it  than  by  all 
the  centuries  going  before.  And  indeed  it  was 
a solemn  consideration  what  enormous  hosts  of 


DEATH 


138 


DEATH 


dead  belong  to  one  old  great  city,  and  how,  if 
they  were  raised  while  the  living  slept,  there 
would  not  be  the  space  of  a pin's  point  in  all  the 
streets  and  ways  for  the  living  to  come  out  into. 
Not  only  that,  but  the  vast  armies  of  dead 
would  overflow  the  hills  and  valleys  beyond  the 
city,  and  would  stretch  away  all  round  it,  God 
knows  how  far. 

Unco7nmercial  Traveller , Chap.  13. 

DEATH  -Thoug-hts  of. 

The  golden  water  she  remembered  on  the 
wall,  appeared  to  Florence  only  as  a current 
flowing  on  to  rest,  and  to  a region  where  the 
dear  ones,  gone  before,  were  waiting,  hand  in 
hand  ; and  often,  when  she  looked  upon  the 
darker  river  rippling  at  her  feet,  she  thought 
with  awful  wonder,  but  not  terror,  of  that  river 
which  her  brother  had  so  often  said  was  bear- 
ing him  away. — Dombey  & Son. 

DEATH— Scenes  before  the  funeral. 

There  is  a hush  through  Mr.  Dombey’s  house. 
Servants  gliding  up  and  down-stairs  rustle  but 
make  no  sound  of  footsteps.  They  talk  togeth- 
er constantly,  and  sit  long  at  meals,  making 
much  of  their  meat  and  drink,  and  enjoying 
themselves  after  a grim,  unholy  fashion.  Mrs. 
Wickam,  with  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  re- 
lates melancholy  anecdotes  ; and  tells  them 
how  she  always  said  at  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  that  it 
would  be  so  ; and  takes  more  table-ale  than 
usual ; and  is  very  sorry  but  sociable.  Cook’s 
state  of  mind  is  similar.  She  promises  a little 
fry  for  supper,  and  struggles  about  equally 
against  her  feelings  and  the  onions.  Towlin- 
son  begins  to  think  there’s  a fate  in  it,  and 
wants  to  know  if  anybody  can  tell  him  of  any 
good  that  ever  came  of  living  in  a corner  house. 
It  seems  to  all  of  them  as  having  happened  a 
long  time  ago  ; though  yet  the  child  lies,  calm 
and  beautiful,  upon  his  little  bed. 

After  dark  there  come  some  visitors — noise- 
less visitors,  with  shoes  of  felt — who  have  been 
there  before  ; and  with  them  comes  that  bed  of 
rest  which  is  so  strange  a one  for  infant  sleep- 
ers. All  this  time,  the  bereaved  father  has  not 
been  seen  even  by  his  attendant ; for  he  sits  in 
an  inner  corner  of  his  own  dark  room  when 
any  one  is  there,  and  never  seems  to  move  at 
other  times,  except  to  pace  it  to  and  fro.  But 
in  the  morning  it  is  whispered  among  the  house- 
hold that  he  was  heard  to  go  up  stairs  in  the 
dead  night,  and  that  he  stayed  there — in  the 
room — until  the  sun  was  shining. 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  18. 

DEATH— Scenes  after  funeral. 

The  funeral  of  the  deceased  lady  having 
been  “ performed  ” to  the  entire  satisfaction  of 
the  undertaker,  as  well  as  of  the  neighborhood 
at  large,  which  is  generally  disposed  to  be  cap- 
tious on  such  a point,  and  is  prone  to  take  of- 
fence at  any  omissions  or  shortcomings  in  the 
ceremonies,  the  various  members  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey’s household  subsided  into  their  several 
places  in  the  domestic  system.  That  small 
world,  like  the  great  o*ie  out  of  doors,  had  the 
capacity  of  easily  forgetting  its  dead ; and 
when  the  cook  had  said  she  was  a quiet-tem- 
pered lady,  and  the  housekeeper  had  said  it  was 
t lit*  common  lot,  and  the  butler  had  said  who’d 
have  thought  it,  and  the  housemaid  had  said 


she  couldn’t  hardly  believe  it,  and  the  footnjan 
had  . said  it  seemed  exactly  like  a dream,  they 
had  quite  worn  the  subject  out,  and  began  to 
think  their  mourning  was  wearing  rusty  too. 

Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  3. 

DEATH  A levelling-  upstart. 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton,  like  many 
genteel  persons  who  have  existed  at  various 
times,  set  her  face  against  death  altogether, 
and  objected  to  the  mention  of  any  such  low 
and  levelling  upstart. — Dombey  dr»  Son,  Ch.  30. 

DEATH  -Of  a remorseful  woman. 

Night  after  night,  the  light  burns  in  the  win- 
dow, and  the  figure  lies  upon  the  bed,  and 
Edith  sits  beside  it,  and  the  restless  waves  are 
calling  to  them  both  the  whole  night  long. 
Night  after  night,  the  waves  are  hoarse  with 
repetition  of  their  mystery  ; the  dust  lies  piled 
upon  the  shore  ; the  sea-birds  soar  and  hover  ; 
the  winds  and  clouds  are  on  their  trackless 
flight ; the  white  arms  beckon,  in  the  moon- 
light, to  the  invisible  country  far  away. 

And  still  the  sick  old  woman  looks  into  the 
corner,  where  the  stone  arm — part  of  a figure 
of  some  tomb,  she  says — is  raised  to  strike  her. 
At  last  it  falls  ; and  then  a dumb  old  woman 
lies  upon  the  bed,  and  she  is  crooked  and 
shrunk  up,  and  half  of  her  is  dead. 

Such  is  the  figure,  painted  and  patched  for 
the  sun  to  mock,  that  is  drawn  slowly  through 
the  crowd  from  day  to  day  ; looking,  as  it  goes, 
for  the  good  old  creature  who  was  such  a mother, 
and  making  mouths  as  it  peers  among  the  crowd 
in  vain.  Such  is  the  figure  that  is  often  wheeled 
down  .to  the  margin  of  the  sea,  and  stationed 
there  : but  on  which  no  wind  can  blow  fresh- 
ness, and  for  which  the  murmur  of  the  ocean 
has  no  soothing  word.  She  lies  and  listens  to 
it  by  the  hour  ; but  its  speech  is  dark  and 
gloomy  to  her,  and  a dread  is  on  her  face,  and 
when  her  eyes  wander  over  the  expanse,  they 
see  but  a broad  stretch  of  desolation  between 
earth  and  heaven. 

* # ^ * * 

A shadow  even  on  that  shadowed  face,  a 
sharpening  even  of  the  sharpened  features, 
and  a thickening  of  the  veil  before  the  eyes 
into  a pall  that  shuts  out  the  dim  world,  is 
come.  Her  wandering  hands  upon  the  cover-? 
let  join  feebly  palm  to  palm,  and  move  towards 
her  daughter ; and  a voice  not  like  hers — not 
like  any  voice  that  speaks  our  mortal  language 
— says,  “ For  I nursed  you  !” 

' % :j:  sjc  # 

Edith  touches  the  white  lips,  and  for  a mo- 
ment all  is  still.  A moment  afterwards,  her 
mother,  with  her  girlish  laugh,  and  the  skeleton 
of  the  Cleopatra  manner,  rises  in  her  bed. 

Draw  the  rose-colored  curtains.  There  is 
something  else  upon  its  flight  besides  the  wind 
and  clouds.  Draw  the  rose  colored  curtains 
close  ! — Do?7ibey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  41. 

DEATH  -And  stamina. 

“ Damme,  Sir,  she  never  wrapped  up  enough. 
If  a man  don’t  wrap  up,”  said  the  Major,  taking 
in  another  button  of  his  buff  waistcoat,  “ he 
has  nothing  to  fall  back  upon.  But  some  peo- 
ple will  die.  They  will  do  it.  Damme,  they 
will.  They’re  obstinate.  I tell  you  what, 
Dombey,  it  may  not  be  ornamental ; it  may  not 


DEATH 


137 


DEATH 


| be  refined  ; it  may  be  rough  and  tough  ; but  a 
' little  of  the  genuine  old  English  Bagstock  sta- 
mina, Sir,  would  do  all  the  good  in  the  world  to 
j the  human  breed.” 

After  imparting  this  precious  piece  of  in- 
formation, the  Major,  who  was  certainly  true- 
blue,  whatever  other  endowments  he  may  have 
possessed  or  wanted,  coming  within  “ genuine 
old  English  ” classification,  which  has  never 
been -exactly  ascertained,  took  his  lobster-eyes 
and  his  apoplexy  to  the  club,  and  choked  there 
all  day. — Dombey  dr3  Son , Chap.  40. 

DEATH-Of  the  good. 

Oh  ! cold,  cold,  rigid,  dreadful  Death,  set  up 
thine  altar  here,  and  dress  it  with  such  terrors 
as  thou  hast  at  thy  command  ; for  this  is  thy 
dominion  ! But  of  the  loved,  revered,  and  hon- 
ored head,  thou  canst  not  turn  one  hair  to  thy 
dread  purposes,  or  make  one  feature  odious. 
It  is  not  that  the  hand  is  heavy  and  will  fall 
down  when  released  ; it  is  not  that  the  heart 
and  pulse  are  still  ; but  that  the  hand  was  open, 
generous,  and  true ; the  heart,  brave,  warm, 
and  tender  ; and  the  pulse  a man’s.  Strike, 
Shadow  strike  ! And  see  his  good  deeds 
springing  from  the  wound,  to  sow  the  world 
with  life  immortal ! — Christmas  Carol,  Stave  4. 

DEATH— The  approach  of. 

It  is  a dreadful  thing  to  wait  and  watch  for 
the  approach  of  death  ; to  know  that  hope  is 
gone,  and  recovery  impossible  ; and  to  sit  and 
count  the  dreary  hours  through  long,  long 
nights — such  nights  as  only  watchers  by  the 
bed  of  sickness  know.  It  chills  the  blood  to 
hear  the  dearest  secrets  of  the  heart — the  pent- 
up,  hidden  secrets  of  many  years — poured  forth 
by  the  unconscious,  helpless  being  before  you  ; 
and  to  think  how  little  the  reserve  and  cunning 
of  a whole  life  will  avail,  when  fever  and  deli- 
rium tear  off  the  mask  at  last.  Strange  tales 
have  been  told  in  the  wanderings  of  dying 
men  ; tales  so  full  of  guilt  and  crime,  that  those 
who  stood  by  the  sick  person’s  couch  have  fled 
in  horror  and  affright,  lest  they  should  be  scared 
to  madness  by  what  they  heard  and  saw  ; and 
many  a wretch  has  died  alone,  raving  of  deeds, 
the  very  name  of  which  has  driven  the  boldest 
man  away. — Tales,  Chap.  12. 

DEATH— Thoughts  on  the  approach  of. 

There  were  many  things  he  had  neglected. 
Little  matters  while  he  was  at  home  and  sur- 
rounded by  them,  but  things  of  mighty  moment 
when  he  was  at  an  immeasurable  distance. 
There  were  many,  many  blessings  that  he  had 
inadequately  felt,  there  were  many  trivial  inju- 
ries that  he  had  not  forgiven,  there  was  love 
that  he  had  but  poorly  returned,  there  was 
friendship  that  he  had  too  lightly  prized  ; there 
were  a million  kind  words  that  he  might  have 
spoken,  a million  kind  looks  that  he  might 
have  given,  uncountable  slight  easy  deeds  in 
which  he  might  have  been  most  truly  great  and 
good.  O for  a day  (he  would  exclaim),  for  but 
one  day  to  make  amends  ! But  the  sun  never 
shone  upon  that  happy  day,  and  out  of  his  re- 
mote captivity  he  never  came. 

Why  does  this  traveller’s  fate  obscure,  on 
New  Year’s  Eve,  the  other  histories  of  travel- 
lers with  which  my  mind  was  filled  but  now, 
and  cast  a solemn  shadow  over  me ! Must  I 


one  day  make  his  journ'ey?  Even  so.  Who 
shall  say,  that  I may  not  then  be  tortured  by 
such  late  regrets  : that  I may  not  then  look 
from  my  exile  on  my  empty  place  and  undone 
work  ? I stand  upon  a seashore,  where  the 
waves  are  years.  They  break  and  fall,  and  I 
may  little  heed  them  : but,  with  every  wave  the 
sea  is  rising,  and  I know  that  it  will  float  me 
on  this  traveller’s  voyage  at  last. 

The  Long  Voyage — Reprinted  Pieces. 

DEATH— The  discovery  of  its  approach. 

When  I took  her  up,  and  felt  that  she  was 
lighter  in  my  arms,  a dead,  blank  feeling  came 
upon  me,  as  if  I were  approaching  to  some 
frozen  region  yet  unseen,  that  numbed  my  life. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  48. 

DEATH  - The  inequality  of. 

Stephen  added  to  his  other  thoughts  the 
stern  reflection,  that  of  all  the  casualties  of 
this  existence  upon  earth,  not  one  was  dealt 
out  with  so  unequal  a hand  as  Death.*  The  in- 
equality of  Birth  was  nothing  to  it.  For,  say 
that  the  child  of  a King  and  the  child  of  a 
Weaver  were  born  to-night  in  the  same  moment, 
what  was  that  disparity  to  the  death  of  any  hu- 
man creature  who  was  serviceable  to,  or  beloved 
by,  another,  while  this  abandoned  woman  lived 
on  ! — Hard  Times , Book  I.,  Chap.  13. 

DEATH— Not  to  be  frightened  by. 

“ The  sun  sets  every  day,  and  people  die  every 
minute,  and  we  mustn’t  be  scared  by  the  com- 
mon lot.  If  we  failed  to  hold  our  own,  because 
that  equal  foot  at  all  men’s  doors  was  heard 
knocking  somewhere,  every  object  in  this  world 
would  slip  from  us.  No  ! Ride  on  ! Rough- 
shod if  need  be,  smooth-shod  if  that  will  do, 
but  ride  on  ! Ride  on  over  all  obstacles,  and 
win  the  race  ! ” — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  28. 

DEATH— Its  expressions. 

It  was  no  unfit  messenger  of  death  that  had 
disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  matron’s  room.  Her 
body  was  bent  by  age  ; her  limbs  trembled 
with  palsy ; and  her  face,  distorted  into  a 
mumbling  leer,  resembled  more  the  grotesque 
shaping  of  some  wild  pencil,  than  the  work  of 
Nature’s  hand. 

Alas  ! how  few  of  Nature’s  faces  are  left  to 
gladden  us  with  their  beauty  ! The  cares,  and 
sorrows,  and  hungerings,  of  the  world  change 
them  as  they  change  hearts  ; and  it  is  only 
when  those  passions  sleep,  and  have  lost  their 
hold  forever,  that  the  troubled  clouds  pass  off, 
and  leave  Heaven’s  surface  clear.  It  is  a com- 
mon thing  for  the  countenances  of  the  dead, 
even  in  that  fixed  and  rigid  state,  to  subside 
into  the  long-forgotten  expression  of  sleeping 
infancy,  and  settle  into  the  very  look  of  early 
life  ; so  calm,  so  peaceful  do  they  grow  again, 
that  those  who  knew  them  in  their  happy  child- 
hood kneel  by  the  coffin’s  side  in  awe,  and  see 
the  Angel  even  upon  earth. 

Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  24. 

DEATH-Of  Stephen  Blackpool. 

“ Rachael,  my  dear.” 

She  took  his  hand.  He  smiled  again  and 
said,  “ Don’t  let ’t  go.” 

“ Thou’rt  in  great  pain,  my  own  dear  Ste- 
phen ? ” 


DEATH 


138 


DEATH 


“ I ha’  been,  but  not  now.  I ha’  been — 
dreadful,  and  dree,  and  long,  my  dear — but  ’ i i s 
ower  now.  Ah,  Rachael,  aw  a muddle  ! Fro’ 
first  to  last,  a muddle  !” 

The  spectre  of  his  old  look  seemed  to  pass  as 
he  said  the  word. 

“ I ha’  fell  into  th’  pit,  my  dear,  as  have  cost 
wi’in  the  knowledge  o’  old  folk  now  livin’,  hun- 
dreds and  hundreds  o’  men’s  lives — fathers, 
sons,  brothers,  dear  to  thousands  an’  thousands, 
an’  keeping  ’em  fro’  want  and  hunger.  I ha’ 
fell  into  a pit  that  ha’ been  wi’  th’  Fire-damp 
crueller  than  battle.  I ha’  read  on’t  in  the 
public  petition,  as  onnv  one  may  read,  fro’  the 
men  that  works  in  pits,  in  which  they  ha’ 
pray’n  an’  pray’n  the  law  makers  for  Christ’s 
sake  not  to  let  their  work  be  murder  to  ’em, 
but  to  spare  ’em  for  th’  wives  and  children  that 
they  loves  as  well  as  gentlefolk  loves  theirs. 
When  it  were  in  work,  it  killed  wi’out  need  ; 
when  ’tis  let  alone,  it  kills  wi’out  need.  See 
how  we  die  an’  no  need,  one  way  an’  another — 
in  a muddle  — every  day  ! ” 

He  faintly  said  it,  without  any  anger  against 
any  one.  Merely  as  the  truth. 

“ Thy  little  sister,  Rachael,  thou  hast  ngt  for- 
got her.  Thou’rt  not  like  to  forget  her  now, 
and  me  so  nigh  her.  Thou  know’st — poor, 
patient,  sufF riii’  dear — how  thou  didst  work  for 
her,  seet’n  all  day  long  in  her  little  chair  at  thy 
winder,  and  how  she  died,  young  and  misshap- 
en, awlung  o’  sickly  air  as  had’n  no  need  to  be, 
an  awlung  o’  working  people’s  miserable  homes. 
A muddle  ! Aw  a muddle  ! ” 

Louisa  approached  him  ; but  he  could  not 
see  her,  lying  with  his  face  turned  up  to  the 
night  sky. 

“ If  aw  th’  things  that  tooches  us,  my  dear, 
was  not  so  muddled,  I should’n  ha’  had’n  need 
to  coom  heer.  If  we  was  not  in  a muddle 
among  ourseln,  I should’n  ha’  been  by  my  own 
fellow-weavers  and  workin’  brothers,  so  mis- 
took. If  Mr.  Bounderby  had  ever  know’d  me 
right — if  he’d  ever  know’d  me  at  aw — he  would’n 
ha’  took’n  offence  wi’  me.  He  would’n  ha’  sus- 
pect’n  me.  But  look  up  yonder,  Rachael  ! Look 
aboove  ! ” 

Following  his  eyes,  she  saw  that  he  was  gaz- 
ing at  a star. 

“ It  ha’  shined  upon  me,”  he  said  reverently, 
“ in  my  pain  and  trouble  down  below.  It  ha’ 
shined  into  my  mind.  I ha’  look’n  at’t  an’ 
thowt  o’  thee,  Rachael,  till  the  muddle  in  my 
mind  have  cleared  awa,  above  a bit,  I hope.” 

* * * * ❖ * 

The  bearers  being  now  ready  to  carry  him 
away,  and  the  surgeon  being  anxious  for  his  re- 
moval,'those  who  had  torches  or  lanterns,  pre- 
pared to  go  in  front  of  the  litter.  Before  it  was 
raised,  and  while  they  were  arranging  how  to 
go,  he  said  to  Rachael,  looking  upward  at  the 
star : 

“ Often  as  I coom  t'o  myseln,  and  found  it 
shinin  on  me  down  there  in  my  trouble,  I thowt 
it  were  the  star  as  guided  to  Our  Saviour’s  home. 
I awmust  think  it  be  the  very  star!” 

They  lifted  him  up,  and  he  was  overjoyed  to 
find  that  they  were  about  to  take  him  in  the 
direction,  whither  the  star  seemed  to  him  to 
lead. 

“ Rachael,  beloved  lass  ! Don’t  let  go  my 
hand.  We  may  walk  toogether  t’night,  my 
dear ! ” 


“ I will  hold  thy  hand,  and  keep  beside  thee, 
Stephen,  all  the  way.” 

“ Bless  thee  ! Will  soombody  be  pleased  to 
coover  my  face  ! ” 

They  carried  him  very  gently  along  the  fields, 
and  down  the  lanes,  and  over  the  wide  land- 
scape ; Rachael  always  holding  the  hand  in  hers. 
Very  few  whispers  broke  the  mournful  silence. 
It  was  soon  a funeral  procession.  The  star  had 
shown  him  where  to  find  the  God  of  the  poor  , 
and  through  humility,  and  sorrow,  and  forgive- 
ness, he  had  gone  to  his  Redeemer’s  rest. 

Liard  Times , Book  III.,  Chap.  6. 

DEATH  In  the  street. 

As  the  load  was  put  down  in  thfe  street,  Riah 
drew  the  head  of  the  party  aside,  and  whispered 
that  he  thought  the  man  was  dying.  “ No,  surely 
not  ? ” returned  the  other.  But  he  became  less 
confident,  on  looking,  and  directed  the  bearers 
to  “bring  him  to  the  nearest  doctor’s  shop.” 

Thither  he  was  brought  ; the  window  becom- 
ing from  within  a wall  of  faces,  deformed  into 
all  kinds  of  shapes  through  the  agency  of  glo- 
bular red  bottles,  green  bottles,  blue  bottles, 
and  other  colored  bottles.  A ghastly  light 
shining  upon  him  that  he  did’nt  need,  the  beast 
so  furious  but  a few  minutes  gone,  was  quiet 
enough  now,  with  a strange  mysterious  writing 
on  his  face,  reflected  from  one  of  the  great  bot- 
tles, as  if  Death  had  marked  him  : “ Mine.” 

The  medical  testimony  was  more  precise  and 
more  to  the  purpose  than  it  sometimes  is  in  a 
Court  of  Justice.  “ You  had  better  send  for 
something  to  cover  it.  All’s  over.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  IV.,  Chap.  g. 

DEATH-Of  Quilp. 

“If  I could  find  a wall  or  fence,”  said  the 
dwarf,  stretching  out  his  arms,  and  walking 
slowly  on,  “ I should  know  which  way  to  turn. 
A good,  black,  devil’s  night  this,  to  have  my 
dear  friend  here ! If  I had  but  that  wish,  it 
might,  for  anything  1 cared,  never  be  day  again.” 

As  the  word  passed  his  lips,  he  staggered  and 
fell — and  next  moment  was  fighting  with  the 
cold,  dark  water  ! 

For  all  its  bubbling  up  and  rushing  in  his 
ears,  he  could  hear  the  knocking  at  the  gate 
again — could  hear  a shout  that  followed  it — 
could  recognize  the  voice.  For  all  his  strug- 
gling and  plashing,  he  could  understand  that 
they  had  lost  their  way,  and  had  wandered  back 
to  the  point  from  which  they  started  ; that  they 
were  all  but  looking  on,  while  he  was  drowned ; 
that  they  were  close  at  hand,  but  could  not  make 
an  effort  to  save  him  ; that  he  himself  had  shut 
and  barred  them  out.  He  answered  the  shout 
— with  a yell,  which  seemed  to  make  the  hun- 
dred fires  that  danced  before  his  eyes  tremble 
and  flicker,  as  if  a gust  of  wind  had  stirred  them. 
It  was  of  no  avail.  The  strong  tide  filled  his 
throat,  and  bore  him  on  upon  its  rapid  current. 

Another  mortal  struggle,  and  he  was  up  again, 
beating  the  water  with  his  hands,  and  looking 
out  with  wild  and  glaring  eyes,  that  showed  him 
some  black  object  he  was  drifting  close  upon. 
The  hull  of  a ship  ! He  could  touch  its  smooth 
and  slippery  surface  with  his  hand.  One  loud 
cry  now — but  the  resistless  water  bore  him  down 
before  he  could  give  it  utterance,  and,  driving 
him  under  it,  carried  away  a corpse. 

It  toyed  and  sported  with  its  ghastly  freight, 


DEATH 


139 


DEATH 


now  bruising  it  against  the  slimy  piles,  now  hid- 
ing it  in  mud  or  long  rank  grass,  now  dragging 
it  heavily  over  rough  stones  and  gravel,  now 
feigning  to  yield  it  to  its  own  element,  and  in 
the  same  action  luring  it  away,  until,  tired  of  the 
ugly  plaything,  it  flung  it  on  a swamp — a dis- 
mal place,  where  pirates  had  swung  in  chains, 
through  many  a wintry  night — and  left  it  there 
to  bleach. 

And  there  it  lay,  alone.  The  sky  was  red 
with  flame,  and  the  water  that  bore  it  there  had 
been  tinged  with  the  sullen  light  a.s  it  flowed 
along.  The  place  the  deserted  carcass  had  left 
so  recently,  a living  man,  was  now  a blazing 
ruin.  There  was  something  of  the  glare  upon 
its  face.  The  hair,  stirred  by  the  damp  breeze, 
played  in  a kind  of  mockery  of  death — such  a 
mockery  as  the  dead  man  himself  would  have 
delighted  in  when  alive — about  its  head,  and  its 
dress  fluttered  idly  in  the  night  wind. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  67. 

DEATH-Of  Mrs.  Weller.  (Mr.  Weller’s  let- 
ter.) 

“ Never  mind  my  eyes  ; you  had  much  better 
read  your  letter,”  said  the  pretty  housemaid  ; and 
as  she  said  so,  she  made  the  eyes  twinkle  with 
such  slyness  and  beauty  that  they  were  perfectly 
irresistible. 

Sam  refreshed  himself  with  a kiss,  and  read 
as  follows  : 

“ Markis  Gran 

By  dorken 

“ My  dear  Sammle.  Wen&dy' 

“ I am  wery  sorry  to  have  the  pleasure  of  bein 
a Bear  of  ill  news  your  Mother  in  law  cort  cold 
consekens  of  imprudently  settin  too  long  on  the 
damp  grass  in  the  rain  a hearin  of  a shepherd 
who  warnt  able  to  leave  off  till  late  at  night 
owen  to  his  havin  vound  his-self  up  with  brandy 
and  vater  and  not  being  able  to  stop  his-self  till 
he  got  a little  sober  which  took  a many  hours  to 
do  the  doctor  says  that  if  she’d  svallo’d  varm 
brandy  and  vater  artervards  insted  of  afore  she 
mightn’t  have  been  no  vus  her  veels  wos  im- 
medetly  greased  and  everythink  done  to  set  her 
agoin  as  could  be  inwented  your  farther  had 
hopes  as  she  vould  have  vorked  round  as  usual 
but  just  as  she  wos  a turnen  the  corner  my  boy 
she  took  the  wrong  road  and  vent  down  hill  vith 
a welocity  you  never  see  and  notvithstandin  that 
the  drag  wos  put  on  drectlyby  the  medikelman 
it  wornt  of  no  use  at  all  for  she  paid  the  last 
pike  at  twenty  minutes  afore  six  o’clock  yester- 
day evenin  havin  done -the  journey  wery  much 
under  the  reglar  time  vich  praps  was  partly  owen 
to  her  havin  taken  in  wery  little  luggage  by  the 
vay  your  father  says  that  if  you  vill  come  and 
see  me  Sammy  he  vill  take  it  as  a wery  great 
favor  for  I am  wery  lonely  Samivel  n b he  vill 
have  it  spelt  that  vay  vich  I say  ant  right  and 
as  there  is  sich  a many  things  to  settle  he  is 
sure  your  guvner  wont  object  of  course  he  vill 
not  Sammy  for  I knows  him  better  so  he  sends 
his  dooty  in  which  I join  and  am  Samivel  in- 
fernally yours 

“ Tony  Veller.” 

“ Wot  a incomprehensible  letter,”  said  Sam; 
“ who’s  to  know  wot  it  means,  vith  all  this  he- 
ing  and  I-ing  ! It  ain’t  my  father’s  writin’,  ’cept 
this  here  signater  in  print  letters  ; that’s  his.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  52. 


DEATH  OF  THE  RICH  MAN— Its  cause, 
“ Pressure.” 

The  report  that  the  great  man  was  dead,  got 
about  with  astonishing  rapidity.  At  first,  he  was 
dead  of  all  the  diseases  that  ever  were  known, 
and  of  several  bran-new  maladies  invented  with 
the  speed  of  Light  to  meet  the  demand  of  the  oc- 
casion. He  had  concealed  a dropsy  from  in- 
fancy, he  had  inherited  a large  estate  of  water 
on  the  chest  from  his  grandfather,  he  had  had 
an  operation  performed  upon  him  every  morning 
of  his  life  for  eighteen  years,  he  had  been  subject 
to  the  explosion  of  important  veins  in  his  body 
after  the  manner  of  fireworks,  he  had  had  some- 
thing the  matter  with  his  lungs,  he  had  had 
something  the  matter  with  his  heart,  he  had  had 
something  the  matter  with  his  brain.  Five  hun- 
dred people  who  sat  down  to  breakfast  entirely 
uninformed  on  the  whole  subject,  believed 
before  they  had  done  breakfast,  that  they  private- 
ly and  personally  knew  Physician  to  have  said 
to  Mr.  Merdle,  “You  must  expect  to  go  out, 
some  day,  like  the  snuff  of  a candle,”  and  that 
they  knew  Mr.  Merdle  to  have  said  to  Physician, 
“ A man  can  die  but  once.”  By  about  eleven 
o’clock  in  the  forenoon,  something  the  matter 
with  the  bra-in,  became  the  favorite  theory 
against  the  field  ; and  by  twelve  the  something 
had  been  distinctly  ascertained  to  be  “ Pressure.” 

Pressure  was  so  entirely  satisfactoiy  to  the 
public  mind,  and  seemed  to  make  everybody  so 
comfortable,  that  it  might  have  lasted  all  day 
but  for  Bar’s  having  taken  the  real  state  of  the 
case  into  Court  at  half-past  nine.  This  led  to 
its  beginning  to  be  currently  whispered  all  over 
London  by  about  one,  that  Mr.  Merdle  had  kill- 
ed himself.  Pressure,  however,  so  far  from  be- 
ing overthrown  by  the  discovery,  became  a 
greater  favorite  than  ever.  There  was  a general 
moralizing  upon  Pressure,  in  every  street.  All 
the  people  who  hnd  tried  to  make  money  and 
had  not  been  able  to  do  it,  said,  There  you  were  ! 
You  no  sooner  began  to  devote  yourself  to  the 
pursuit  of  wealth,  than  you  got  Pressure.  The 
idle  people  improved  the  occasion  in  a similar 
manner.  See,  said  they,  what  you  brought  your- 
self to  by  work,  work,  work  ! You  persisted  in 
working,  you  overdid  it.  Pressure  came  on,  and 
you  were  done  for ! This  consideration  was 
very  potent  in  many  quarters,  but  nowhere  more 
so  than  among  the  young  clerks  and  partners 
who  had  never  been  in  the  slightest  danger  of 
overdoing  it.  These  one  and  all  declared,  quite 
piously,  that  they  hoped  they  would  never  forget 
the  warning  as  long  as  they  lived,  and  that  their 
conduct  might  be  so  regulated  as  to  keep  off 
Pressure,  and  preserve  them,  a comfort  to  their 
friends,  for  many  years. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  25. 

DEATH— Of  the  prisoner. 

It  was  a large,  bare,  desolate  room,  with  a 
number  of  stump  bedsteads  made  of  iron  : on 
one  of  which  lay  stretched  the  shadow  of  a man  ; 
wan,  pale,  and  ghastly.  His  breathing  was  hard 
and  thick,  and  he  moaned  painfully  as  it  came 
and  went.  At  the  bedside  sat  a short  old  man 
in  a cobbler’s  apron,  who,  by  the  aid  of  a pair 
of  horn  spectacles,  was  reading  from  the  Bible 
aloud.  It  was  the  fortunate  legatee. 

The  sick  man  laid  his  hand  upon  his  attend- 
ant’s arm,  and  motioned  him  to  stop.  He  closed 
the  book,  and  laid  it  on  the  bed. 


DEATH 


140 


DEATH 


“ Open  the  window,”  said  the  sick  man. 

He  did  so.  The  noise  of  carriages  and  carts, 
the  rattle  of  wheels,  the  cries  of  men  and  boys, 
all  the  busy  sounds  of  a mighty  multitude  in- 
stinct with  life  and  occupation,  blended  into  one 
deep  murmur,  floated  into  the  room.  Above  the 
hoarse  loud  hum,  arose,  from  time  to  lime,  a 
boisterous  laugh  ; or  a scrap  of  some  jingling 
song,  shouted  forth  by  one  of  the  giddy  crowd, 
would  strike  upon  the  ear,  for  an  instant,  and 
then  be  lost  amidst  the  roar  of  voices  and  the 
tramp  of  footsteps  ; the  breaking  of  the  billows 
of  the  restless  sea  of  life,  that  rolled  heavily  on, 
without.  Melancholy  sounds  to  a quiet  listener 
at  any  time  ; how  melancholy  to  the  watcher  by 
the  bed  of  death  ! 

“ There  is  no  air  here,"  said  the  sick  man, 
faintly.  “ The  place  pollutes  it.  It  was  fresh 
round  about,  when  I walked  there,  years  ago  ; 
but  it  grows  hot  and  heavy  in  passing  these  walls. 
I cannot  breathe  it.” 

“We  have  breathed  it  together  for  a long 
time,”  said  the  old  man.  “ Come,  come.” 

There  was  a short  silence,  during  which  the 
two  spectators  approached  the  bed.  The  sick 
man  drew  a hand  of  his  old  fellow-prisoner  to- 
wards him,  and  pressing  it  affectionately  between 
both  his  own,  retained  it  in  his  grasp. 

“ I hope,”  he  gasped  after  a while  : so  faintly 
that  they  bent  their  ears  close  over  the  bed  to 
catch  the  half-formed  sounds  his  pale  lips  gave 
vent  to  : “I  hope  my  merciful  Judge  will  bear 
in  mind  my  heavy  punishment  on  earth.  Twenty 
years,  my  friend,  twenty  years  in  this  hideous 
grave  ! My  heart  broke  when  my  child  died, 
and  I could  not  even  kiss  him  in  his  little  coffin. 
My  loneliness  since  then,  in  all  this  noise  and 
riot,  has  been  very  dreadful.  May  God  forgive 
me  ! He  has  seen  my  solitary,  lingering  death.” 

He  folded  his  hands,  and , .tyiurm^i  wig  some- 
thing more  they  could  not  hcur,  fell  into  a sleep 
— only  a sleep  at  first,  for  they  saw  hh^.  smile. 

They  whispered  together / ;,a  little  time,  and 
the  turnkey,  stooping  over  the  pillow,  drew  has- 
tily back.  “ He  has  got  his  discharge,  by  G — ! ” 
said  the  man. 

He  had.  But  he  had  grown  so  like  death  in 
life,  that  they  knew  not  when  he  died. 

Pickwick , Chap.  44. 

DEATH-Of  Little  Nell. 

She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and 
calm,  so  free  from  trace  of  pain,  so  fair  to  look 
upon.  She  seemed  a creature  fresh  from  the 
hand  of  God,  and  waiting  for  the  breath  of  life  ; 
not  one  who  had  lived  and  suffered  death. 

Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here  and  there 
some  winter  berries  and  green  leaves  gathered 
in  a spot  she  had  been  used  to  favor.  “ When 
I die,  put  near  me  something  that  has  loved  the 
light,  and  had  the  sky  above  it  always.”  Those 
were  her  words. 

She  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble 
Nell  was  dead.  Her  little  bird — a poor  slight 
thing  the  pressure  of  a finger  would  have  crushed 
— was  stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage  ; and  the  strong 
heart  of  its  child  mistress  was  mute  and  motion- 
less for  ever. 

Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early  cares,  her 
sufferings,  and  fatigues?  All  gone.  Sorrow 
was  dead  indeed  in  her,  but  peace  and  perfect 
happiness  were  born  ; imaged  in  her  tranquil 
beauty  and  profound  repose. 


And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered 
in  this  change.  Yes.  The  old  fireside  had 
smiled  upon  that  same  sweet  face  ; it  had  passed, 
like  a dream,  through  haunts  of  misery  and 
care  ; at  the  door  of  the  poor  schoolmaster  on 
the  summer  evening,  before  the  furnace  fire  upon 
the  cold,  wet  night,  at  the  still  bed  side  of  the 
dying  boy.  there  had  been  the  same  mild,  lovely 
look.  So  shall  we  know  the  angels  in  their 
majesty  after  death. 

The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm  in  his,  and 
had  the  small  hand  light  folded  to  his  breast, 
for  warmth.  It  was  the  hand  she  had  stretched 
out  to  him  with  her  last  smile — the  hand  that 
led  him  on,  through  all  their  wanderings. 
Ever  and  anon  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips  ; then 
hugged  it  to  his  breast  again,  murmuring  that  it 
was  warmer  now  ; and,  as  he  said  it,  he  looked, 
in  agony,  to  those  who  stood  around,  as  if  im- 
ploring them  to  help  her. 

She  was  dead,  and  past  all  help,  or  need  of 
it.  The  ancient  rooms  she  had  seemed  to  fill 
with  life,  even  while  her  own  was  waning  fast — 
the  garden  she  had  tended — the  eyes  she  had 
gladdened — the  noiseless  haunts  of  many  a 
thoughtful  hour — the  paths  she  had  trodden  as  it 
were  but  yesterday — could  know  her  never  more. 

“ It  is  not,”  said  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  bent 
down  to  kiss  her  on  the  cheek,  and  gave  his 
tears  free  vent,  “ it  is  not  on  earth  that  Hea- 
ven’s justice  ends.  Think  what  earth  is,  com- 
pared with  the  World  to  which  her  young  spirit 
has  winged  its  early  flight ; and  say,  if  one  de- 
liberate wish  expressed  in  solemn  terms  above 
this  bed  could  call  her  back  to  life,  which  of  us 
would  utter  it ! ” 

****** 

“ She  is  sleeping  soundly,”  he  said  ; “ but  no 
wonder.  Angel  hands  have  strewn  the  ground 
deep  with  snow,  that  the  lightest  footstep  may 
be  lighter  yet  ; and  the  very  birds  are  dead, 
that  they  may  not  wake  her.  She  used  to  feed 
them,  sir.  Though  never  so  cold  and  hungry, 
the  timid  things  would  fly  from  us.  They  never 
flew  from  her ! ” 

Again  he  stopped  to  listen,  and  scarcely 
drawing  breath,  listened  for  a long,  long  time. 
That  fancy  past,  he  opened  an  old  chest,  took 
out  some  clothes  as  fondly  as  if  they  had  been 
living  things,  and  began  to  smooth  and  brush 
them  with  his  hand. 

“ Why  dost  thou  lie  so  idle  there,  dear  Nell,” 
he  murmured,  “ when  there  are  bright  red  ber- 
ries out  of  doors  waiting  for  thee  to  pluck  them  ! 
Why  dost  thou  lie  so  idle  there,  when  thy  little 
friends  come  creeping  to  the  door,  crying  ‘ where 
is  Nell — sweet  Nell?’ — and  sob,  and  weep,  be- 
cause they  do  not  see  thee.  She  was  always 
gentle  with  children.  The  wildest  would  do 
her  bidding — she  had  a tender  way  with  them, 
indeed  she  had  ! ” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop.  Chap.  71. 

DEATH— Of  the  young:. 

“ Oh  ! it  is  hard  to  take  to  heart 
The  lesson  that  such  deaths  will  teach, 

But  let  no  man  reject  it, 

For  it  is  one  that  all  must  learn, 

And  is  a mighty,  universal  Truth. 

When  Death  strikes  down  the  innocent  and  young 
For  every  fragile  form  from  which  he  lets 
The  parting  spirit  free, 

A hundred  virtues  rise. 

In  shapes  of  mercy,  charity,  and  love. 

To  walk  the  world  and  bless  it. 


DEATH 


141 


DEATH 


Of  every  tear 

That  sorrowing  mortals  shecl  on  such  green  graves 
Some  good  is  born,  some  gentler  nature  comes.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop. 

DEATH— By  starvation. 

The  man’s  face  was  thin  and  very  pale  ; his 
hair  and  beard  were  grizzly ; his  eyes  were 
bloodshot.  The  old  woman’s  face  was  wrinkled  ; 
her  two  remaining  teeth  protruded  over  her  un- 
der lip  ; and  her  eyes  were  bright  and  piercing. 
Oliver  was  afraid  to  look  at  either  her  or  the 
man.  They  seemed  so  like  the  rats  he  had  seen 
outside. 

“Nobody  shall  go  near  her,”  said  the  man, 
starting  fiercely  up,  as  the  undertaker  approached 
the  recess.  “ Keep  back  ! d — n you,  keep  back, 
if  you’ve  a life  to  lose  !” 

“Nonsense,  my  good  man,”  said  the  under- 
taker, who  was  pretty  well  used  to  misery  in  all 
its  shapes.  “ Nonsense  !” 

“ I tell  you,”  said  the  man ; clinching  his 
hands,  and  stamping  furiously  on  the  floor, — 
“ I tell  you  I won’t  have  her  put  into  the  ground. 
She  couldn’t  rest  there.  The  worms  would 
worry  her — not  eat  her — she  is  so  worn  away.” 

The  undertaker  offered  no  reply  to  this  rav- 
ing ; but,  producing  a tape  from  his  pocket, 
knelt  down  for  a moment  by  the  side  of  the  body. 

“Ah!”  said  the  man,  bursting  into  tears, 
and  sinking  on  his  knees  at  the  feet  of  the  dead 
woman;  “kneel  down,  kneel  down  — kneel 
round  her,  every  one  of  you,  and  mark  my 
words  ! I say  she  was  starved  to  death.  I 
never  knew  how  bad  she  was,  till  the  fever 
came  upon  her ; and  then  her  bones  were  start- 
ing through  the  skin.  There  was  neither  fire 
nor  candle  ; she  died  in  the  dark — in  the  dark  ! 
She  couldn’t  even  see  her  children’s  faces, 
though  we  heard,  her  gasping  out  their  names. 
I begged  for  her  in  the  streets  ; and  they  sent 
me  to  prison.  When  I came  back,  she  was 
dying ; and  all  the  blood  in  my  heart  has  dried 
up,  for  they  starved  her  to  death.  I swear  it 
before  the  God  that  saw  it ! They  starved  her ! ” 
He  twined  his  hands  in  his  hair ; and,  with  a 
loud  sci-eam,  rolled  grovelling  upon  the  floor : 
his  eyes  fixed,  and  the  foam  covering  his  lips. 

The  terrified  children  cried  bitterly  ; but  the 
old  woman,  who  had  hitherto  remained  as  quiet 
as  if  she  had  been  wholly  deaf  to  all  that  passed, 
menaced  them  into  silence.  Having  unloosed 
the  cravat  of  the  man,  who  still  remained  ex- 
tended on  the  ground,  she  tottered  toward  the 
undertaker. 

“ She  was  my  daughter,”  said  the  old  woman, 
nodding  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  corpse, 
and  speaking  with  an  idiotic  leer,  more  ghastly 
than  even  the  presence  of  death  in  such  a place. 
“Lord,  Lord!  Well,  it  is  strange  that  I,  who 
gave  birth  to  her,  and  was  a woman  then,  should 
be  alive  and  merry  now,  and  she  lying  there  ; so 
cold  and  stiff!  Lord,  Lord  ! — to  think  of  it ; — 
it’s  as  good  as  a play — as  good  as  a play  ! ” 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  5. 

DEATH— In  old  ag-e  (Anthony  Chuzzle wit) . 

He  had  fallen  from  his  chair  in  a fit,  and  lay 
there,  battling  for  each  gasp  of  breath,  with 
every  shrivelled  vein  and  sinew  starting  in  its 
place,  as  if  it  were  bent  on  bearing  witness  to 
his  age,  and  sternly  pleading  with  Nature  against 
his  recovery.  It  was  frightful  to  see  how  the 
principle  of  life,  shut  up  within  his  withered 


frame,  fought  like  a strong  devil,  mad  to  be  re- 
leased, and  rent  its  ancient  prison-house.  A 
young  man  in  the  fullness  of  his  vigor,  struggling 
with  so  much  strength  of  desperation,  would 
have  been  a dismal  sight ; but  an  old,  old, 
shrunken  body,  endowed  with  preternatural 
might,  and  giving  the  lie  jn  every  motion  of  its 
every  limb  and  joint  to  its  enfeebled  aspect,  was 
a hideous  spectacle  indeed. 

* * * * * 

On  his  livid  face,  and  on  his  horny  hands, 
and  in  his  glassy  eyes,  and  traced  by  an  eternal 
finger  in  the  very  drops  of  sweat  upon  his  brow, 
was  one  word — Death. 

Marlin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  18. 

DEATH— Weller’s  philosophy  at  his  loss. 

“Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  “you’re  vel- 
come.” 

“ I’ve  been  a callin’  to  you  half  a dozen 
times,”  said  Sam,  hanging  his  hat  on  a peg, 
“but  you  didn’t  hear  me.” 

“No,  Sammy,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  again 
looking  thoughtfully  at  the  fire.  “ I was  in  a 
referee,  Sammy.” 

“Wot  about?”  inquired  Sam,  drawing  his 
chair  up  to  tlfe  fire. 

“ In  a referee,  Sammy,”  replied  the  elder  Mr. 
Weller,  “ regarding  her , Samivel.”  Here  Mr. 
Weller  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of  Dor- 
king churchyard,  in  mute  explanation  that  his 
words  referred  to  the  late  Mrs.  Weller. 

“I  wos  a thinkin’,  Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller, 
eyeing  his  son,  with  great  earnestness,  over  his 
pipe  ; as  if  to  assure  him  that  however  extraor- 
dinary and  incredible  the  declaration  might  ap- 
pear, it  was  nevertheless  calmly  and  deliberately 
uttered.  “ I wos  a thinkin’,  Sammy,  that  upon 
the  whole  I wos  wery  sorry  she  wos  gone.” 

“Veil,  and  so  ought  to  be,”  replied  Sam. 

Mr.  Weller  nouded  his  acquiescence  in  the 
sentimei.  , and  afrain  fastening  his  eyes  on  the 
fire,  shrouded  i.  ;elf  in  a cloud,  and  mused 
deeply. 

“Veil,”  said  Sam,  venturing  to  offer  a little 
homely  consolation,  after  the  lapse  of  three  or 
four  minutes,  consumed  by  the  old  gentleman  in 
slowly  shaking  his  head  from  side  to  side,  and 
solemnly  smoking;  “veil,  gov’ner,  ve  must  all 
come  to  it,  one  day  or  another.” 

“ So  we  must,  Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller  the 
elder. 

“ There’s  a Providence  in  it  all,”  said  Sam. 

“ O’  course  there  is,”  replied  his  father,  with  a 
nod  of  grave  approval.  “ Wot  ’ud  become  of  the 
undertakers  vithout  it,  Sammy  ? ” 

Lost  in  the  immense  field  of  conjecture  opened 
by  this  reflection,  the  elder  Mr.  Weller  laid  his 
pipe  on  the  table,  and  stirred  the  fire  with  a 
meditative  vision. — Pickwick , Chap.  52. 

DEATH-Of  “Jo.” 

Jo  is  very  glad  to  see  his  old  friend  ; and  says, 
when  they  are  left  alone,  that  he  takes  it  uncom- 
mon kind  as  Mr.  Sangsby  should  come  so  far 
out  of  his  way  on  accounts  of  sich  as  him.  Mr. 
Sangsby,  touched  by  the  spectacle  before  him, 
immediately  lays  upon  the  table  half-a-crown  ; 
that  magic  balsam  of  his  for  all  kinds  of  wounds. 

“ And  how  do  you  find  yourself,  my  poor 
lad  ? ” inquires  the  stationer,  with  his  cough  of 
sympathy. 


DEATH 


142 


DEATH 


“ I am  in  luck,  Mr.  Sangshy,  I am,”  returns 
Jo,  “and  don’t  want  for  nothink.  I’m  more 
cumfbler  nor  you  can’t  think.  Mr.  Sangshy  ! 
I’m  wery  sorry  that  I done  it,  but  I didn’t  go  fur 
to  do  it,  sir.” 

The  stationer  softly  lays  down  another  half- 
cijown,  and  asks  him  what  it  is  that  he  is  sorry 
for  having  done  ? 

“ Mi.  Sangshy,”  says  Jo,  “I  went  and  giv  a 
illness  to  the  lady  as  wos  and  yit  as  warn’t  the 
t’other  lady,  and  none  of  ’em  never  says  no- 
think to  me  for  having  done  it,  on  accounts  of 
their  being  ser  good  and  my  having  been  s’un- 
fortnet.  The  lady  come  herself  and  see  me 
yesday,  and  she  ses,  ‘Ah  Jo!’  she  ses.  ‘We 
thought  we’d  lost  you,  Jo  !’  she  ses.  And  she 
sits  down  a-smilin  so  quiet,  and  don’t  pass  a 
word  nor  yit  a look  upon  me  for  having  done  it, 
she  don’t,  and  I turns  again  the  wall,  I doos,  Mr. 
Sangsby.  And  Mr.  Jarnders,  I see  him  a-forced 
to  turn  away  his  own  self.  And  Mr.  Woodcot, 
he  come  fur  to  giv  me  somethink  fur  to  ease  me, 
wot  he’s  alius  a-doin  oh  day  and  night,  and  wen 
he  come  a-bendin  ove:  me  and  a-speakin  up  so 
bold,  I see  his  tears  a-fallin,  Mr.  Sangsby.” 

The  softened  stationer  deposits  another  half- 
crown  on  the  table.  Nothing  less  than  a repe- 
tition of  that  infallible  remedy  would  relieve  his 
feelings.  , 

“ Wot  I wos  a-thinkin  on,  Mr.  Sangsby,”  pro- 
ceeds Jo,  “ wos,  as  you  wos  able  to  write  wery 
large,  p’raps  ? ” 

“ Yes,  Jo,  please  God,”  returns  the  stationer. 

“Uncommon  precious  large,  p’raps?”  says 
Jo,  with  eagerness. 

“ Yes,  my  poor  boy.” 

Jo  laughs  with  pleasure.  “Wot  I wos  a- 
thinking  on  then,  Mr.  Sangsby,  wos,  that  when 
I wos  moved  on  as  fur  as  ever  I could  go  and 
couldn’t  be  moved  no  furder,  whether  you  might 
be  so  good  p’raps,  as  to  write  out,  wery  large,  so 
that  any  one  could  see  it  anywheres,  as  that  I 
wos  wery  truly  hearty  sorry  that  I done  it  and 
that  I never  went  fur  to  do  it  ; and  that  though 
I didn’t  know  nothink  at  all,  I knowd  as  Mr. 
Woodcot  once  cried  over  it  and  wos  alius  grieved 
over  it,  and  that  I hoped  as  he’d  be  able  to  for- 
give me  in  his  mind.  If  the  writin  could  be 
made  to  say  it  wery  large,  he  might.” 

“ It  shall  say  it,  Jo.  Very  large.” 

Jo  laughs  again.  “Thankee,  Mr.  Sangsby. 
It’s  wery  kind  of  you,  sir,  and  it  makes  me  more 
cumfbler  nor  I wos  afore.” 

The  meek  little  stationer,  with  a broken  and 
unfinished  cough,  slips  down  his  fourth  half- 
crown — he  has  never  been  so  close  to  a case  re- 
quiring so  many — and  is  fain  to  depart.  And 
Jo  and  he,  upon  this  little  earth,  shall  meet  no 
more.  No  more. 

For  the  cart,  so  hard  to  draw,  is  near  its  jour- 
ney’s end,  and  drags  over  stony  ground.  All 
round  the  clock  it  labors  up  the  broken  steps, 
shattered  and  worn.  Not  many  times  can  the 
sun  rise,  and  behold  it  still  upon  its  weary  road. 

Phil  Squod,  with  his  smoky  gunpowder  visage, 
at  once  acts  as  nurse  and  works  as  armorer 
at  his  little  table  in  a corner  ; often  looking 
round,  and  saying,  with  a nod  of  his  green  baize 
cap,  and  an  encouraging  elevation  of  his  one  eye- 
brow, “ Hold  up,  my  boy  ! Hold  tip!”  There, 
too,  is  Mr.  Jarndyce  many  a time,  and  Allan 
Woodcourt  almost  always;  both  thinking  much 
how  strangely  Fate  has  entangled  this  rough  out- 


cast in  the  web  of  very  different  lives.  There, 
too,  the  trooper  is  a frequent  visitor,  filling  the 
doorway  with  his  athletic  figure,  and,  from  his 
superfluity  of  life  and  strength,  seeming  to  shed 
down  temporary  vigor  upon  Jo,  who  never  fails 
to  speak  more  robustly  in  answer  to  his  cheer- 
ful words. 

Jo  is  in  a sleep  or  in  a stupor  to-day,  and 
Allan  Woodcourt,  newly  arrived,  stands  by  him, 
looking  down  upon  his  wasted  form.  After  a 
while  he  softly  seats  himself  upon  the  bedside 
with  his  face  towards  him — just  as  he  sat  in  the 
law-writer’s  room — and  touches  his  chest  and 
heart.  The  cart  had  very  nearly  given  up,  but 
labors  on  a little  more. 

The  trooper  stands  in  the  doorway,  still  and 
silent.  Phil  has  stopped  in  a low  clinking  noise, 
with  his  little  hammer  in  his  hand.  Mr.  Wood- 
court  looks  round  with  that  grave  professional 
interest  and  attention  on  his  face,  and,  glancing 
significantly  at  the  trooper,  signs  to  Phil  to 
carry  his  table  out.  When  the  little  hammer 
is  next  used,  there  will  be  a speck  of  rust 
upon  it. 

“Well,  Jo!  What  is  the  matter?  Don’t  be 
frightened.” 

“ I thought,”  says  Jo,  who  has  started,  and  is 
looking  round,  “ I thought  I was  in  Tom-all- 
Alonc’s  agin.  Ain’t  there  nobody  here  but  you, 
Mr.  Woodcot?  ” 

“ Nobody.” 

“And  I ain’t  took  back  to  Tom-all- Alone’s. 
Am  I,  sir  ? ” 

“No.”  Jo  closes  his  eyes,  muttering,  “I’m 
wery  thankfu*l.” 

After  watching  him  closely  a little  while, 
Allan  puts  his  mouth  very  near  his  ear,  and  says 
to  him  in  a low,  distinct  voice  : 

“ Jo  ! Did  you  ever  know  a prayer?” 

“ Never  knowd  nothink,  sir.” 

“ Not  so  much  as  one  short  prayer?  ” 

“ No,  sir.  Nothink  at  all.  Mr.  Chadbands 
he  wos  a-prayin  wunst  at  Mr.  Sangsby’s  and  I 
heerd  him,  but  he  sounded  as  if  he  wos  a-speakin’ 
to  hisself,  and  not  to  me.  He  prayed  a lot,  but 
I couldn’t  make  out  nothink  on  it.  Different 
times,  there  wos  other  genlmen  come  down 
Tom- All- Alone’s  a-prayin,  but  they  all  mostly 
sed  as  the  t’other  wuns  prayed  wrong,  and  all 
mostly  sounded  to  be  a-talking  to  theirselves,  or 
a passing  blame  on  the  t’others,  and  not  a-talkin 
to  us.  We  never  knowd  nothink.  1 never 
knowd  what  it  wos  all  about.” 

It  takes  him  a long  time  to  say  this  ; and  few 
but  an  experienced  and  attentive  listener  could 
hear,  or,  hearing,  understand  him.  After  a short 
relapse  into  sleep  or  stupor,  he  makes,  of  a sud- 
den, a strong  effort  to  get  out  of  bed. 

“Stay,  Jo  ! What  now?” 

“ It’s  time  for  me  to  go  to  that  there  berryin 
ground,  sir,”  he  returns,  with  a wild  look. 

“ Lie  down,  and  tell  me.  What  burying 
ground,  Jo  ? ” 

“ Where  they  laid  him  as  wos  wery  good  to 
me,  wery  good  to  me  indeed,  he  was.  It’s  time 
fur  me  to  go  down  to  that  there  berryin  ground, 
sir,  and  ask  to  be  put  along  with  him.  I wants 
to  go  there  and  be  berried.  Pie  used  fur  to  say 
to  me,  ‘I  am  as  poor  as  you  to-day,  Jo,’ he  ses. 
I wants  to  tell  him  that  I am  as  poor  as  him 
now,  and  have  come  there  to  be  laid  along  with 
him.” 

“ By-and-bye,  Jo.  By-and-bye.” 


DEATH 


143 


DEATH 


“ Ah  ! P’raps  they  wouldn’t  do  it  if  I wos  to 
go  myself.  But  will  you  promise  to  have  me 
took  there,  sir,  and  laid  along  with  him  ? ” 

“ I will,  indeed.” 

“ Thank’ee,  sir.  Thank’ee,  sir.  They'll  have 
to  get  the  key  of  the  gate  afore  they  can  take 
me  in,  for  it’s  alius  locked.  And  there’s  a step 
there,  as  I used  fur  to  clean  with  my  broom. — 
It’s  turned  wery  dark,  sir.  Is  there  any  light  a- 
comin  ? ” 

“ It  is  coming  fast,  Jo.” 

Fast.  The  cart  is  shaken  all  to  pieces,  and* 
the  rugged  road  is  very  near  its  end. 

“Jo,  my  poor  fellow  ! ” 

“ I hear  you,  sir,  in  the  dark,  but  I’m  a-gropin 
— a gropin — let  me  catch  hold  of  your  hand.” 

“Jo,  can  you  say  what  I say?” 

“ I’ll  say  anythink  as  you  say,  sir,  for  I knows 
it’s  good.” 

“Our  Father.” 

“ Our  Father  ! — yes,  that’s  very  good,  sir.” 
“Which  art  in  Heaven.” 

“ Art  in  Fleaven — is  the  light  a-comin,  sir?” 

“It  is  close  at  hand.  Hallowed  be  thy 
NAME ! ” 

“ Hallowed  be — thy ” 

The  light  is  come  upon  the  dark  benighted 
way.  Dead ! 

Dead,  your  Majesty.  Dead,  my  lords  and 
gentlemen.  Dead,  Right  Reverends  and  Wrong 
Reverends  of  every  order.  Dead,  men  and  wo- 
men, born  with  Heavenly  compassion  in  your 
hearts.  And  dying  thus  around  us  every  day. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  47. 

DEATH— Its  oblivion. 

So  Edith’s  mother  lies  unmentioned  of  her 
dear  friends,  who  are  deaf  to  the  waves  that  are 
hoarse  with  repetition  of  their  mystery,  and 
blind  to  the  dust  that  is  piled  upon  the  shore, 
and  to  the  white  arms  that  are  beckoning,  in 
the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible  country  far  away. 
But  all  goes  on,  as  it  was  wont,  upon  the  margin 
of  the  unknown  sea  ; and  Edith,  standing  there 
alone,  and  listening  to  its  waves,  has  dank  weed 
cast  up  at  her  feet,  to  strew  her  path  in  life 
withal. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  41. 

DEATH— Of  a mother. 

“ Mamma  ! ” said  the  child. 

The  little  voice,  familiar  and  dearly  loved, 
awakened  some  show  of  consciousness,  even  at 
that  ebb.  For  a moment,  the  closed  eye-lids 
trembled,  and  the  liostril  quivered,  and  the 
faintest  shadow  of  a smile  was  seen. 

“Mamma!”  cried  the  child,  sobbing  aloud. 
“ Oh  dear  Mamma  ! oh  dear  Mamma  ! ” 

The  Doctor  gently  brushed  the  scattered  ring- 
lets of  the  child  aside  from  the  face  and  mouth 
of  the  mother.  Alas  ! how  calm  they  lay  there  ; 
how  little  breath  there  was  to  stir  them  ! 

Thus,  clinging  fast  to  that  slight  spar  within 
her  arms,  the  mother  drifted  out  upon  the  dark 
and  unknown  sea  that  rolls  round  all  the  world. 

Dombey  6°  Son , Chap.  1. 

DEATH— Of  youth. 

Paul  had  never  risen  from  his  little  bed.  He 
lay  there,  listening  to  the  noises  in  the  street, 
quite  tranquilly  ; not  caring  much  how  the  time 
went,  but  watching  everything  about  him  with 
observing  eyes. 

When  the  sunbeams  struck  into  his  room 


through  the  rustling  blinds,  and  quivered  on  the 
opposite  wall  like  golden  water,  he  knew  that 
evening  was  coming  on,  and  that  the  sky  was 
red  and  beautiful.  As  the  reflection  died  away, 
and  a gloom  went  creeping  up  the  wall,  he 
watched  it  deepen,  deepen,  deepen,  into  night. 
Then  he  thought  how  the  long  streets  were 
dotted  with  lamps,  and  how  the  peaceful  stars 
were  shining  overhead.  His  fancy  had  a strange 
tendency  to  wander  to  the  river,  which  he  knew  < 
was  flowing  through  the  great  city  ; and  now  he 
thought  how  black  it  was,  and  how  deep  it 
would  look,  reflecting  the  hosts  of  stars — and 
more  than  all,  how  steadily  it  rolled  away  to 
meet  the  sea. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in 
the  street  became  so  rare  that  he  could  hear 
them  coming,  count  them  as  they  passed,  and 
lose  them  in  the  hollow  distance,  he  would  lie 
and  watch  the  many-colored  ring  about  the  can- 
dle, and  wait  patiently  for  day.  His  only  trou- 
ble was,  the  swift  and  rapid  river.  He  felt 
forced,  sometimes,  to  try  to  stop  it — to  stem  it 
with  his  childish  hands — or  choke  its  way  with 
sand — and  when  he  saw  it  coming  on,  resistless, 
he  cried  out  ! But  a word  from  Florence,  who 
was  always  at  his  side,  restored  him  to  himself ; 
and  leaning  his  poor  head  upon  her  breast,  he 
told  Floy  of  his  dream,  and  smiled. 

When  day  began  to  dawn  again,  he  watched 
for  the  sun  ; and  when  its  cheerful  light  began 
to  sparkle  in  the  room,  he  pictured  to  himself — 
pictured  ! he  saw  the  high  church  towers  rising 
up  into  the  morning  sky,  the  town  reviving,  wak 
ing,  starting  into  life  once  more,  the  river  glisten- 
ing as  it  rolled  (but  rolling  fast  as  ever),  and  the 
country  bright  with  dew.  Familiar  sounds  and 
cries  came  by  degrees  into  the  street  below  ; the 
servants  in  the  house  were  roused  and  busy  ; 
faces  looked  in  at  the  door,  and  voices  asked 
his  attendffets  softly  how  he  was.  Paul  always 
answered  for  himself,  “ I am  better.  I am  a 
great  deal  better,  thank  you.  Tell  Papa  so  !” 

By  little  and  little  he  got  tired  of  the  bustle 
of  the  day,  the  noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  and 
people  passing  and  re-passing  ; and  would  fall 
asleep,  or  be  troubled  with  a restless  and  uneasy 
sense  again— the  child  could  hardly  tell  whether 
this  were  in  his  sleeping  or  his  waking  mo- 
ments— of  that  rushing  river.  “Why,  will  it 
never  stop,  Floy?”  he  would  sometimes  ask 
her.  “It  is  bearing  me  away,  I think  !” 

But  Floy  could  always  soothe  and  re-assure 
him  ; and  it  was  his  daily  delight  to  make  her 
lay  her  head  down  on  his  pillow,  and  take  some 
rest. 

:jc  Jj;  % :js  -J5- 

“Now  lay  me  down,”  he  said,  “and  Floy, 
come  close  to  me,  and  let  me  see  you  ! ” 

Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around 
each  other,  and  the  golden  light  came  streaming 
in,  and  fell  upon  them,  locked  together. 

“ How  fast  the  river  runs,  between  its  green 
banks  and  the  rushes,  Floy  ! But  it’s  very  near 
the  sea.  I hear  the  waves  ! They  always  said 
so ! ” 

Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the 
boat  upon  the  stream  was  lulling  him  to  rest. 
How  green  the  banks  were  now,  how  bright  the 
flowers  growing  on  them,  and  how  tall  the 
rushes ! Now  the  boat  was  out  at  sea,  but 
gliding  smoothly  on.  And  now  there  was  a 
shore  before  him.  Who  stood  on  the  bank  ! — 


DEATH 


144 


DEPORTMENT 


lie  put  his  hands  together,  as  he  had  been 
used  to  do  at  his  prayers.  lie  did  not  remove 
his  arms  to  do  it ; but  they  saw  him  fold  them 
so,  behind  her  neck. 

“Mamma  is  like  you,  Floy.  I know  her  by 
the  facel  But  tell  them  that  the  print  upon  the 
stairs  at  school  is  not  divine  enough.  The  light 
about  the  head  is  shining  on  me  as  I go  !” 

The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back 
again,  and  nothing  else  stirred  in  the  room. 
The  old,  old  fashion  ! The  fashion  that  came 
in  with  our  first  garments,  and  will  last  un- 
changed until  our  race  has  run  its  course,  and 
the  wide  firmament  is  rolled  up  like  a scroll. 
The  old,  old  fashion — Death  ! 

Oh,  thank  God,  all  who  see  it,  for  that  older 
fashion  yet,  of  Immortality  ! And  look  upon  us, 
angels  of  young  children,  with  regards  not  quite 
estranged,  when  the  swift  river  bears  us  to  the 
ocean  ! — Do m bey  6°  Son. 

DEATH-Of  Marley. 

Marley  was  dead,  to  begin  with.  There  is 
no  doubt  whatever  about  that.  The  register  of 
his  burial  was  signed  by  the  clergyman,  the 
clerk,  the  undertaker,  and  the  chief  mourner. 
Scrooge  signed  it.  And  Scrooge’s  name  was 
good  upon  ’Change,  for  anything  he  chose  to 
put  his  hand  to. 

Old  Marley  was  as  dead  as  a door-nail. 

Mind!  I don’t  mean  to  say  that  I know,  of 
my  own  knowledge,  what  there  is  particularly 
dead  about  a door-nail.  I might  have  been  in- 
clined, myself,  to  regard  a coffin-nail  as  the 
deadest  piece  of  ironmongery  in  the  trade. 
But  the  wisdom  of  cur  ancestors  is  in  the 
simile ; and  my  unhallowed  hands  shall  not 
disturb  it,  or  the  Country’s  done  for.  You  will 
therefore  permit  me  to  repeat,  emphatically, 
that  Marley  was  as  dead  as  a door-nail. 

Scrooge  knew  he  was  dead  ? Jpf  course  he 
did.  How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Scrooge  and 
he  were  partners  for  I don’t  know  how  many 
year's.  Scrooge  was  his  sole  executor,  his  sole 
administrator,  his  sole  assign,  his  sole  residuary 
legatee,  his  sole  friend,  and  sole  mourner.  And 
even  Scrooge  was  not  so  dreadfully  cut  up  by 
the  sad  event,  but  that  he  was  an  excellent  man 
of  business  on  the  very  day  of  the  funeral,  and 
solemnized  it  with  an  undoubted  bargain. 

Christmas  Carol, , Stave  i. 

DEATH— Of  the  young1— (Thoughts  of  little 
Nell). 

But  the  sad  scene  she  had  witnessed  was  not 
without  its  lesson  of  content  and  gratitude  ; of 
content  with  the  lot  which  left  her  health  and 
freedom  ; and  gratitude  that  she  was  spared  to 
the  one  relative  and  friend  she  loved,  and  to 
live  and  move  in  a beautiful  world,  when  so 
many  young  creatures — as  young  and  full  of 
hope  as  she — were  stricken  down  and  gathered 
to  their  graves.  How  many  of  ihe  mounds  in 
that  old  churchyard  where  she  had  lately  strayed, 
grew  green  above  the  graves  of  children  ! And 
though  she  thought  as  a child  herself,  and  did  not, 
perhaps,  sufficiently  consider  to  what  a bright  and 
happy  existence  those  who  die  young  are  borne, 
and  how  in  death  they  lose  the  pain  of  seeing 
others  die  around  them,  bearing  to  the  tomb 
some  strong  affection  of  their  hearts  (which 
makes  the  old  die  many  times  in  one  long  life), 
still  she  thought  wisely  enough,  to  draw  a plain 


and  easy  moral  from  what  she  had  seen  that 
night,  and  to  store  it  deep  in  her  mind. 

Her  dreams  were  of  the  little  scholar  ; not  cof- 
fined and  covered  up,  but  mingling  with  angels, 
and  smiling  happily.  The  sun,  darting  his 
cheerful  rays  into  the  room,  awoke  her:  and 
now  there  remained  but  to  take  leave  of  the 
poor  schoolmaster  and  wander  forth  once  more. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  26. 

DEBT  -Skimpole’s  idea  of. 

His  furniture  had  been  all  cleared  off,  it  ap- 
peared, by  the  person  who  took  possession  of  it 
on  his  blue-eyed  daughter’s  birthday;  but  lie 
seemed  quite  relieved  to  think  that  it  was  gone. 
Chairs  and  tables,  he  said,  were  wearisome  ob- 
jects ; they  were  monotonous  ideas,  they  had  no 
variety  of  expression,  they  looked  you  out  of 
countenance,  and  you  looked  them  out  of  coun- 
tenance. How  pleasant,  then,  to  be  bound  to 
no  particular  chairs  and  tables,  but  to  sport  like 
a butterfly  among  all  the  furniture  on  hire,  and 
to  flit  from  rosewood  to  mahogany,  and  from 
mahogany  to  walnut,  and  from  this  shape  to 
that,  as  the  humor  took  one  ! 

“ The  oddity  of  the  thing  is,”  said  Mr.  Skim- 
pole,  with  a quickened  sense  of  the  ludicrous, 

“ that  my  chairs  and  tables  were  not  paid  for, 
and  yet  my  landlord  walks  off  with  them  as 
composedly  as  possible.  Now,  that  seems 
droll ! There  is  something  grotesque  in  it. 
The  chair  and  table  merchant  never  engaged 
to  pay  my  landlord  my  rent.  Why  should  my 
landlord  quarrel  with  him?  If  I have  a pim- 
ple on  my  nose  which  is  disagreeable  to  my 
landlord’s  peculiar  ideas  of  beauty,  my  landlord 
has  no  business  to  scratch  my  chair  and  table 
merchant’s  nose,  which  has  no  pimple  on  it. 
His  reasoning  seems  defective  !” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  17. 

DEBTORS— Paying1  debts  a disease. 

It  was  evident  from  the  general  tone  of  the 
whole  party,  that  they  had  come  to  regard  in- 
solvency as  the  normal  state  of  mankind,  and 
the  payment  of  debts  as  a disease  that  occa- 
sionally broke  out. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  8. 

DEPORTMENT— Turveydrop  on. 

“ A lady  so  graceful  and  accomplished,’-  he 
said,  kissing  his  right  glove,  and  afterwards  ex- 
tending it  towards  the  pupils,  “will  look  leni- 
ently on  the  deficiencies  here.  We  do  our  best 
to  polish — polish — polish  ! ” 

He  sat  down  beside  me  ; taking  some  pains 
to  sit  on  the  form,  I thought,  in  imitation  of 
the  print  of  his  illustrious  model  on  the  sofa. 
And  really  he  did  look  very  like  it. 

“To  polish — -polish — polish!”  he  repeated, 
taking  a pinch  of  snuff  and  gently  fluttering  his 
fingers.  “ But  we  are  not — if  I may  say  so,  to 
one  formed  to  be  graceful  both  by  Nature  and 
Art;’’  with  the  high-shouldered  bow,  which  it 
seemed  impossible  for  him  to  make  without  lift- 
ing up  his  eyebrows  and  shutting  his  eyes — “ we 
are  not  what  we  used  to  be  in  point  of  Deport- 
ment.” 

“ Are  we  not,  sir?  ” said  I. 

“ We  have  degenerated,”  he  returned,  shak- 
ing his  head,  which  he  could  do  to  a very  limi- 
ted extent,  in  his  cravat.  “ A levelling  age  is 
not  favorable  to  Deportment.  It  develops  vul- 


DEPORTMENT 


145 


DESTINY 


garity.  Pei'haps  I speak  with  some  little  parti- 
ality. It  may  not  be  for  me  to  say  that  I have 
been  called,  for  some  years  now,  Gentleman 
Turveydrop  ; or  that  His  Royal  Highness  the 
Prince  Regent  did  me  the  honor  to  inquire,  on 
my  removing  my  hat  as  he  drove  out  of  the 
Pavilion  at  Brighton  (that  fine  building),  ‘ Who 
is  he  ? Who  the  Devil  is  he  ? Why  don’t  I 
know  him  ? Why  hasn’t  he  thirty  thousand 
a-year  ? ’ But  these  are  little  matters  of  anec- 
dote— the  general  property,  ma’am — still  re- 
peated, occasionally,  among  the  upper  classes.” 

“ Indeed  ? ” said  I. 

He-  replied,  with  the  high-shouldered  bow, 
“ Where  what  is  left  among  us  of  Deportment,” 
he  added,  “ still  lingers.  England — alas,  my 
country  ! — has  degenerated  very  much,  and  is 
degenerating  every  day.  She  has  not  many 
gentlemen  left.  We  are  few.  I see  nothing  to 
succeed  us  but  a race  of  weavers.” 

“ One  might  hope  that  the  race  of  gentlemen 
would  be  perpetuated  here,”  said  I. 

“You  are  very  good,”  he  smiled,  with  the 
high-shouldered  bow  again.  “ You  flatter  me. 
But,  no — no  ! I have  never  been  able  to  imbue 
my  poor  boy  with  that  part  of  his  art.  Heaven 
forbid  that  I should  disparage  my  dear  child, 
but  he  has — no  Deportment.” 

“ He  appears  to  be  an  excellent  master,”  I 
observed. 


“ He  is  celebrated,  almost  everywhere,  for  his 
Deportment.” 

“ Does  he  teach  ? ” asked  Ada. 

“ No,  he  don’t  teach  anything  in  particular,” 
replied  Caddy.  “ But  his  Deportment  is  beau- 
tiful.”— Bleak  House , Chap.  14. 

The  power  of  his  Deportment  was  such,  that 
they  really  were  as  much  overcome  with  thank- 
fulness as  if,  instead  of  quartering  himself  upon 
them  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  he  were  making 
some  munificent  sacrifice  in  their  favor. 

“ For  myself,  my  children,”  said  Mr.  Turvey- 
drop, “ I am  falling  into  the  sear  and  yellow 
leaf,  and  it  is  impossible  to  say  how  long  the 
last  feeble  traces  of  gentlemanly  Deportment 
may  linger  in  this  weaving  and  spinning  age. 
But,  so  long,  I will  do  my  duty  to  society,  and 
will  show  myself,  as  usual,  about  town.” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  23. 

DEPORTMENT— “ Botany  Bay  Ease.” 

“ Good  morning,  my  dear,”  said  the  princi- 
pal, addressing  the  young  lady  at  the  bar,  with 
Botany  Bay  ease,  and  New  South  Wales  gen- 
tility ; “ which  is  Mr.  Pickwick’s  room,  my 
dear?” — Pickwick,  Chap.  40. 

DEPRAVITY- Natural. 

“ Hold  there,  you  and  your  philanthropy,” 
cried  the  smiling  landlady,  nodding  her  head 
more  than  ever.  “ Listen  then.  I am  a woman, 
I.  I know  nothing  of  philosophical  philan- 
thropy. But  I know  what  I have  seen,  and  what 
I have  looked  in  the  face,  in  this  world  here, 
where  I find  myself.  And  I tell  you  this,  my 
friend,  that  there  are  people  (men  and  women 
both,  unfortunately)  who  have  no  good  in  them 
£ — none.  That  there  are  people  whom  it  is 
necessary  to  detest  without  compromise.  That 
there  are  people  who  must  be  dealt  with  as 
enemies  of  the  human  race.  That  there  are 


people  who  have  no  human  heart,  and  who  must 
be  crushed  like  savage  beasts  and  cleared  out  of 
the  way.  They  are  but  few,  I hope  ; but  I have 
seen  (in  this  world  here  where  I find  myself,  and 
even  at  the  little  Break  of  Day)  that  there  are 
such  people.” — Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  11. 

DEPRAVITY— Its  written  lessons. 

I have  yet  to  learn  that  a lesson  of  the  purest 
good  may  not  be  drawn  from  the  vilest  evil.  I 
have  always  believed  this  to  be  a recognized  and 
established  truth,  laid  down  by  the  greatest  men 
the  world  has  ever  seen,  constantly  acted  upon 
by  the  best  and  wisest  natures,  and  confirmed 
by  the  reason  and  experience  of  every  thinkin \ 
mind.  I saw  no  reason,  when  I wrote  thi  < 
book,  why  the  dregs  of  life,  so  long  as  thei 
speech  did  not  offend  the  ear,  should  not  serv 
the  purpose  of  a moral,  at  least  as  well  as  it 
froth  and  cream.  Nor  did  I doubt  that  then, 
lay  festering  in  Saint  Giles’s  as  good  material, 
toward  the  truth  as  any  to  be  found  in  Sain> 
James’s. 

In  this  spirit,  when  I wished  to  show,  in  little 
Oliver,  the  principle  of  Good  surviving  through 
every  adverse  circumstance,  and  triumphing  at 
last  ; and  when  I considered  among  what  com- 
panions I could  try  him  best,  having  regard  to 
that  kind  of  men  into  whose  hands  he  would 
most  naturally  fall  ; I bethought  myself  of  those 
who  figure  in  these  volumes.  When  I came  to 
discuss  the  subject  more  maturely  with  myself, 

I saw  many  strong  reasons  for  pursuing  the 
course  to  which  I was  inclined.  I had  read  of 
thieves  by  scores — seductive  fellows  (amiable  for 
the  most  part),  faultless  in  dress,  plump  in  pock- 
et, choice  in  horse-flesh,  bold  in  bearing,  fortu- 
nate in  gallantry,  great  at  a song,  a bottle,  pack 
of  cards  or  dice-box,  and  fit  companions  for  the 
bravest.  But  I had  never  met  (except  in  Ho- 
garth) with  the  miserable  reality.  It  appeared 
to  me  that  to  draw  a knot  of  such  associates  in 
crime  as  really  do  exist ; to  paint  them  in  all 
their  deformity,  in  all  their  wretchedness,  in  all 
the  squalid  poverty  of  their  lives  ; to  show  them 
as  they  really  are,  forever  skulking  uneasily 
through  the  dirtiest  paths  of  life,  with  the  great, 
black,  ghastly  gallows  closing  up  their  prospect, 
turn  them  where  they  may  ; it  appeared  to  me 
that  to  do  this,  would  be  to  attempt  a something 
which  was  greatly  needed,  and  which  would  be 
a service  to  society.  And  therefore  I did  it  as^ 
I best  could. — Oliver  Twist.  Preface . 

DEPRESSION— Of  spirits. 

And  Mr.  Jaggers  made  not  me  alone  intensely 
melancholy,  because,  after  he  was  gone,  Herbert 
said  of  himself,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire, 
that  he  thought  he  must  have  committed  a felony 
and  forgotten  the  details  of  it,  he  felt  so  dejected 
and  guilty, — Great  Expectations , Chap.  36. 

DESTINY. 

“ Shaken  out  of  destiny’s  dice  box.” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  11. 

DESTINY— The  high-roads  and  by-roads  of. 

Strange,  if  the  little  sick-room  fire  were  .in  ef- 
fect a beacon  fire,  summoning  some  one,  and 
that  the  most  unlikely  some  one  in  the  world,  tc 
the  spot  that  must  be  come  to.  Strange,  if  the 
little  sick-room  light  were  in  effect  a watch-light, 
burning  in  that  place  every  night  until  an  ap- 


DETECTIVE 


140 


DEVOTION 


pointed  event  should  be  watched  out ! Which 
of  the  vast  multitude  of  travellers,  under  the 
sun  and  the  stars,  climbing  the  dusty  hills  and 
toiling  along  the  weary  plains,  journeying  by 
land  and  journeying  by  sea,  coming  and  going 
so  strangely,  to  meet  and  to  act  and  re-act  on 
one  another,  which  of  the  host  may,  with  no  sus- 
picion of  the  journey’s  end,  be  travelling  surely 
hither? 

Time  shall  show  us.  The  post  of  honor  and 
the  post  of  shame,  the  general’s  station  and  the 
drummer’s,  a peer’s  statue  in  Westminster  Ab- 
bey and  a seaman’s  hammock  in  the  bosom 
of  the  deep,  the  mitre  and  the  workhouse,  the 
woolsack  and  the  gallows,  the  throne  and  the 
guillotine — the  travellers  to  all  are  on  the  high- 
road ; but  it  has  wonderful  divergencies,  and 
only  time  shall  show  us  whither  each  traveller  is 
bound. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  15. 

DETECTIVE-Mr.  Bucket,  the. 

Mr.  Bucket  and  his  fat  forefinger  are  much 
in  consultation  together  under  existing  circum- 
stances. When  Mr.  Bucket  has  a matter  of  this 
pressing  interest  under  his  consideration,  the 
fat  forefinger  seems  to  rise  to  the  dignity  of  a 
familiar  demon.  He  puts  it  to  his  ears,  and  it 
wliispers  information  ; he  puts  it  to  his  lips,  and 
it  enjoins  him  to  secrecy  ; he  rubs  it  over  his 
nose,  and  it  sharpens  his  scent  ; he  shakes  it  be- 
fore a guilty  man,  and  it  charms  him  to  his  des- 
truction. The  Augurs  of  the  Detective  Temple 
invariably  predict,  that  when  Mr.  Bucket  and 
that  finger  are  in  much  conference,  a terrible 
avenger  will  be  heard  of  before  long. 

Otherwise  mildly  studious  in  his  observation 
of  human  nature,  on  the  whole  a benignant 
philosopher,  not  disposed  to  be  severe  upon  the 
follies  of  mankind,  Mr.  Bucket  pervades  a vast 
number  of  houses,  and  strolls  about  an  infinity  of 
streets  : to  outward  appearance  rather  languish- 
ing for  want  of  an  object.  He  is  in  the 
friendliest  condition  towards  his  species,  and 
will  drink  with  most  of  them.  He  is  free  with 
his  money,  affable  in  his  manners,  innocent  in 
his  conversation — but,  through  the  placid  stream 
of  his  life,  there  glides  an  under-current  of 
fore-finger. 

Time  and  place  cannot  bind  Mr.  Bucket. 
Like  man  in  the  abstract,  he  is  here  to-day  and 
gone  to-morrow — but,  very  unlike  man  indeed, 
he  is  here  again  the  next  day.  This  evening  he 
will  be  casually  looking  into  the  iron  extin- 
guishers at  the  door  of  Sir  Leicester  Ded lock’s 
house  in  town  ; and  to-morrow  morning  he  will 
Ibe  walking  on  the  leads  at  Chesney  Wold, 
where  erst  the  old  man  walked  whose  ghost  is 
propitiated  with  a hundred  guineas.  Drawers, 
desks,  pockets,  all  things  belonging  to  him,  Mr. 
Bucket  examines.  A few  hours  afterwards,  he 
and  the  Roman  will  be  alone  together,  compar- 
ing forefingers. — Bleak  House , Chap.  53. 

DETERMINATION. 

“ And  again,”  repeats  Mademoiselle,  catalep- 
tic with  determination. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  42. 

DEVIL  When  he  is  dang-erous. 

And  yet  he  had  not,  even  now,  any  earnest 
wickedness  of  purpose  in  him.  Publicly  and 
privately,  it  were  much  better  for  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  that  he  and  the  legion  of  whom 
he  was  one  were  designedly  bad,  than  indifferent 


and  purposeless.  It  is  the  drifting  icebergs,  set- 
ting with  any  current  anywhere,  that  wreck  the 
ships. 

When  the  Devil  goeth  about  like  a roaring 
lion,  he  goeth  about  in  a shape  by  which  few 
but  savages  and  hunters  are  attracted.  But, 
when  he  is  trimmed,  smoothed,  and  varnished, 
according  to  the  mode  ; when  he  is  aweary  of 
vice,  and  aweary  of  virtue  ; used  up  as  to  brim- 
stone, and  used  up  as  to  bliss  ; then,  whether  he 
take  to  serving  out  of  red  tape,  or  to  the  kin- 
dling of  red  fire,  he  is  the  very  Devil. 

Hard  Times,  Book  II.,  Chap.  8. 

DEVOTION  Of  Little  Dorrit. 

At  first,  such  a baby  could  do  little  more  than 
sit  with  him,  deserting  her  livelier  place  by  the 
high  fender,  and  quietly  watching  him.  But 
this  made  her  so  far  necessary  to  him  that  he  I 
became  accustomed  to  her,  and  began  to  be  | 
sensible  of  missing  her  when  she  was  not  there,  j 
Through  this  little  gate,  she  passed  out  of  child- 
hood into  the  care-laden  world. 

What  her  pitiful  look  saw,  at  that  early  time, 
in  her  father,  in  her  sister,  in  her  brother,  in  the 
jail  ; how  much,  or  how  little,  of  the  wretched 
truth  it  pleased  God  to  make  visible  to  her  ; lies 
hidden  with  many  mysteries.  It  is  enough  that 
she  was  inspired  to  be  something  which  was  not 
what  the  rest  were,  and  to  be  that  something, 
different  and  laborious,  for  the  sake  of  the  rest. 
Inspired  ? Yes.  Shall  we  speak  of  the  inspira- 
tion of  a poet  or  a priest,  and  not  of  the  heart 
impelled  by  love  and  self-devotion  to  the  low- 
liest work  in  the  lowliest  way  of  life  ! 

With  no  earthly  friend  to  help  her,  or  so  much 
as  to  see  her,  but  the  one  so  strangely  assorted  ; 
with  no  knowledge  even  of  the  common  daily 
tone  and  habits  of  the  common  members  of  the 
free  community  who  are  not  shut  up  in  prisons ; 
born  and  bred,  in  a social  condition,  false  even 
with  a reference  to  the  falsest  condition  outside 
the  walls  ; drinking  from  infancy  of  a well  whose 
waters  had  their  own  peculiar  stain,  their  own 
unwholesome  and  unnatural  taste  ; the  Child  of 
the  Marshalsea  began  her  womanly  life. 

No  matter  through  what  mistakes  and  dis- 
couragements, what  ridicule  (not  unkindly 
meant,  but  deeply  felt)  of  her  youth  and  little 
figure,  what  humble  consciousness  of  her  own 
babyhood  and  want  of  strength,  even  in  the 
matter  of  lifting  and  carrying ; through  how 
much  weariness  and  helplessness,  and  how 
many  secret  tears,  she  trudged  on,  until  recog- 
nized as  useful,  even  indispensable.  That  time 
came.  She  took  the  place  of  eldest  of  the 
three,  in  all  things  but  precedence  ; was  the 
head  of  the  fallen  family  ; and  bore,  in  her  own 
heart,  its  anxieties  and  shames. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  I.,  Chap.  7. 

DEVOTION— Of  Tom  Pinch. 

God’s  love  upon  thy  patience,  Tom!  Who, 
that  had  beheld  thee,  for  three  summer  weeks, 
poring  through  half  the  deadlong  night  over  the 
jingling  anatomy  of  that  inscrutable  old  harpsi- 
chord in  the  back  parlor,  could  have  missed  the 
entrance  to  thy  secret  heart : albeit  it  was  dimly 
known  to  thee  ? Who  that  had  seen  the  glow 
upon  thy  cheek  when,  leaning  down  to  listen, 
after  hours  of  labor,  for  the  sound  of  one  incor- 
rigible note,  thou  foundst  that  it  nad  a voice  at 
last,  and  wheezed  out  a flat  something,  distantly 


DIAMONDS 


147 


DINNER 


iakin  to  what  it  ought  to  be,  would  not  have 
jknown  that  it  was  destined  for  no  common 
couch,  but  one  that  smote,  though  gently  as  an 
angel’s  hand,  upon  the  deepest  chord  within 
jthee!  And  if  a friendly  glance — aye,  even 
though  it  were  as  guileless  as  thine  own,  Dear 
' Tom— could  but  have  pierced  the  twilight  of 
that  evening,  when,  in  a voice  well  tempered  to 
the  time,  sad,  sweet,  and  low,  yet  hopeful,  she 
| 'first  sang  to  the  altered  instrument,  and  won- 
1 dered  at  the  change  ; and  thou,  sitting  apart  at 
jj  the  open  window,  kept  a glad  silence  and  a 
swelling  heart ; must  not  that  glance  have  read 
I perforce  the  dawning  of  a story,  Tom,  that  it 
1 were  well  for  thee  had  never  been  begun  ! 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  24. 

DIAMONDS. 

j The  arch  of  diamonds  spanning  her  dark 
S hair,  flashed  and  glittered  like  a starry  bridge. 

I^There  was  no  warning  in  them,  or  they  would 
lhave  turned  as  dull  and  dim  as  tarnished  honor. 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  47. 

DIGESTION— The  process  of  “winding 
up.” 

“ The  process  of  digestion,  as  I have  been  in- 
1 formed  by  anatomical  friends,  is  one  of  the 
most  wonderful  works  of  nature.  I do  not 
(know  how  it  may  be  with  others,  but  it  is  a 
great  satisfaction  to  me  to  know,  when  regaling 
on  my  humble  fare,  that  I am  putting  in  motion 
the  most  beautiful  machinery  with  which  we 
have  any  acquaintance.  I really  feel  at  such 
times  as  if  I was  doing  a public  service.  When 
I have  wound  myself  up,  if  I may  employ  such 
! a term,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  with  exquisite  ten- 
I derness,  “ and  know  that  I am  Going,  I feel 
that  in  the  lesson  afforded  by  the  works  within 
me,  I am  a Benefactor  to  my  Kind ! ” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  8. 

DIGNITY— An  expression  of. 

He  threw  himself  on  a bench  with  the  air  of 
j a man  who  was  faint  with  dignity. 

Barnaby  Budge,  C hap.  b. 

DIGNITY— Like  an  eight-day  clock. 

He  carried  himself  like  an  eight-day  clock  at 
all  times  : like  one  of  a race  of  eight-day  clocks 
in  gorgeous  cases,  that  never  go  and  never  went 
; — Ha  ha  ha  ! — but  he  will  have  some  extra 
'stiffness. — Bleak  House , Chap.  18. 

DINING-ROOM-A  gloomy. 

So  thought  Mr.  Dombey,  when  he  was  left 
| alone  at  the  dining-table,  and  mused  upon  his 
! past  and  future  fortunes  : finding  no  uncongeni- 
I ality  in  an  air  of  scant  and  gloomy  state  that 
pervaded  the  room,  in  color  a dark  brown,  with 
black  hatchments  of  pictures  blotching  the 
walls,  and  twenty-four  black  chairs,  with  almost 
as  many  nails  in  them  as  so  many  coffins,  wait- 
ing like  mutes,  upon  the  threshold  of  the  Tur- 
key carpet ; and  two  exhausted  negroes  holding 
up  two  withered  branches  of  candelabra  on  the 
sideboard,  and  a musty  smell  prevailing,  as  if 
the  ashes  of  ten  thousand  dinners  were  en- 
tombed in  the  sarcophagus  below  it. 

^ ^ 

It  was  so  funereal  as  to  want  nothing  but  a 
body  in  it  to  be  quite  complete. 

No  bad  representation  of  the  body,  for  the 


nonce,  in  his  unbending  form,  if  not  in  his  atti- 
tude, Mr.  Dombey  looked  down  into  the  cold 
depths  of  the  dead  sea  of  mahogany  on  which 
the  fruit  dishes  and  decanters  lay  at  anchor. 

Dombey  Sf  Son , Chap.  30. 

DINNER— Bagstock  at. 

Between  his  mental  excitement,  and  the  ex- 
ertion of  saying  all  this  in  wheezy  whispers,  the 
Major  sat  gurgling  in  the  throat,  and  watering 
at  the  eyes,  until  dinner  was  ready. 

The  Major,  like  some  other  noble  animals, 
exhibited  himself  to  great  advantage  at  feeding 
time. 

During  the  first  course  or  two,  the  Major  was 
usually  grave  ; for  the  Native,  in  obedience  to 
general  orders,  secretly  issued,  collected  every 
sauce,  and  cruet  round  him,  and  gave  him  a 
great  deal  to  do,  in  taking  out  the  stoppers,  and 
mixing  up  the  contents  in  his  plate.  Besides 
which,  the  Native  had  private  zests  and  flavors 
on  a side-table,  with  which  the  Major  daily 
scorched  himself : to  say  nothing  of  strange 
machines  out  of  which  he  spirted  unknown 
liquids  into  the  Major’s  drink. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  26. 

DINNER— Bagstock  after. 

The  Major  being  by  this  time  in  a state  of 
repletion,  with  essence  of  savory  pie  oozing  out 
at  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  and  devilled  grill 
and  kidneys  tightening  his  cravat  ; and  the 
time  moreover  approaching  for  the  departure 
of  the  railway  train  to  Birmingham,  by  which 
they  were  to  leave  town  ; the  Native  got  him 
into  his  great-coat  with  immense  difficulty,  and 
buttoned  him  up  until  his  face  looked  staring 
and  gasping,  over  the  top  of  that  garment,  as 
if  he  were  in  a barrel. 

* * * * * * 

He  sat  for  a long  time  afterwards,  leering 
and  choking,  like  an  over-fed  Mephistopheles. 

Dombey  Cf  Son,  Chap.  20. 

DINNER— And  dinner-time. 

“ There’s  nothing,”  said  Toby,  “ more  regular 
in  its  coming  round  than  dinner  time,  and  noth- 
ing less  regular  in  its  coming  round  than  din- 
ner. That’s  the  great  difference  between  ’em 
It’s  took  me  a long  time  to  find  it  out.  I won- 
der whether  it  would  be  worth  any  gentleman’s 
while  now,  to  buy  that  obserwation  for  the  pa- 
pers ; or  the  Parliament ! ” 

Christmas  Chimes , 1st  quarter. 

DINNER-Toby  Veck’s. 

“ He’d  eat  his  dinner  with  an  appetite,  who- 
ever he  was,  if  it  smelt  like  this,”  said  Meg, 
cheerfully.  “ Make  haste,  for  there’s  a hot  po- 
tato besides,  and  half  a pint  of  fresh-drawn 
beer  in  a bottle.  Where  will  you  dine,  father 1 
On  the  Post,  or  on  the  Steps?  Dear,  dear, 
how  grand  wre  are.  Two  places  to  choose 
from  ! ” 

“"The  steps  to-day,  my  pet,”  said  Trotty. 
“ Steps  in  dry  weather.  Post  in  wet.  There’s 
a greater  conveniency  in  the  steps  at  all  times, 
because  of  the  sitting  down  ; but  they’re  rheu- 
matic in  the  damp.” 

Christmas  Chwies,  1st  quarter. 

DINNER— An  American. 

It  was  a numerous  company,  eighteen  or 


DINNER 


148 


DINNER 


twenty,  perhaps.  Of  these  some  five  or  six 
were  ladies,  who  sat  wedged  together  in  a little 
phalanx  by  themselves.  All  the  knives  and 
forks  were  working  away  at  a rate  that  was 
quite  alarming  ; very  few  words  were  spoken  ; 
and  everybody  seemed  to  eat  his  utmost  in 
self-defence,  as  if  a famine  were  expected  to 
set  in  before  breakfast-time  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, and  it  had  become  high  time  to  assert  the 
first  law  of  nature.  The  poultry,  which  may 
perhaps  be  considered  to  have  formed  the  sta- 
le of  the  entertainment — for  there  was  a tu r- 
ey  at  the  top,  a pair  of  ducks  at  the  bottom, 
and  two  fowls  in  the  middle — disappeared  as 
rapidly  as  if  every  bird  had  had  the  use  of  its 
wings,  and  had  flown  in  desperation  down  a 
human  throat.  The  oysters,  stewed  and  pickled, 
leaped  from  their  capacious  reservoirs,  and  slid 
by  scores  into  the  mouths  of  the  assembly.  The 
sharpest  pickles  vanished,  whole  cucumbers  at 
once,  like  sugar-plums,  and  no  man  winked  his 
eye.  Great  heaps  of  indigestible  matter  melted 
away  as  ice  before  the  sun.  It  was  a solemn 
and  an  awful  thing  to  see.  Dyspeptic  individuals 
bolted  their  food  in  wedges  ; feeding,  not  them- 
selves, but  broods  of  nightmares,  who  were  con- 
tinually standing  at  livery  within  them.  Spare 
men,  with  lank  and  rigid  cheeks,  came  out  un- 
satisfied from  the  destruction  of  heavy  dishes, 
and  glared  with  watchful  eyes  upon  the  pastry. 
What  Mrs.  Pawkins  felt  each  day  at  dinner- 
time is  hidden  from  all  human  knowledge.  But 
she  had  one  comfort.  It  was  very  soon  over. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  16. 

DINNER— Dick  Swiveller’s  observations 
on. 

“ May  the  present  moment,”  said  Dick,  stick- 
ing his  fork  into  a large  carbuncular  potato, 
“ be  the  worst  of  our  lives  ! I like  this  plan  of 
sending  ’em  with  the  peel  on  ; there’s  a charm 
in  drawing  a potato  from  Its  native  element 
(if  I may  so  express  it)  to  which  the  rich  and 
powerful  are  strangers.  Ah ! ‘ Man  wants  but 
little  here  below,  nor  wants  that  little  long!' 
How  true  that  is  ! — after  dinner.” 

“ I hope  the  eating-house  keeper  will  want 
but  little  and  that  he  may  not  want  that  little 
long,”  returned  his  companion  ; “but  I suspect 
you’ve  no  means  of  paying  for  this ! ” 

“ I shall  be  passing  presently,  and  I’ll  call,” 
said  Dick,  winking  his  eye  significantly.  “ The 
waiter’s  quite  helpless.  The  goods  are  gone, 
Fred,  and  there’s  an  end  of  it.” 

In  point  of  fact,  it  would  seem  that  the  wait- 
er felt  this  wholesome  truth,  for  when  he  re- 
turned for  the  empty  plates  and  dishes  and  was 
informed  by  Mr.  Swiveller  with  dignified  care- 
lessness that  he  would  call  and  settle  when  he 
should  be  passing  presently,  he  displayed  some 
perturbation  of  spirit,  and  muttered  a few  re- 
marks about  “payment  on  delivery,”  and  “no 
trust,”  and  other  unpleasant  subjects,  but  was 
fain  to  content  himself  with  inquiring  at  what 
hour  it  was  likely  the  gentleman  would  call,  in 
order  that,  being  personally  responsible  for  the 
beef,  greens,  and  sundries,  he  might  take  care 
to  be  in  the  way  at  the  time.  Mr.  Swiveller, 
after  mentally  calculating  his  engagements  to  a 
nicety,  replied  that  he  should  look  in  at  from 
two  minutes  before  six  to  seven  minutes  past : 
and  the  man  disappearing  with  this  feeble  con- 
solation, Richard  Swiveller  took  a greasy  mem- 


orandum-book from  his  pocket  and  made  an 
entry  therein. — Old  Cuiiosity  Shop,  Chap.  8. 

DINNER  Mrs.  BaR-net’s  birthday. 

A great  annual  occasion  has  come  round  in 
the  establishment  of  Mr.  Joseph  Bagnet,  other- 
wise Lignum  Vitro,  ex-artilleryman  and  present 
bassoon-player.  An  occasion  of  feasting  and 
festival.  The  celebration  of  a birthday  in  the 
family. 

It  is  not  Mr.  Bagnet’s  birthday.  Mr.  Bagnet 
merely  distinguishes  that  epoch  in  the  musical 
instrument  business,  by  kissing  the  children 
with  an  extra  smack  before  breakfast,  smoking 
an  additional  pipe  after  dinner,  and  wondering 
towards  evening  what  his  poor  old  mother  is 
thinking  about  it — a subject  of  infinite  specu- 
lation, and  rendered  so  by  his  mother  having 
departed  this  life  twenty  years.  Some  men 
rarely  revert  to  their  father,  but  seem,  in  the  ! 
bank-books  of  their  remembrance,  to  have  trans- 1 
ferred  all  the  stock  of  filial  affection  into  their  1 
mother’s  name.  Mr.  Bagnet  is  one  of  these.  1 
Perhaps  his  exalted  appreciation  of  the  merits  I 
of  the  old  girl,  causes  him  usually  to  make  the  I 
noun-substantive,  Goodness,  of  the  feminine  I 
gender. 

It  is  not  the  birthday  of  one  of  the  three  chil- 
dren. Those  occasions  are  kept  with  some 
marks  of  distinction,  but  they  rarely  overleap 
the  bounds  of  happy  returns  and  a pudding. 

It  is  the  old  girl’s  birthday  ; and  that  is  the 
greatest  holiday  and  reddest-letter  day  in  Mr. 
Bagnet’s  calendar.  The  auspicious  event  is  al- 
ways commemorated  according  to  certain  forms 
settled  and  prescribed  by  Mr.  Bagnet  some  years 
since.  Mr.  Bagnet  being  deeply  convinced  that 
to  have  a pair  of  fowls  for  dinner  is  to  attain 
the  highest  pitch  of  imperial  luxury,  invariably 
goes  forth  himself  very  early  in  the  morning  of 
this  day  to  buy  a pair ; he  is,  invariably,  taken 
in  by  the  vendor,  and  installed  in  the  possession 
of  the  oldest  inhabitants  of  any  coop  in  Europe. 
Returning  with  these  triumphs  of  toughness  tied 
up  in  a clean  blue  and  white  cotton  handker- 
chief (essential  to  the  arrangements),  he  in  a 
casual  manner  invites  Mrs.  Bagnet  to  declare  at 
breakfast  what  she  would  like  for  dinner.  Mrs. 
Bagnet,  by  a coincidence  never  known  to  fail, 
replying  Fowls,  Mr.  Bagnet  instantly  produces 
his  bundle  from  a place  of  concealment,  amidst 
general  amazement  and  rejoicing.  He  further 
requires  that  the  old  girl  shall  do  nothing  all 
day  long,  but  sit  in  her  very  best  gown,  and  be 
served  by  himself  and  the  young  people.  As 
he  is  not  illustrious  for  his  cookery,  this  may  be 
supposed  to  be  a matter  of  state  rather  than  en- 
joyment on  the  old  girl’s  part  ; but  she  keeps 
her  state  with  all  imaginable  cheerfulness. 

Further  conversation  is  prevented,  for  the 
time,  by  the  necessity  under  which  Mr.  Bagnet 
finds  himself  of  directing  the  whole  force  of  his 
mind  to  the  dinner,  which  is  a little  endangered 
by  the  dry  humor  of  the  fowls  in  not  yielding 
any  gravy,  and  also  by  the  made  gravy  acquiring 
no  flavor,  and  turning  out  of  a flaxen  com- 
plexion. With  a similar  perverseness,  the  po-  | 
tatoes  crumble  off  forks  in  the  process  of  peel- 
ing, upheaving  from  their  centres  in  every  di- 
rection, as  if  they  were  subject  to  earthquakes. 
The  legs  of  the  fowls,  too,  are  longer  than  could 
be  desired,  and  extremely  scanty.  Overcoming 


DINNER 


149 


DINNER 


hese  disadvantages  to  the  best  of  his  ability, 
4r.  Bagnet  at  last  dishes,  and  they  sit  down  at 
{able  ; Mrs.  Bagnet  occupying  the  guest’s  place 
;.t  his  right  hand. 

It  was  well  for  the  old  girl  that  she  has  but 
line  birthday  in  a year,  for  two  such  indulgences 
L poultry  might  be  injurious.  Every  kind  of 
liner  tendon  and  ligament  that  is  in  the  nature 
>f  poultry  to  possess,  is  developed  in  these 
Specimens  in  the  singular  form  of  guitar-strings. 
1'heir  limbs  appear  to  have  struck  roots  into 
heir  breasts  and  bodies,  as  aged  trees  strike 
oots  into  the  earth.  Their  legs  are  so  hard,  as 
o encourage  the  idea  that  they  must  have  de- 
moted the  greater  part  of  their  long  and  arduous 
jives  to  pedestrian  exercises,  and  the  walking  of 
patches.  But  Mr.  Bagnet,  unconscious  of  these 
little  defects,  sets  his  heart  on  Mrs.  Bagnet  eat- 
ing a most  severe  quantity  of  the  delicacies  before 
;ier  : and  as  that  good  old  girl  would  not  cause 
nm  a moment’s  disappointment  on  any  day,  least 
j>f  all  on  such  a day,  for  any  consideration,  she 
imperils  her  digestion  fearfully.  How  young 
Woolwich  cleans  the  drumsticks  without  being 
>f  ostrich  descent,  his  anxious  mother  is  at  a 
joss  to  understand. 

1 The  old  girl  has  another  trial  to  undergo  after 
j.he  conclusion  of  the  repast,  in  sitting  in  state 
:o  see  the  room  cleared,  the  hearth  swept,  and 
:he  dinner-service  washed  up  and  polished  in 
die  back  yard.  The  great  delight  and  energy 
'With  which  the  two  young  ladies  apply  them- 
selves to  these  duties,  turning  up  their  skirts  in 
imitation  of  their  mother,  and  skating  in  and 
put  on  little  scaffolds  of  pattens,  inspire  the 
highest  hopes  for  the  future,  but  some  anxiety 
for  the  present.  The  same  causes  lead  to  con- 
fusion of  tongues,  a clattering  of  crockery,  a rat- 
tling of  tin  mugs,  a whisking  of  brooms,  and 
^ati  expenditure  of  water,  all  in  excess  ; while 
I the  saturation  of  the  young  ladies  themselves  is 
almost  too  moving  a spectacle  for  Mrs.  Bagnet 
[to  look  upon,  with  the  calmness  proper  to  her 
position.  At  last  the  various  cleansing  processes 
Bare  triumphantly  completed  ; Quebec  and  Malta 
appear  in  fresh  attire,  smiling  and  dry  ; pipes, 

; tobacco,  and  something  to  drink,  are  placed 
[upon  the  table  ; and  the  old  girl  enjoys  the  first 
[peace  of  mind  she  ever  knows  on  the  day  of 
j'this  delightful  entertainment. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  49. 


DINNER— A fashionable.  Its  g-uests. 

j A series  of  entertainments  in  celebration  of 
' the  late  nuptials,  and  in  cultivation  of  society, 
Bwere  arranged,  chiefly  by  Mr.  Dombey  and  Mrs. 

[ Skewton  ; and  it  was  settled  that  the  festive 
| proceedings  should  commence  by  Mrs.  Dombey’s 
r being  at  home  upon  a certain  evening,  and  by 
! Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey’s  requesting  the  honor  of 
; the  company  of  a great  many  incongruous  peo- 
I pie  to  dinner  on  the  same  day. 

* Accordingly,  Mr.  Dombey  produced  a list  of 
[ sundry  eastern  magnates  who  were  to  be  bidden 
ff  to  this  feast  on  his  behalf ; to  which  Mrs.  Skew- 
i ton,  acting  for  her  dearest  child,  who.  was 
[ haughtily  careless  on  the  subject,  subjoined  a 
western  list,  comprising  Cousin  Feenix,.  and  a 
variety  of  moths  of  various  degrees  and  ages, 
who  had,  at  various  times,  fluttered  round  the 
light  of  her  fair  daughter  or  herself,  without 
any  lasting  injury  to  their  wings. 

***** 


The  proceedings  commenced  by  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, in  a cravat  of  extraordinary  height  and 
stiffness,  walking  restlessly  about  the  drawing- 
room until  the  hour  appointed  for  dinner  ; 
punctual  to  which,  an  East  India  Director,  of 
immense  wealth,  in  a waistcoat  apparently  con- 
structed in  serviceable  deal  by  some  plain  car- 
penter, but  really  engendered  in  the  tailor’s  art, 
and  composed  of  the  material  called  nankeen, 
arrived,  and  was  received  by  Mr.  Dombey  alone. 
The  next  stage  of  the  proceedings  was  Mr. 
Dombey’s  sending  his  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Dombey,  with  a correct  statement  of  the  time  ; 
and  the  next,  the  East  India  Director’s  falling 
prostrate,  in  a conversational  point  of  view,  and 
as  Mr.  Dombey  was  not  the  man  to  pick  him 
up,  staring  at  the  fire  until  rescue  appeared  in 
the  person  of  Mrs.  Skewton  ; whom  the  director, 
as  a pleasant  start  in  life  for  the  evening, 
mistook  for  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  greeted  with 
enthusiasm. 

The  next  arrival  was  a Bank  Director,  reputed 
to  be  able  to  buy  up  anything — human  Nature 
generally,  if  he  should  take  it  in  his  head  to  in- 
fluence the  money  market  in  that  direction — but 
who  was  a wonderfully  modest  spoken  man,  al- 
most boastfully  so,  and  mentioned  his  “ little 
place”  at  Kingston-upon-Thames,  and  its  just 
being  barely  equal  to  giving  Dombey  a bed  and 
a chop,  if  he  would  come  and  visit  it.  Ladies, 
he  said,  it  was  not  for  a man  who  lived  in  his 
quiet  way  to  take  upon  himself  to  invite  but 
if  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, should  ever  find  themselves  in  that  direction, 
and  would  do  him  the  honor  to  look  at  a little 
bit  of  a shrubbery  they  would  find  there,  and  a 
poor  little  flower-bed  or  so,  and  a humble  apo- 
logy  for  a pinery,  and  two  or  three  little  attempts 
of  that  sort  without  any  pretension,  they  would 
distinguish  him  very  much.  Carrying  out  his 
character,  this  gentleman  was  very  plainly 
dressed,  in  a wisp  of  cambric  for  a neckcloth, 
big  shoes,  a coat  that  was  too  loose  for  him,  and 
a pair  of  trousers  that  were  too  spare  ; and  men- 
tion being  made  of  the  Opera  by  Mrs.  Skewton, 
he  said  he  very  seldom  went  there,  for  he  couldn  t 
afford  it.  It  seemed  greatly  to  delight  and  ex- 
hilarate him  to  say  so  : and  he  beamed  on  his 
audience  afterwards,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  excessive  satisfaction  twinkling  in 
his  eyes. 

Now  Mrs.  Dombey  appeared,  beautiful  and 
proud,  and  as  disdainful  and  defiant  of  them  all 
as  if  the  bridal  wreath  upon  her  head  had  been 
a garland  of  steel  spikes  put  on  to  force  conces- 
sion from  her  which  she  would  die  sooner  than 


The  arrivals  quickly  became  numerous. 
More  directors,  chairmen  of  public  companies, 
eldei'ly  ladies  carrying  burdens  on  their  heads 
for  full  dress,  Cousin  Feenix,  Major  Bagstock, 
friends  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  the  same  bright 
bloom  on  their  complexion,  and  very  precious 
necklaces  on  very  withered  necks.  Among 
these,  a young  lady  of  sixty-five,  remarkably 
coolly  dressed  as  to  her  back  and  shoulders, 
who  spoke  with  an  engaging  lisp,  and  whose 
eyelids  wouldn’t  keep  up  well,  without  a great 
deal  of  trouble  on  her  part,  and  whose  manners 
had  that  indefinable  charm  which  so  frequently 
attaches  to  the  giddiness  of  youth.  As  the 
greater  part  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  list  were  disposed 


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150 


DINNER-PARTY 


to  be  taciturn,  and  the  greater  part  of  Mrs. 
Dombey’s  list  were  disposed  to  be  talkative, 
and  there  was  no  sympathy  between  them,  Mrs. 
Dombey’s  list,  by  magnetic  agreement,  entered 
into  a bond  of  union  against  Mr.  Dombey’s  list, 
who,  wandering  about  the  rooms  in  a desolate 
manner,  or  seeking  refuge  in  corners,  entangled 
themselves  with  company  coming  in,  and  be- 
came barricaded  behind  sofas,  and  had  doors 
opened  smartly  from  without  against  their 
heads,  and  underwent  every  sort  of  discomfi- 
ture. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  Mr.  Dombey 
took  down  an  old  lady  like  a crimson  velvet 
pincushion  stuffed  with  bank  notes,  who  might 
have  been  the  identical  old  lady  of  Thread- 
needle  Street,  she  was  so  rich,  and  looked  so 
unaccommodating  ; Cousin  Feenix  took  down 
Mrs.  Dombey ; Major  Bagstock  took  down 
Mrs.  Skewton  ; the  young  thing  with  the 
shoulders  was  bestowed,  as  an  extinguisher, 
upon  the  East  India  Director ; and  the  re- 
maining ladies  were  left  on  view  in  the  draw- 
ing-room by  the  remaining  gentlemen,  until  a 
forlorn  hope  volunteered  to  conduct  them  down- 
stairs, and  those  brave  spirits  with  their  cap- 
tives blocked  up  the  dining-room  door,  shutting 
out  seven  mild  men  in  the  stony-hearted  hall. 
When  all  the  rest  were  got  in  and  were  seated, 
one  of  these  mild  men  still  appeared,  in  smiling 
confusion,  totally  destitute  and  unprovided  for, 
and  escorted  by  the  butler,  made  the  complete 
circuit  of  the  table  twice  before  his  chair  could 
be  found,  which  it  finally  was,  on  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey’s left  hand  ; after  which  the  mild  man  never 
held  up  his  head  again. 

Now,  the  spacious  dining-room,  with  the 
company  seated  round  the  glittering  table,  busy 
with  their  glittering  spoons,  and  knives  and 
forks,  and  plates,  might  have  been  taken  for  a 
grown-up  exposition  of  Tom  Tiddler’s  ground, 
where  children  pick  up  gold  and  silver.  Mr. 
Dombey,  as  Tiddler,  looked  his  character  to 
admiration  ; and  the  long  plateau  of  precious 
metal  frosted,  separating  him  from  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, whereon  frosted  Cupids  offered  scentless 
flowers  to  each  of  them,  was  allegorical  to  see. 

Cousin  Feenix  was  in  great  force,  and  looked 
astonishingly  young.  But  he  was  sometimes 
thoughtless  in  his  good  humor — his  memory  oc- 
casionally wandering  like  his  legs — and  on  this 
occasion  caused  the  company  to  shudder. 

* * * * * * 

Through  the  various  stages  of  rich  meats  and 
wines,  continual  gold  and  silver,  dainties  of 
earth,  air,  fire,  and  water,  heaped-up  fruits,  and 
that  unnecessary  article  in  Mr.  Dombey’s  ban- 
quets— ice — the  dinner  slowly  made  its  way : 
the  later  stages  being  achieved  to  the  sonorous 
music  of  incessant  double  knocks,  announcing 
the  arrival  of  visitors,  whose  portion  of  the  feast 
was  limited  to  the  smell  thereof.  When  Mrs. 
Dombey  rose,  it  was  a sight  to  see  her  lord, 
with  stiff  throat  and  erect  head,  hold  the  door 
open  for  the  withdrawal  of  the  ladies  ; and  to 
see  how  she  swept  past  him  with  his  daughter 
on  her  arm. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  a grave  sight,  behind  the 
decanters,  in  a state  of  dignity  ; and  the  East 
India  Director  was  a forlorn  sight,  near  the  un- 
occupied end  of  the  table,  in  a state  of  solitude  ; 
and  the  Major  was  a military  sight,  relating 
stories  of  the  Duke  of  York  to  six  of  the  seven 


mild  men  (the  ambitious  one  was  utterly 
quenched) ; and  the  Bank  Director  was  a lowly 
sight,  making  a plan  of  his  little  attempt  at  a 
pinery,  with  dessert-knives,  for  a group  of  ad 
mirers  ; and  Cousin  Feenix  was  a thoughtful 
sight,  as  he  smoothed  his  long  wristbands,  and 
stealthily  adjusted  his  wig.  But  all  these  sights 
were  of  short  duration,  being  speedily  broken 
up  by  coffee,  and  the  desertion  of  the  room. 

Dombey  dr*  Son , Chap.  36. 

DINNER -After. 

Giddiness  prevails  below  stairs  too.  The 
very  tall  young  man  whose  excitement  came  on 
so  soon,  appears  to  have  his  head  glued  to  the 
table  in  the  pantry,  and  cannot  be  detached 
from  it  Air.  lowlinson  has  a singing  in  his 
ears  and  a large  wheel  going  round  and  round 
inside  his  head.  The  housemaid  wishes  it 
wasn’t  wicked  to  wish  that  one  was  dead. 

There  is  a general  delusion  likewise,  in  these 
lower  regions,  on  the  subject  of  time  ; everybody 
conceiving  that  it  ought  to  be,  at  the  earliest, 
ten  o’clock  at  night,  whereas  it  is  not  yet  three 
in  the  afternoon.  A shadowy  idea  of  wicked- 
ness committed,  haunts  every  individual  in  the 
party ; and  each  one  secretly  thinks  the  other  a 
companion  in  guilt,  whom  it  would  be  agreea- 
ble to  avoid.  Any  one  reviving  the  notion  of 
the  ball,  would  be  scouted  as  a malignant  idiot. 

The  hatchments  in  the  dining-room  look 
down  on  crumbs,  dirty  plates,  spillings  of  wine, 
half  thawed  ice,  stale,  discolored  heel-taps,  scraps 
of  lobster,  drumsticks  of  fowls,  and  pensive  jel- 
lies, gradually  resolving  themselves  into  a luke- 
warm, gummy  soup. — Dombey  & Son. 

DINNER-PARTY — A fashionable. 

1 he  great  looking-glass  above  the  sideboard 
reflects  the  table  and  the  company.  Reflects 
the  new  Veneering  crest,  in  gold  and  eke  in 
silver,  frosted  and  also  thawed,  a camel  of  all 
work.  The  Flerald’s  College  found  out  a Cru- 
sading ancestor  for  Veneering  who  bore  a camel 
on  his  shield  (or  might  have  done  it  if  he  had 
thought  of  it),  and  a caravan  of  camels  take 
charge  of  the  fruits  and  flowers  and  candles,  and 
kneel  down  to  be  loaded  with  the  salt.  Re- 
flects Veneering  ; forty,  wavy-haired,  dark, 
tending  to  corpulence,  sly,  mysterious,  filmy 
— a kind  of  sufficiently  well-looking  veiled 
prophet,  not  prophesying.  Reflects  Mrs.  Ve- 
neering ; fair,  aquiline  nosed  and  fingered,  not 
so  much  light  hair  as  she  might  have,  gorgeous 
in  raiment  and  jewels,  enthusiastic,  propitiatory, 
conscious  that  a corner  of  her  husband’s  veil  is 
over  herself.  Reflects  Podsnap  ; prosperously 
feeding  ; two  little  light-colored  wiry  wings,  one 
on  either  side  of  his  else  bald  head,  looking  as 
like  his  hairbrushes  as  his  hair,  dissolving  view 
of  red  beads  on  his  forehead,  large  allowance 
of  crumpled  shirt-collar  up  behind.  Reflects 
Mrs.  Podsnap  ; fine  woman  for  Professor  Owen, 
quantity  of  bone,  neck,  and  nostrils  like  a rock- 
ing-horse, hard  features,  majestic  head-dress,  in 
which  Podsnap  has  hung  golden  offerings.  Re- 
flects Twemlow  ; gray,  dry,  polite,  susceptible 
to  east  wind,  First-Gentleman-in-Europe  collar 
and  cravat,  cheeks  drawn  in  as  if  he  had  made 
a great  effort  to  retire  into  himself  some  years 
ago,  and  had  got  so  far  and  had  never  got  any 
farther.  Reflects  mature  young  lady ; raven 
locks,  and  complexion  that  lights  up  well  when 


DINNER 


151 


DINNERS 


well  powdered — as  it  is — carrying  on  consider- 
bly  in  the  captivation  of  mature  young  gentle- 
man, with  too  much  nose  in  his  face,  too  much 
ginger  in  his  whiskers,  too  much  torso  in  his 
waistcoat,  too  much  sparkle  in  his  studs,  his 
eyes,  his  buttons,  his  talk,  and  his  teeth.  Re- 
flects charming  old  Lady  Tippins  on  Veneer- 
ing’s  right  ; with  an  immense  obtuse  drab  ob- 
long face,  like  a face  in  a table-spoon,  and  a 
dyed  Long  Walk  up  the  top  of  her  head,  as  a 
convenient  public  approach  to  the  bunch  of 
false  hair  behind,  pleased  to  patronize  Mrs. 
Veneering  opposite,  who  is  pleased  to  be  patron- 
ized. Reflects  a certain  “ Mortimer,”  another 
of  Veneering’s  oldest  friends  ; who  never  was 
in  the  house  before,  and  appears  not  to  want  to 
come  again  ; who  sits  disconsolate  on  Mrs. 
Veneering’s  left,  and  who  was  inveigled  by 
Lady  Tippins  (a  friend  of  his  boyhood)  to  come 
to  these  people’s  and  talk,  and  who  won’t  talk. 
Reflects  Eugene,  friend  of  Mortimer ; buried 
alive  in  the  back  of  his  chair,  behind  a shoulder 
— with  a powder-epaulette  on  it — of  the  mature 
young  lady,  and  gloomily  resorting  to  the  cham- 
pagne chalice  whenever  proffered  by  the  Ana- 
lytical Chemist.  Lastly,  the  looking-glass  re- 
flects Boots  and  Brewer,  and  two  other  stuffed 
Buffers  interposed  between  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany and  possible  accidents. 

The  Veneering  dinners  are  excellent  dinners 
— or  new  people  wouldn’t  come — and  all  goes 
well.  Notably,  Lady  Tippins  has  made  a series 
of  experiments  on  her  digestive  functions,  so 
extremely  complicated  and  daring,  that  if  they 
could  be  published  with  their  results  it  might 
benefit  the  human  race.  Having  taken  in  pro- 
visions from  all  parts  of  the  world,  this  hardy 
old  cruiser  has  last  touched  at  the  North  Pole, 
when,  as  the  ice-plates  are  being  removed,  the 
following  words  fall  from  her. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  i. 

DINNER— In  state. 

Every  young  gentleman  had  a massive  silver 
fork,  and  a napkin  ; and  all  the  arrangements 
were  stately  and  handsome.  In  particular, 
tliere  was  a butler  in  a blue  coat  and  bright 
buttons,  who  gave  quite  a winey  flavor  to  the 
table-beer  ; he  poured  it  out  so  superbly. 

Dombey  <5 f Sou,  Chap.  12. 

DINNER— An  unsocial. 

There  they  found  Mr.  Pitt  turning  up  his 
nose  at  a cold  collation,  set  forth  in  a cold 
pomp  of  glass  and  silver,  and  looking  more  like 
a dead  dinner  lying  in  state  than  a social  re- 
freshment. 

The  very  linkmen  outside  got  hold  of  it,  and 
compared  the  party  to  a funeral  out  of  mourn- 
ing, with  none  of  the  company  remembered  in 
the  will. 

There  was  a toothache  in  everything.  The 
wine  was  so  bitter  cold  that  it  forced  a little 
scream  from  Miss  Tox,  which  she  had  great 
difficulty  in  turning  into  a “ Hem  ! ” The  veal 
had  come  from  such  an  airy  pantry,  that  the  first 
taste  of  it  had  struck  a sensation  as  of  cold  lead 
to  Mr.  Chick’s  extremities.  Mr.  Dombey  alone 
remained  unmoved.  He  might  have  been  hung 
up  for  sale  at  a Russian  fair  as  a specimen  of  a 
frozen  gentleman. 


Such  temporary  indications  of  a partial  thaw 


that  had  appeared,  vanished  ; and  the  frost  set 
in  again,  as  cold  and  hard  as  ever.  Mr.  Chick 
was  twice  heard  to  hum  a tune  at  the  bottom 
of  the  table,  but  on  both  occasions  it  was  a 
fragment  of  the  Dead  March  in  Saul.  The  party 
seemed  to  get  colder  and  colder,  and  to  be 
gradually  resolving  itself  into  a congealed  and 
solid  state,  like  the  collation  round  which  it 
was  assembled. — Dombey  6°  Son , Chap.  5. 

DINNERS— Description  of  public. 

All  public  dinners  in  London,  from  the  Lord 
Mayor’s  annual  banquet  at  Guildhall,  to  the 
Chimney-sweepers’  anniversary  at  White  Con- 
duit House  ; from  the  Goldsmiths’  to  the  But- 
chers’, from  the  Sheriffs’  to  the  Licensed  Victual- 
lers’, are  amusing  scenes.  Of  all  entertainments 
of  this  description,  however,  we  think  the  an- 
nual dinner  of  some  public  charity  is  the  most 
amusing.  At  a Company’s  dinner,  the  people 
are  nearly  all  alike — regular  old  stagers,  who 
make  it  a matter  of  business,  and  a thing  not 
to  be  laughed  at.  At  a political  dinner,  every- 
body is  disagreeable,  and  inclined  to  speechify 
— much  the  sanje  thing,  by-the-bye — but  at  a 
charity  dinner  you  see  people  of  all  sorts,  kinds, 
and  descriptions.  The  w'ine  may  not  be  re- 
markably special,  to  be  sure,  and  we  have  heard 
some  hard-hearted  monsters  grumble  at  the  col- 
lection ; but  we  really  think  the  amusement  to 
be  derived  from  the  occasion  sufficient  to  coun- 
terbalance even  these  disadvantages. 

***** 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  you,  on  your  en- 
trance, is  the  astonishing  importance  of  the 
committee.  You  observe  a door  on  the  first 
landing,  carefully  guarded  by  two  waiters,  in  and 
out  of  which  stout  gentlemen  with  very  red  faces 
keep  running,  with  a degree  of  speed  highly  un- 
becoming the  gravity  of  persons  of  their  years 
and  corpulency.  You  pause,  quite  alarmed  at 
the  bustle,  and  thinking,  in  your  innocence,  that 
two  or  three  people  must  have  been  carried  out 
of  the  dining-room  in  fits,  at  least.  You  are  im- 
mediately undeceived  by  the  waiter — “ Up  stairs, 
if  you  please,  sir  ; this  is  the  committee-room.” 
Up-stairs  you  go,  accordingly  ; wondering,  as 
you  mount,  what  the  duties  of  the  committee 
can  be,  and  whether  they  ever  do  anything  be- 
yond confusing  each  other,  and  running  over  the 
waiters. 

Having  deposited  your  hat  and  cloak,  and  re- 
ceived a remarkably  small  scrap  of  pasteboard 
in  exchange  (which,  as  a matter  of  course,  you 
lose,  before  you  require  it  again),  you  enter  the 
hall,  down  which  there  are  three  long  tables  for 
the  less  distinguished  guests,  with  a cross  table 
on  a raised  platform  at  the  upper  end  for  the  re- 
ception of  the  very  particular  friends  of  the  in- 
digent orphans.  Being  fortunate  enough  to  find 
a plate  without  anybody’s  card  in  it,  you  wisely 
seat  yourself  at  once,  and  have  a little  leisure  to 
look  about  you.  Waiters,  with  wine-baskets  in 
their  hands,  are  placing  decanters  of  sherry 
down  the  tables,  at  very  respectable  distances  ; 
melancholy-looking  salt-cellars  and  decayed 
vinegar-cruets,  which  might  have  belonged  to 
the  parents  of  the  indigent  orphans  in  their 
time,  are  scattered  at  distant  intervals  on  the 
cloth  ; and  the  knives  and  forks  look  as  if  they 
had  done  duty  at  every  public  dinner  in  London 
since  the  accession  of  George  the  First.  The 
musicians  are  scraping  and  grating  and  screwing 


DINNERS 


152 


DINNER 


tremendously — playing  no  notes  but  notes  of 
preparation  ; and  several  gentlemen  are  gliding 
along  the  sides  of  the  tables,  looking  into  plate 
after  plate  with  frantic  eagerness,  the  expression 
of  their  countenances  growing  more  and  more 
dismal  as  they  meet  with  everbody’s  card  but 
their  own. 

You  turn  round  to  take  a look  at  the  table  be- 
hind you,  and — not  being  in  the  habit  of  attend- 
ing public  dinners — are  somewhat  struck  by  the 
appearance  of  the  party  on  which  your  eyes 
rest.  One  of  its  principal  members  appears  to 
be  a little  man  with  a long  and  rather  inflamed 
face,  and  gray  hair  brushed  bolt  upright  in  front ; 
he  wears  a wisp  of  black  silk  round  his  neck, 
without  any  stiffener,  as  an  apology  fora  necker- 
chief, and  is  addressed  by  his  companions  by  the 
familiar  appellation  of  “ Fitz,”  or  some  such 
monosyllable.  Near  him  is  a stout  man  in  a 
white  neckerchief  and  buff  waistcoat,  with 
shining  dark  hair,  cut  very  short  in  front,  and  a 
great,  round,  healthy-looking  face,  on  which  he 
studiously  preserves  a half-sentimental  simper. 
Next  him,  again,  is  a large-headed  man,  with 
black  hair  and  bushy  whiskers  ; and  opposite 
them  are  two  or  three  others,  one  of  whom  is  a 
little,  round-faced  person,  in  a dress-stock  and 
blue  under- waistcoat.  There  is  something  pecu- 
liar in  their  air  and  manner,  though  you  could 
hardly  describe  what  it  is;  you  cannot  divest 
yourself  of  the  idea  that  they  have  come  for 
some  other  purpose  than  mere  eating  and  drink- 
ing. You  have  no  time  to  debate  the  matter, 
however,  for  the  waiters  (who  have  been  arrang- 
ed in  lines  down  the  room,  placing  the  dishes 
on  the  table),  retire  to  the  lower  end  ; the  dark 
man  in  the  blue  coat  and  bright  buttons,  who 
has  the  direction  of  the  music,  looks  up  to  the 
gallery,  and  calls  out  “ band”  in  a very  loud 
voice  ; out  bursts  the  orchestra,  up  rise  the  visit- 
ors, in  march  fourteen  stewards — each  with  a 
long  wand  in  his  hand,  like  the  evil  genius  in  a 
pantomime — then  the  chairman,  then  the  titled 
visitors  ; they  all  make  their  way  up  the  room, 
as  fast  as  they  can,  bowing,  and  smiling,  and 
smirking,  and  looking  remarkably  amiable.  The 
applause  ceases,  grace  is  said,  the  clatter  of 
plates  and  dishes  begins  ; and  every  one  appears 
highly  gratified,  either  with  the  presence  of  the 
distinguished  visitors,  or  the  commencement  of 
the  anxiously-expected  dinner. 

As  to  the  dinner  itself — the  mere  dinner — it 
goes  off  much  the  same  everywhere.  Tureens 
of  soup  are  emptied  with  awful  rapidity — waiters 
take  plates  of  turbot  away,  to  get  lobster-sauce, 
and  bring  back  plates  of  lobster-sauce  without 
turbot  ; people  who  can  carve  poultry  are  great 
fools  if  they  own  it,  and  people  who  can’t,  have 
no  wish  to  learn.  The  knives  and  forks  form  a 
pleasing  accompaniment  to  Auber’s  music,  and 
Auber’s  music  would  form  a pleasing  accompani- 
ment to  the  dinner,  if  you  could  hear  anything 
besides  the  cymbals.  The  substantials  disappear 
— moulds  of  jelly  vanish  like  lightning — hearty 
eaters  wipe  their  foreheads,  and  appear  rather 
overcome  with  their  recent  exertions — people 
who  have  looked  very  cross  hitherto,  become 
remarkably  bland,  and  ask  you  to  take  wine 
in  the  most  friendly  manner  possible — old 
gentlemen  direct  your  attention  to  the  ladies’ 
gallery,  and  take  great  pains  to  impress  you  with 
the  fact  that  the  charity  is  always  peculiarly 
favored  in  this  respect — every  one  appears  dis- 


posed to  become  talkative — and  the  hum  of  con- 
versation is  loud  and  general. 

Scenes,  Chap.  19. 

DINNER  With  a philanthropist  (Mrs.  Jel- 
ly by). 

I was  a little  curious  to  know  who  a mild,  bald 
gentleman  in  spectacles  was,  who  dropped  into 
a vacant  chair  (there  was  no  top  or  bottom  in 
particular)  after  the  fish  was  taken  away,  and 
seemed  passively  to  submit  himself  to  Borrio- 
boola-Gha,  but  not  to  be  actively  interested  in 
that  settlement.  As  he  never  spoke  a word,  he 
might  have  been  a native,  but  for  his  complex- 
ion. It  was  not  until  we  left  the  table,  and  he 
remained  alone  with  Richard,  that  the  possi- 
bility of  his  being  Mr.  Jellyby  ever  entered  my 
head.  But  he  was  Mr.  Jellyby;  and  a loqua- 
cious young  man  called  Mr.  Quale,  with  large 
shining  knobs  for  temples,  and  his  hair  all 
brushed  to  the  back  of  his  head,  who  came  in 
the  evening,  and  told  Ada  he  was  a philanthro- 
pist, also  informed  her  that  he  called  the  matri- 
monial alliance  of  Mrs.  Jellyby  with  Mr.  Jellyby 
the  union  of  mind  and  matter. 

This  young  man,  besides  having  a great  deal 
to  say  for  himself  about  Africa,  and  a project  of 
his  for  teaching  the  coffee  colonists  to  teach  the 
natives  to  turn  piano-forte  legs  and  establish  an 
export  trade,  delighted  in  drawing  Mrs.  Jellyby 
out  by  saying,  “I  believe  now,  Mrs.  Jellyby, 
you  have  received  as  many  as  from  one  hundred 
and  fifty  to  two  hundred  letters  respecting  Africa 
in  a single  day,  have  you  not?”  or,  “If  my 
memory  does  not  deceive  me,  Mrs.  Jellyby,  you 
once  mentioned  that  you  had  sent  off  five  thou- 
sand circulars  from  one  post-office  at  one  time?” 
— always  repeating  Mrs.  Jellyby’s  answer  to  us 
like  an  interpreter.  During  the  whole  evening 
Mr.  Jellyby  sat  in  a corner  with  his  head  against 
the  wrall,  as  if  he  were  subject  to  low  spirits.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  several  times  opened  his 
mouth  when  alone  with  Richard,  after  dinner, 
as  if  he  had  something  on  his  mind  ; but  had 
always  shut  it  again,  to  Richard’s  extreme  con- 
fusion, without  saying  anything. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  4. 

DINNER— Pickwick  after  wine. 

The  wine,  which  had  exerted  its  somniferous 
influence  over  Mr.  Snodgrass  and  Mr.  Winkle, 
had  stolen  upon  the  senses  of  Mr.  Pickwick. 
That  gentleman  had  gradually  passed  through 
the  various  stages  which  precede  the  lethargy 
produced  by  dinner,  and  its  consequences.  He 
had  undergone  the  ordinary  transitions  from  the 
height  of  conviviality  to  the  depth  of  misery, 
and  from  the  depth  of  misery  to  the  height  of 
conviviality.  Like  a gas-lamp  in  the  street, 
with  the  wind  in  the  pipe,  he  had  exhibited  for 
a moment  an  unnatural  brilliancy  ; then  sunk 
so  low  as  to  be  scarcely  discernible : after  a 
short  interval  he  had  burst  out  again,  to  en- 
lighten  for  a moment,  then  flickeied  with  an 
uncertain,  staggering  sort  of  light,  and  then 
gone  out  altogether.  His  head  was  sunk  upon 
his  bosom  ; and  perpetual  snoring,  with  a par- 
tial choke  occasionally,  were  the  only  audible 
indications  of  the  great  man’s  presence. 

Pickwick , Chap.  2. 

DINNER  Pip’s  misfortunes  at. 

Among  this  good  company  I should  have  felt 


DINNER 


153 


DISAPPEARANCE 


myself,  even  if  I hadn’t  robbed  the  pantry,  in  a 
false  position.  Not  because  I was  squeezed  in 
at  an  acute  angle  of  the  table-cloth,  with  the 
table  in  my  chest,  and  the  Pumblechookian 
elbow  in  my  eye,  nor  because  I was  not  allowed 
to  speak  (I  didn’t  want  to  speak),  nor  because  I 
was  regaled  with  the  scaly  tips  of  the  drum- 
sticks of  the  fowls,  and  with  those  obscure  cor- 
ners of  pork  of  which  the  pig,  when  living,  had 
had  the  least  reason  to  be  vain.  No  ; I should 
not  have  minded  that,  if  they  would  only  have 
left  me  alone.  But  they  wouldn’t  leave  me 
alone.  They  seemed  to  think  the  opportunity 
lost,  if  they  failed  to  point  the  conversation  at 
me,  every  now  and  then,  and  stick  the  point 
into  me.  I might  have  been  an  unfortunate 
little  bull  in  a Spanish  arena,  I got  so  smarting- 
ly  touched  up  by  these  moral  goads. 

It  began  the  moment  we  sat  down  to  dinner. 
Mr.  Wopsle  said  grace  with  theatrical  declama- 
tion— as  it  now  appears  to  me,  something  like 
a religious  cross  of  the  ghost  in  Hamlet  with 
Richard  III. — and  ended  with  the  very  proper 
aspiration  that  we  might  be  truly  grateful. 
Upon  which  my  sister  fixed  me  with  her  eye, 
and  said,  in  a low,  reproachful  voice,  “ Do  you 
hear  that?  Be  grateful.” 

“Especially,”  said  Mr.  Pumblechook,  “be 
grateful,  boy,  to  them  which  brought  you  up  by 
hand.” 

Mrs.  Hubble  shook  her  head,  and  contem- 
plating me  with  a mournful  pfesentiment  that  I 
should  come  to  no  good,  asked,  “Why  is  it  that 
the  young  are  never  grateful?”  This  moral 
mystery  seemed  too  much  for  the  company, 
until  Mr.  Hubble  tersely  solved  it  by  saying, 
“ Naterally  wicious.”  Everybody  then  mur- 
mured “ True  !”  and  looked  at  me  in  a particu- 
larly unpleasant  and  personal  manner. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  4. 

DINNER— A fashionable. 

It  was  a dinner  to  provoke  an  appetite,  though 
he  had  not  had  one.  The  rarest  dishes,  sump- 
tuously cooked  and  sumptuously  served  ; the 
choicest  fruits  ; the  most  exquisite  wines  ; mar- 
vels of  workmanship  in  gold  and  silver,  china 
and  glass  ; innumerable  things  delicious  to  the 
senses  of  taste,  smell,  and  sight,  were  insinuated 
into  its  composition.  O,  what  a wonderful  man 
this  Merdle,  what  a great  man,  what  a master 
man,  how  blessedly  and  enviably  endowed — in 
one  word,  what  a rich  man  ! 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  II.,  Chap.  12. 

DINNER— A restaurant. 

They  walked  on  with  him  until  they  came  to 
a dirty  shop-window  in  a dirty  street,  which 
was  made  almost  opaque  by  the  steam  of  hot 
meats,  vegetables,  and  puddings.  But  glimpses 
were  to  be  caught  of  a roast  leg  of  pork,  burst- 
ing into  tears  of  sage  and  onion  in  a metal  reser- 
voir full  of  gravy,  of  an  unctuous  piece  of  roast 
beef  and  blisterous  Yorkshire  pudding  bubbling 
hot  in  a similar  receptacle,  of  a stuffed  fillet  of 
veal  in  rapid  cut,  of  a ham  in  a perspiration 
with  the  pace  it  was  going  at,  of  a shallow  tank 
of  baked  potatoes  glued  together  by  their  own 
richness,  of  a truss  or  two  of  boiled  greens,  and 
other  substantial  delicacies. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  20. 


DISAPPEARANCE— A mysterious  (Sam 
Weller’s  story). 

They  had  walked  some  distance  ; Mr.  Pick- 
wick trotting  on  before,  plunged  in  profound 
meditation,  and  Sam  following  behind,  with  a 
countenance  expressive  of  the  most  enviable 
and  easy  defiance  of  everything  and  everybody  : 
when  the  latter,  who  was  always  especially 
anxious  to  impart  to  his  master  any  exclusive 
information  he  possessed,  quickened  his  pace 
until  he  was  close  at  Mr.  Pickwick's  heels  ; and, 
pointing  up  to  a house  they  were  passing,  said : 

“ Wery  nice  pork-shop  that  ’ere,  sir.” 

“Yes,  it  seems  so,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Celebrated  sassage  factory,”  said  Sam. 

“Is  it?”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Is  it ! ” l'eiterated  Sam  with  some  indigna- 
tion ; “ I should  rayther  think  it  was.  Why,  sir, 
bless  your  innocent  eyebrows,  that’s  were  the 
mysterious  disappearance  of  a ’spectable  trades- 
man took  place  four  year  ago.” 

“You  don’t  mean  to  say  he  was  burked, 
Sam?”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  looking  hastily 
round. 

“ No,  I don’t  ^indeed,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller, 
“ I wish  I did  ; far  worse  than  that.  He  was  the 
master  o’  that  ’ere  shop,  sir,  and  the  inwenter  o’ 
the  patent  never-leavin’-off  sassage  steam-ingine, 
as  ud  swaller  up  a pavin’  stone  if  you  put  it  too 
near,  and  grind  it  into  sassages  as  easy  as  if  it 
was  a tender  young  babby.  Wery  proud  o’  that 
machine  he  was,  as  it  was  nat’ral  he  should  be, 
and  he’d  stand  down  in  the  celler  a lookin’  at  it 
wen  it  was  in  full  play,  till  he  got  quite  melan- 
choly with  joy.  A wery  happy  man  he’d  ha’ 
been,  sir,  in  the  procession  o’  that  ’ere  ingine 
and  two  more  lovely  hinfants  besides,  if  it 
hadn’t  been  for  his  wife,  who  was  a most  ow- 
dacious  wixin.  She  was  always  a follerin’  him 
about,  and  dinnin’  in  his  ears,  till  at  last  he 
couldn’t  stand  it  no  longer.  ‘I’ll  tell  you  what 
it  is,  my  dear,’  he  says  one  day  ; ‘ if  you  perse- 
were  in  this  here  sort  of  amusement,’  he  says, 
‘I’m  blessed  if  I don’t  go  away  to  ’Merriker, 
and  that’s  all  about  it.’  ‘ You’re  a idle  willin’, 
says  she,  ‘and  I wish  the  ’Merrikins  joy  of  their 
bargain.’  Arter  wich  she  keeps  on  abusin’  of 
him  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  runs  into  the 
little  parlor  behind  the  shop,  sets  to  a-screamin’, 
says  he’ll  be  the  death  on  her,  and  falls  in  a fit, 
which  lasts  for  thi’ee  good  hours — one  o’  them 
fits  which  is  all  screamin’  and  kickin’.  Well, 
next  mornin’,  the  husband  was  missin’.  He 
hadn’t  taken  nothin’  from  the  till — hadn’t  even 
put  on  his  great-coat — so  it  was  quite  clear  he 
warn’t  gone  to  ’Merriker.  Didn’t  come  back 
next  day  ; didn’t  come  back  next  week  ; Missis 
had  bills  printed,  sayin’  that,  if  he’d  come  back, 
he  should  be  forgiven  everythin’  (which  was  very 
liberal,  seein’  that  he  hadn’t  done  nothin’  at  all)  ; 
the  canals  was  dragged,  and  for  two  months 
artervards,  wenever  a body  turned  up,  it  was 
carried,  as  a reg’lar  thing,  straight  off  to  the 
sassage  shop.  Hows’ever,  none  on  ’em  an- 
swered ; so  ihey  gave  out  that  he’d  run  away, 
and  she  kep  on  the  bis’ness.  One  Saturday 
night,  a little  thin  old  gen’l’m’n  comes  into  the 
shop  in  a great  passion  and  says,  ‘ Are  you  the 
missis  o’  this  here  shop?’  ‘Yes,  I am,’  says 
she.  ‘Well,  ma’am,’  says  he,  ‘then  I’ve  just 
looked  in  to  say  that  me  and  my  family  ain’t  a 
goin’  to  be  choked  for  nothin’  ; and  more  than 
that,  ma’am,’  he  says,  ‘ you’ll  allow  me  to  ob- 


DISPLAY 


154 


DOG 


serve,  that  as  you  don’t  use  the  primest  parts  of 
the  meat  in  the  manafacter  o’  sassages,  I think 
you’d  find  beef  come  nearly  as  cheap  as  buttons.’ 
‘As  buttons,  sir!’  says  she.  ‘Buttons,  ma’am,’ 
says  the  little  old  gentleman,  unfolding  a bit  of 
paper,  and  shewin’  twenty  or  thirty  halves  of 
buttons.  ‘Nice  seasonin’  for  sassages,  is  trou- 
sers’ buttons,  ma’am.’  ‘ They’re  my  husband’s 
buttons!’  says  the  widder,  beginnin’  to  faint. 
‘ What ! ’ screams  the  little  old  gen’l’m’n,  turnin’ 
wery  pale.  ‘ I see  it  all,’  says  the  widder  ; ‘ in 
a fit  of  temporary  insanity  he  rashly  converted 
his-self  into  sassages!’  And  so  he  had,  sir,” 
said  Mr.  Weller,  looking  steadily  into  Mr.  Pick- 
wick’s horror-stricken  countenance,  “or  else  he’d 
been  draw’d  into  the  ingine  ; but  however  that 
might  ha’  been,  the  little  old  gen’l’m’n,  who  had 
been  remarkably  partial  to  sassages  all  his  life, 
rushed  out  o’  the  shop  in  a wild  state,  and  was 
never  heerd  on  artervards  ! ” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  31. 

DISPLAY- Value  of  public. 

“ Why  do  you  come  here  to  do  this?”  said 
the  old  man,  sitting  down  beside  them,  and 
looking  at  the  figures  with  extreme  delight. 

“ Why,  you  see,”  rejoined  the  little  man, 
“we’re  putting  up  for  to-night  at  the  public- 
house  yonder,  and  it  wouldn’t  do  to  let  them  see 
the  present  company  undergoing  repair.” 

“No!”  cried  the  old  man,  making  signs  to 
Nell  to  listen,  “why  not,  eh?  why  not?” 

“ Because  it  would  destroy  all  the  delusion, 
and  take  away  all  the  interest,  wouldn’t  it?” 
replied  the  little  man.  “ Would  you  care  a 
ha’penny  for  the  Lord  Chancellor  if  you  know’d 
him  in  private  and  without  his  wig? — certainly 
not.” — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  16. 

DOCKS— Down  by  the. 

My  road  lies  through  that  part  of  London 
generally  known  to  the  initiated  as  “ Down  by 
the  Docks.”  Down  by  the  Docks  is  Home  to 
a good  many  people — to  too  many,  if  I may 
judge  from  the  overflow  of  local  population  in 
the  streets — but  my  nose  insinuates  that  the 
number  to  whom  it  is  Sweet  Home  might  be 
easily  counted.  Down  by  the  Docks  is  a region 
I would  choose  as  my  point  of  embarkation 
aboard  ship  if  I were  an  emigrant.  It  would 
present  my  intention  to  me  in  such  a sensible 
light  ; it  would  show  me  so  many  things  to  be 
run  away  from. 

Down  by  the  Docks  they  eat  the  largest  oys- 
ters and  scatter  the  roughest  oyster-shells  known 
to  the  descendants  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon. 
Down  by  the  Docks  they  consume  the  slimiest 
of  shell-fish,  which  seem  to  have  been  scraped 
off  the  copper  bottoms  of  ships.  Down  by  the 
Docks,  the  vegetables  at  green-grocers’  doors 
acquire  a saline  and  a scaly  look,  as  if  they  had 
been  crossed  with  fish  and  sea-weed.  Down  by 
the  Docks  they  “ board  seamen”  at  the  eating- 
houses,  the  public-houses,  the  slop-shops, 
the  coffee-shops,  the  tally-shops,  all  kinds  of 
shops,  mentionable  and  unmentionable, — board 
them,  as  it  were,  in  the  piratical  sense,  making 
them  bleed  terribly,  and  giving  no  quarter, 
flown  by  the  Docks  the  seamen  roam  in  mid- 
street and  midday,  their  pockets  inside  out,  and 
their  heads  no  better.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the 
daughters  of  wave-ruling  Britannia  also  rove, 
clad  in  silken  attire,  with  uncovered  tresses 


streaming  in  the  breeze,  bandanna  kerchiefs 
floating  from  their  shoulders,  and  crinoline  not 
wanting.  Down  by  the  Docks,  you  may  hear 
the  Incomparable  Joe  Jackson  sing  the  Standard 
of  England  with  a hornpipe,  any  night  ; or  any 
day  may  see  at  the  waxwork,  for  a penny  and  no 
waiting,  him  as  killed  the  policeman  at  Acton, 
and  suflered  for  it.  Down  by  the  Docks,  you 
may  buy  polonies,  saveloys,  and  sausage  pre- 
parations various,  if  you  are  not  particular 
what  they  are  made  of  besides  seasoning.  Down 
by  the  Docks,  the  children  of  Israel  creep  into 
any  gloomy  cribs  and  entries  they  can  hire,  and 
hang  slops  there, — pewter  watches,  sou’wester 
hats,  waterproof  overalls,; — “ firtht  rate  articleth, 
Thjack.”  Down  by  the  Docks,  such  dealers,  ex- 
hibiting on  a frame  a complete  nautical  suit 
without  the  refinement  of  a waxen  visage  in  the 
hat,  present  the  imaginary  wearer  as  drooping 
at  the  yard-arm,  with  his  sea-faring  and  earth- 
faring  troubles  over.  Down  by  the  Docks  the 
placards  in  the  shops  apostrophize  the  customer, 
knowing  him  familiarly  beforehand,  as,  *•  Look 
here,  Jack!”  “Here’s  your  sort,  my  lad!” 
“ Try  our  sea-going  mixed,  at  two  and  nine?” 
“ The  right  kit  for  the  British  tar ! ” “ Ship 
ahoy  ! ” “ Splice  the  main-brace,  brother  ! ” 

“ Come,  cheer  up,  my  lads,  We’ve  the  best  liquors 
here,  And  you’ll  find  something  new  In  our  won- 
derful Beer  ! ” Down  by  the  Docks,  the  pawn- 
broker lends  money  on  Union-Jack  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, on  watches  with  little  ships  pitching 
fore  and  aft  on  the  dial,  on  telescopes,  nautical 
instruments  in  cases,  and  such  like.  Down  by 
the  Docks,  the  apothecary  sets  up  in  business 
on  the  wretchedest  scale — chiefly  on  lint  and 
plaster  for  the  strapping  of  wounds — and  with 
no  bright  bottles,  and  with  no  little  drawers. 
Down  by  the  Docks,  the  shabby  undertaker’s 
shop  will  bury  you  for  next  to  nothing,  after  the 
Malay  or  Chinaman  has  stabbed  you  for  nothing 
at  all : so  you  can  hardly  hope  to  make  a cheaper 
end.  Down  by  the  Docks,  anybody  drunk  will 
quarrel  with  anybody  drunk  or  sober,  and  every- 
body else  will  have  a hand  in  it,  and  on  the 
shortest  notice  you  may  revolve  in  a whirlpool 
of  red  shirts,  shaggy  beards,  wild  heads  of  hair, 
bare  tattooed  arms,  Britannia’s  daughters,  malice, 
mud,  maundering,  and  madness.  Down  by  the 
Docks,  scraping  fiddles  go  in  the  public-houses 
all  day  long,  and  shrill  above  their  din,  and  all 
the  din,  rises  the  screeching  of  innumerable 
parrots  brought  from  foreign  parts,  who  appear 
to  be  very  much  astonished  by  what  they  find 
on  these  native  shores  of  ours.  Possibly  parrots 
don’t  know,  possibly  they  do,  that  Down  by  the 
Docks  is  the  road  to  the  Pacific  Ocean,  with  its 
lovely  islands,  where  the  savage  girls  plait  flow- 
ers, and  the  savage  boys  carve  cocoa-nut  shells, 
and  the  grim,  blind  idols  muse  in  their  shady 
groves  to  exactly  the  same  purpose  as  the  priests 
and  chiefs.  And  possibly  the  parrots  don’t 
know,  possibly  they  do,  that  the  noble  savage  is 
a wearisome  impostor  wherever  he  is,  and  has 
five  hundred  thousand  volumes  of  indifferent 
rhyme,  and  no  reason,  to  answer  for. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  20. 

DOG  -His  friendship  and  fidelity. 

But  though  Diogenes  was  as  ridiculous  a dog 
as  one  would  meet  with  on  a summer’s  day ; a 
blundering,  ill-favored,  clumsy,  bullet-headed 
dog,  continually  acting  on  a wrong  idea  that 


DOG 


155 


DOGS 


there  was  an  enemy  in  the  neighborhood,  whom 
it  was  meritorious  to  bark  at  ; and  though  he 
was  far  from  good-tempered,  and  certainly  was 
not  clever,  and  had  hair  all  over  his  eyes,  and  a 
comic  nose,  and  an  inconsistent  tail,  and  a gruff 
voice,  he  was  dearer  to  Florence,  in  virtue  of  that 
parting  remembrance  of  him,  and  that  request 
that  he  might  be  taken  care  of,  than  the  most 
valuable  and  beautiful  of  his  kind.  So  dear, 
indeed,  was  this  same  ugly  Diogenes,  and  so 
welcome  to  her,  that  she  took  the  jewelled  hand 
of  Mr.  Toots,  and  kissed  it  in  her  gratitude. 
And  when  Diogenes,  released,  came  tearing  up 
the  stairs,  and  bouncing  into  the  room  (such  a 
business  as  there  was  first,  to  get  him  out  of  the 
cabriolet  !)  dived  under  all  the  furniture,  and 
wound  a long  iron  chain,  that  dangled  from  his 
neck,  round  legs  of  chairs  and  tables,  and 
then  tugged  at  it  until  his  eyes  became  unnatu- 
rally visible,  in  consequence  of  their  nearly  start- 
ing out  of  his  head  ; and  when  he  growled  at 
Mr.  Toots,  who  affected  familiarity;  and  went 
pell-mell  at  Towlinson,  morally  convinced  that 
he  was  the  enemy  whom  he  had  barked  at  round 
the  corner  all  his  life,  and  had  never  seen  yet, 
Florence  was  as  pleased  with  him  as  if  he  had 
been  a miracle  of  discretion. 


Putting  out  his  tongue,  as  if  he  had  come 
express  to  a Dispensary,  to  be  examined  for  his 
health. — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  18. 

Diogenes  would  lay  his  head  upon  the  win- 
dow-ledge, and  placidly  open  and  shut  his  eyes 
upon  the  street,  all  through  a summer  morning  ; 
sometimes  pricking  up  his  head  to  look  with 
great  significance  after  some  noisy  dog  in  a cart, 
who  was  barking  his  way  along,  and  sometimes, 
with  an  exasperated  and  unaccountable  recol- 
lection of  his  supposed'  enemy  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, rushing  to  the  door,  whence,  after  a deafen- 
ing disturbance,  he  would  come  jogging  back 
with  a ridiculous  complacency  that  belonged  to 
him,  and  lay  his  jaw  upon  the  window-ledge 
again,  with  the  air  of  a dog  who  had  done  a 
public  service. — Dombey  dr3  Son , Chap.  23. 

It  was  plain  that  he  considered  the  Captain 
one  of  the  most  amiable  of  men,  and  a man 
whom  it  was  an  honor  to  a dog  to  know. 

Dombey  Cf  Son , Chap.  48. 

He  soon  appeared  to  comprehend,  that  with 
the  most  amiable  intentions  he  had  made  one 
of  those  mistakes  which  will  occasionally  arise 
in  the  best-regulated  dogs’  minds  ; as  a friendly 
apology  for  which  he  stuck  himself  up  on  end 
between  the  two,  in  a very  hot  place  in  front  of 
the  fire,  and  sat  panting  at  it,  with  his  tongue 
out  and  a most  imbecile  expression  of  counte- 
nance, listening  to  the  conversation. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  35. 

DOG— A Christian. 

“ He  wouldn’t  so  much  as  bark  in  a witness- 
box,  for  fear  of  committing  himself  ; no,  not  if 
you  tied  him  up  in  one,  and  left  him  there  with- 
out wittles  for  a fortnight,”  said  the  Dodger. 

“Not  a bit  of  it,”  observed  Charley. 

“ He’s  a rum  dog.  Don’t  he  look  fierce  at 
any  strange  cove  that  laughs  or  sings  when 
he’s  in  company  ! ” pursued  the  Dodger.  “ Won’t 
he  growl  at  all,  when  he  hears  a fiddle  playing  ! 


And  don’t  he  hate  other  dogs  as  ain’t  of  ms 
breed  ! — Oh,  no  ! ” 

“ He’s  an  out-and-out  Christian,”  said  Char- 
ley. 

This  was  merely  intended  as  a tribute  to  the 
animal’s  abilities,  but  it  was  an  appropriate  re- 
mark in  another  sense,  if  Master  Bates  had  only 
known  it ; for  there  are  a great  many  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  claiming  to  be  out-and-out  Chris- 
tians, between  whom,  and  Mr.  Sikes’s  dog,  there 
exist  very  strong  and  singular  points  of  resem- 
blance.— Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  18. 

DOG— A pug1. 

The  mistress  of  the  Establishment  holds  no 
place  in  our  memory ; but,  rampant  on  one 
eternal  door  mat,  in  an  eternal  entry  long  and 
narrow,  is  a puffy  pug-dog,  with  a personal  ani- 
mosity towards  us,  who  triumphs  over  Time. 
The  bark  of  that  baleful  Pug,  a certain  radiat- 
ing way  he  had  of  snapping  at  our  undefended 
legs,  the  ghastly  grinning  of  his  moist  black 
muzzle  and  white  teeth,  and  the  insolence  of 
his  crisp  tail,  curled  like  a pastoral  crook,  all  live 
and  flourish...  From  an  otherwise  unaccounta- 
ble association  of  him  with  a fiddle,  we  con- 
clude that  he  was  of  French  extraction,  and  his 
name  Fide.’e.  He  belonged  to  some  female, 
chiefly  inhabiting  a back-parlor,  whose  life  ap- 
pears to  us  to  have  been  consumed  in  sniffing, 
and  in  wearing  a brown  beaver  bonnet.  For 
her,  he  would  sit  up  and  balance  cake  upon  his 
nose,  and  not  eat  it  until  twenty  had  been 
counted.  To  the  best  of  our  belief  we  were 
once  called  in  to  witness  this  performance  ; 
when,  unable,  even  in  his  milder  moments,  to 
endure  our  presence,  he  instantly  made  at  us, 
cake  and  all. — Our  School.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

DOG— The  gambols  of  Boxer. 

Then,  Boxer  gave  occasion  to  more  good-na- 
tured recognitions  of,  and  by,  the  Carrier,  than 
half  a dozen  Christians  could  have  done  ! Every- 
body knew  him,  all  along  the  road— especially 
the  fowls  and  pigs,  who,  when  they  saw  him  ap- 
proaching with  his  body  all  on  one  side,  and 
his  ears  pricked  up  inquisitively,  and  that  nob 
of  a tail  making  the  most  of  itself  in  the  air, 
immediately  withdrew  into  remote  back  settle- 
ments, without  waiting  for  the  honor  of  a near 
acquaintance.  He  had  business  everywhere ; 
going  down  all  the  turnings,  looking  into  all 
the  wells,  bolting  in  and  out  of  all  the  cottages, 
dashing  into  the  midst  of  all  the  Dame-Schools, 
fluttering  all  the  pigeons,  magnifying  the  tails 
of  all  the  cats,  and  trotting  into  the  public- 
houses  like  a regular  customer.  Wherever  he 
went,  somebody  or  other  might  have  been  heard 
to  cry,  “ Hallo  ! Here’s  Boxer  1”  and  out  came 
that  somebody  forthwith,  accompanied  by  at 
least  two  or  three  other  somebodies,  to  give 
John  Peerybingle  and  his  pretty  wife,  Good 
Day  ! — Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  Chap.  2. 

DOGS— And  cats. 

As  the  dogs  of  shy  neighborhoods  usually  be- 
tray a slinking  consciousness  of  being  in  poor 
circumstances — for  the  most  part  manifested  in 
an  aspect  of  anxiety,  an  awkwardness  in  their 
play,  and  a misgiving  that  somebody  is  going  to 
harness  them  to  something,  to  pick  up  a living, 
— so  the  cats  of  shy  neighborhoods  exhibit  a 
strong  tendency  to  relapse  into  barbarism.  Not 


DONKEY 


150 


DOOR-KNOCKERS 


only  are  they  made  selfishly  ferocious  by  rumi- 
nating on  the  surplus  population  around  them, 
and  on  the  densely  crowded  state  of  all  the 
avenues  to  cat’s  meat — not  only  is  there  a moral 
and  politico-economical  haggardness  in  them, 
traceable  to  these  reflections — but  they  evince 
a physical  deterioration.  Their  linen  is  not 
clean,  and  is  wretchedly  got  up  ; their  black 
turns  rusty,  like  old  mourning  ; they  wear  very 
indifferent  fur,  and  take  to  the  shabbiest  cotton 
velvet,  instead  of  silk  velvet.  I am  on  terms 
of  recognition  with  several  small  -streets  of  cats, 
about  the  Obelisk  in  Saint  George’s  Fields,  and 
also  in  the  vicinity  of  Clerkenwell  Green,  and 
also  in  the  back  settlements  of  Drury  Lane.  In 
appearance  they  are  very  like  the  women  among 
whom  they  live.  They  seem  to  turn  out  of  their 
unwholesome  beds  into  the  street,  without  any 
preparation.  They  leave  their  young  families 
to  stagger  about  the  gutters  unassisted,  while 
they  frowzily  quarrel  and  swear  and  scratch 
and  spit,  at  street  corners.  In  particular,  I re- 
mark that  when  they  are  about  to  increase  their 
families  (an  event  of  frequent  recurrence)  the 
resemblance  is  strongly  expressed  in  a certain 
dusty  dowdiness,  down-at-heel  self-neglect,  and 
general  giving  up  of  things.  I cannot  honestly 
report  that  I have  ever  seen  a feline  matron  of 
this  class  washing  her  face  when  in  an  interesting 
condition. — Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  io. 

DONKEY— His  obstinacy. 

Taking  a donkey  towards  his  ordinary  place 
of  residence  is  a very  different  thing,  and  a feat 
much  more  easily  to  be  accomplished,  than  tak- 
ing him  from  it.  It  requires  a great  deal  of 
foresight  and  presence  of  mind  in  the  one  case, 
to  anticipate  the  numerous  flights  of  his  discur- 
sive imagination  ; whereas,  in  the  other,  all  you 
have  to  do  is,  to  hold  on.  and  place  a blind  con- 
fidence in  the  animal. — Tales , Chap.  4. 

DONKEYS. 

Donkeys  again.  I know  shy  neighborhoods 
where  the  Donkey  goes  in  at  the  street-door,  and 
appears  to  live  up-stairs,  for  I have  examined 
the  back  yard  from  over  the  palings,  and  have 
been  unable  to  make  him  out.  Gentility,  no- 
bility, royalty,  would  appeal  to  that  donkey  in 
vain  to  do  what  he  does  for  a costermonger. 
Feed  him  with  oats  at  the  highest  price,  put  an 
infant  prince  and  princess  in  a pair  of  panniers 
on  his  back,  adjust  his  delicate  trappings  to  a 
nicety,  take  him  to  the  softest  slopes  at  Wind- 
sor, and  try  what  pace  you  can  get  out  of  him. 
Then  starve  him,  harness  him  anyhow  to  a truck 
with  a flat  tray  on  it,  and  see  him  bowl  from 
Whitechapel  to  Bayswater.  There  appears  to 
be  no  particular  private  understanding  between 
birds  and  donkeys  in  a state  of  nature  ; but  in 
the  shy-neighborhood  state  you  shall  see  them 
always  in  the  same  hands,  and  always  develop- 
ing their  very  best  energies  for  the  very  worst 
company.  I have  known  a donkey — by  sight ; 
we  were  not  on  speaking  terms — who  lived  over 
on  the  Surrey  side  of  London  Bridge,  among 
the  fastnesses  of  Jacob’s  Island  and  Dockhead. 
It  was  the  habit  of  that  animal,  when  his  ser- 
vices were  not  in  immediate  requisition,  to  go 
out  alone,  idling.  I have  met  him,  a mile  from 
bis  place  of  residence,  loitering  about  the  streets  ; 
and  the  expression  of  his  countenance  at  such 
times  was  most  degraded.  lie  was  attached  to 


the  establishment  of  an  elderly  lady  who  sold 
periwinkles  ; and  he  used  to  stand  on  Saturday 
nights  with  a cartful  of  those  delicacies  outside 
a gin-shop,  pricking  up  his  ears  when  a cus- 
tomer came  to  the  cart,  and  too  evidently  de- 
riving satisfaction  from  the  knowledge  that  they 
got  bad  measure.  His  mistress  was  sometimes 
overtaken  by  inebriety.  The  last  time  I ever 
saw  him  (about  five  years  ago)  he  was  in  cir- 
cumstances of  difficulty,  caused  by  this  failing. 
Having  been  left  alone  with  the  cart  of  peri- 
winkles, and  forgotten,  he  went  off  idling.  He 
prowled  among  his  usual  low  haunts  for  some 
time,  gratifying  his  depraved  tastes,  until,  not 
taking  the  cart  into  his  calculations,  he  endeav- 
ored to  turn  up  a narrow  alley,  and  became 
greatly  involved.  He  was  taken  into  custody 
by  the  police,  and,  the  Green  Yard  of  the  dis- 
trict being  near  at  hand,  was  backed  into  that 
place  of  durance.  At  that  crisis  I encountered 
him  ; the  stubborn  sense  he  evinced  of  being — 
not  to  compromise  the  expression — a black- 
guard, I never  saw  exceeded  in  the  human  sub- 
ject. A flaring  candle  in  a paper  shade,  stuck 
in  among  his  periwinkles,  showed  him,  with  his 
ragged  harness  broken  and  his  cart  extensively 
shattered,  twitching  his  mouth  and  shaking  his 
hanging  head,  a picture  of  disgrace  and  obdu- 
racy. I have  seen  boys,  being  taken  to  station- 
houses,  who  were  as  like  him  as  his  own  brother. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  10. 

DONKEYS— Blooded. 

* * * Three  donkeys — which  the  proprie- 

tor declared  on  his  solemn  asseveration  to  be 
“three  parts  blood,  and  the  other  corn” — were 
engaged  in  the  service. — Tales , Chap.  4. 

DOOR-KNOCKERS— The  physiognomy  of. 

We  are  very  fond  of  speculating,  as  we  walk 
through  a street,  on  the  character  and  pursuits 
of  the  people  who  inhabit  it  ; and  nothing  so 
materially  assists  us  in  these  speculations  as  the 
appearance  of  the  house-doors.  The  various 
expressions  of  the  human  countenance  afford  a 
beautiful  and  interesting  study ; but  there  is 
something  in  the  physiognomy  of  street-door 
knockers,  almost  as  characteristic,  and  nearly  as 
infallible.  Whenever  w'e  visit  a man  for  the 
first  time,  we  contemplate  the  features  of  his 
knocker  with  the  greatest  curiosity,  for  we  well 
know',  that  betw'een  the  man  and  his  knocker, 
there  will  inevitably  be  a greater  or  less  degree 
of  resemblance  and  sympathy. 

For  instance,  there  is  one  description  of 
knocker  that  used  to  be  common  enough,  but 
w'hich  is  fast  passing  away — a large  round  one, 
with  the  jolly  face  of  a convivial  lion  smiling 
blandly  at  you,  as  you  twist  the  sides  of  your 
hair  into  a curl,  or  pull  up  your  shirt-collar  while 
you  are  waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened — w'e 
never  saw  that  knocker  on  the  door  of  a churl- 
ish man — so  far  as  our  experience  is  concerned, 
it  invariably  bespoke  hospitality,  and  another 
bottle. 

No  man  ever  saw  this  knocker  on  the  door 
of  a small  attorney  or  bill-broker  ; they  always 
patronise  the  other  lion  ; a heavy  ferocious- 
looking  fellow,  with  a countenance  expressive 
of  savage  stupidity — a sort  of  grand  master 
among  the  knockers,  and  a great  favorite  with 
the  selfish  and  brutal. 

Then  there  is  a little  pert  Egyptian  knocker, 


DRAMA 


157 


DRESS 


with  a long,  thi-n  face,  a pinched-up  nose,  and  a 
very  sharp  chin  ; he  is  most  in  vogue  with  your 
government-office  people,  in  light  drabs  and 
starched  cravats  ; little,  spare,  priggish  men,  who 
are  perfectly  satisfied  with  their  own  opinions, 
and  consider  themselves  of  paramount  impor- 
tance. 

We  were  greatly  troubled  a few  years  ago,  by 
the  innovation  of  a new  kind  of  knocker,  with- 
out any  face  at  all,  composed  of  a wreath,  de- 
pending from  a hand  or  small  truncheon.  A 
little  trouble  and  attention,  however,  enabled 
us  to  overcome  this  difficulty,  and  to  reconcile 
the  new  system  to  our  favorite  theory.  You  will 
invariably  find  this  knocker  on  the  doors  of  cold 
and  formal  people,  who  always  ask  you  why  you 
don't  come,  and  never  say  do. 

Everybody  knows  the  brass  knocker  is  com- 
mon to  suburban  villas,  and  extensive  boarding- 
schools  ; and,  having  noticed  this  genus,  we  have 
recapitulated  all  the  most  prominent  and  strong- 
ly-defined species. 

Some  phrenologists  affirm,  that  the  agitation 
of  a man’s  brain  by  different  passions,  produces 
corresponding  developments  in  the  form  of  his 
skull.  Do  not  let  us  be  understood  as  pushing 
our  theory  to  the  length  of  asserting,  that  any 
alteration  in  a man’s  disposition  would  produce 
a visible  effect  on  the  feature  of  his  knocker. 
Our  position  merely  is,  that  in  such  a case,  the 
magnetism  which  must  exist  between  a man  and 
his  knocker  would  induce  the  man  to  remove, 
and  seek  some  knocker  more  congenial  to  his 
altered  feelings.  If  you  ever  find  a man  chang- 
ing his  habitation  without  any  reasonable  pre- 
text, depend  upon  it,  that,  although  he  may  not 
be  aware  of  the  fact  himself,  it  is  because  he 
and  his  knocker  are  at  variance.  This  is  a new 
theory,  but  we  venture  to  launch  it,  neverthe- 
less, as  being  quite  as  ingenious  and  infallible 
as  many  thousands  of  the  learned  speculations 
which  are  daily  broached  for  public  good  and 
private  fortune-making. 

Sketches  {Scenes),  Chap.  7. 

DRAMA— Mr.  Curdle’s  opinion  of  the. 

“ As  an  exquisite  embodiment  of  the  poet’s 
visions,  and  a realization  of  human  intellectual- 
ity, gilding  with  refulgent  light  our  dreamy  mo- 
ments, and  laying  open  a new  and  magic  world 
before  the  mental  eye,  the  drama  is  gone,  per- 
fectly gone,”  said  Mr.  Curdle. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  24. 

DREAMS— Of  the  sane  and  insane. 

From  the  dead  wall  associated  on  those 
houseless  nights  with  this  too-common  story,  I 
chose  next  to  wander  by  Bethlehem  Hospital — 
partly  because  it  lay  on  my  road  round  to  West- 
minster, partly  because  I had  a night  fancy  in 
my  head  which  could  be  best  pursued  within 
sight  of  its  walls  and  dome.  And  the  fancy 
was  this : Are  not  the  sane  and  the  insane 
equal  at  night  as  the  sane  lie  a-dreaming?  Are 
not  all  of  us  outside  this  hospital,  who  dream, 
more  or  less  in  the  condition  of  those  inside  it, 
every  night  of  our  lives?  Are  we  not  nightly 
persuaded,  as  they  daily  are,  that  we  associate 
preposterously  with  kings  and  queens,  emperors 
and  empresses,  and  notabilities  of  all  sorts?  Do 
we  not  nightly  jumble  events  and  personages 
and  times  and  places,  as  these  do  daily?  Are 
we  not  sometimes  troubled  by  our  own  sleep- 


ing inconsistencies,  and  do  we  not  vexedly  try 
to  account  for  them  or  excuse  them,  just  as 
these  do  sometimes  in  respect  of  their  waking 
delusions?  Said  an  afflicted  man  to  me,  when 
I was  last  in  an  hospital  like  this,  “ Sir,  I can 
frequently  fly.”  I was  half  ashamed  to  reflect 
that  so  could  I — by  night.  Said  a woman  to 
me  on  the  same  occasion,  “ Queen  Victoria  fre- 
quently comes  to  dine  with  me  ; and  her  Majes- 
ty and  I dine  off  peaches  and  maccaroni  in  our 
nightgowns,  and  his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince 
Consort  does  us  the  honor  to  make  a third, 
on  horseback  in  a Field-Marshal’s  uniform.” 
Could  I refrain  from  reddening  with  conscious- 
ness when  I remembered  the  amazing  royal  par- 
ties I myself  had  given  (at  night),  the  unac- 
countable viands  I had  put  on  table,  and 
my  extraordinary  manner  of  conducting  myself 
on  those  distinguished  occasions?  I wonder 
that  the  great  master  who  knew  everything, 
when  he  called  Sleep  the  death  of  each  day’s 
life,  did  not  call  Dreams  the  insanity  of  each 
day’s  sanity. 

U ncom mercia l Traveller,  Chap.  13. 

DRESS— Individuality  of. 

The  Captain  was  one  of  those  timber-looking 
men,  suits  of  oak  as  well  as  hearts,  whom  it  is 
almost  impossible  for  the  liveliest  imagination 
to  separate  from  any  part  of  their  dress,  how- 
ever insignificant.  Accordingly,  when  Walter 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  the  Captain  instantly 
poked  his  head  out  of  one  of  his  little  front 
windows,  and  hailed  him,  with  the  hard  glazed 
hat  already  on  it,  and  the  shirt  collar  like  a 
sail,  and  the  wide  suit  of  blue,  all  standing  as 
usual,  Walter  was  as  fully  persuaded  that  he 
was  always  in  that  state,  as  if  the  Captain  had 
been  a bird  and  those  had  been  his  feathers. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  9. 

DRESS— Of  Miss  Tox. 

Miss  Tox’s  dress,  though  perfectly  genteel 
and  good,  had  a certain  character  of  angularity 
and  scantiness.  She  was  accustomed  to  weai 
odd  weedy  little  flowers  in  her  bonnets  and 
caps.  Strange  grasses  were  sometimes  per- 
ceived in  her  hair  ; and  it  was  observed  by  the 
curious,  of  all  her  collars,  frills,  tuckers,  wrist- 
bands, and  other  gossamer  articles — indeed  of 
everything  she  wore  which  had  two  ends  to  it 
intended  to  unite — that  the  two  ends  were  never 
on  good  terms,  and  wouldn’t  quite  meet  without 
a struggle.  She  had  furry  articles  for  winter 
wear,  as  tippets,  boas,  and  muffs,  which  stood 
up  on  end  in  a rampant  manner,  and  were  not 
at  all  sleek.  She  was  much  given  to  the  carry- 
ing about  of  small  bags  with  snaps  to  them, 
that  went  off  like  little  pistols  when  they  were 
shut  up  : and  when  full-dressed,  she  wore  round 
her  neck  the  barrenest  of  lockets,  representing 
a fishy  old  eye,  with  no  approach  to  speculation 
in  it. — Dombey  Son,  Chap.  1. 

DRESS— Party  toilette. 

Mrs.  Blimber  appeared,  looking  lovely,  Paul 
thought  ; and  attired  in  such  a number  of  skirts 
that  it  was  quite  an  excursion  to  walk  round 
her.  Miss  Blimber  came  down  soon  after  her 
mamma ; a little  squeezed  in  appearance,  but 
very  charming. 

There  was  a grand  array  of  white  waistcoats 


DRE3S 


158 


DRESS 


and  cravats  in  the  young  gentlemen’s  bed- 
rooms as  evening  approached  ; and  such  a smell 
of  singed  hair,  that  Doctor  Blimber  sent  up  the 
footman  with  his  compliments,  and  wished  to 
know  if  the  house  was  on  fire.  But  it  was  only 
the  hair-dresser  curling  the  young  gentlemen, 
and  overheating  his  tongs  in  the  ardor  of  busi- 
ness.— Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  14. 

“ Miss  Tox  ! ” 

And  enter  that  fair  enslaver,  with  a blue  nose 
and  indescribably  frosty  face,  referable  to  her 
being  very  thinly  clad  in  a maze  of  fluttering 
odds  and  ends,  to  do  honor  to  the  ceremony. 

Miss  Tox,  in  the  midst  of  her  spreading 
gauzes,  went  down  altogether  like  an  opera- 
glass  shutting-up. — Dombey  & Son , Chap.  5. 


Mr.  Toots  was  one  blaze  of  jewelry  and  but- 
tons ; and  he  felt  the  circumstance  so  strongly, 
that  when  he  had  shaken  hands  with  the  Doctor, 
and  had  bowed  to  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blim- 
ber, he  took  Paul  aside,  and  said  “ What  do  you 
think  of  this,  Dombey  ? ” 

But  notwithstanding  this  modest  confidence 
in  himself,  Mi*.  Toots  appeared  to  be  involved 
in  a good  deal  of  uncertainty  whether,  on  the 
whole,  it  was  judicious  to  button  the  bottom 
button  of  his  waistcoat,  and  whether,  on  a calm 
revision  of  all  the  circumstances,  it  was  best  to 
wear  his  wristbands  turned  up  or  turned  down. 
Observing  that  Mr.  Feeder’s  were  turned  up, 
Mr.  Toots  turned  his  up  ; but  the  wristbands 
of  the  next  arrival  being  turned  down,  Mr. 
Toots  turned  his  down.  The  differences  in  point 
of  waistcoat  buttoning,  not  only  at  the  bottom, 
but  at  the  top  too,  became  so  numerous  and 
complicated  as  the  arrivals  thickened,  that  Mr. 
Toots  was  continually  fingering  that  article  of 
dress,  as  if  he  were  performing  on  some  instru- 
ment ; and  appeared  to  find  the  incessant  ex- 
ecution it  demanded,  quite  bewildering. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  14. 

DRESS— The  power  of. 

What  an  excellent  example  of  the  power  of 
dress  young  Oliver  Twist  was  ! Wrapped  in 
the  blanket  which  had  hitherto  formed  his  only 
covering,  he  might  have  been  the  child  of  a 
nobleman  or  a beggar  ; it  would  have  been  hard 
for  the  haughtiest  stranger  to  have  assigned  him 
his  proper  station  in  society.  But  now  that  he 
was  enveloped  in  the  old  calico  robes  which  had 
grown  yellow  in  the  same  service,  he  was  badged 
and  ticketed,  and  fell  into  his  place  at  once — a 
parish  child — the  orphan  of  a workhouse — the 
humble,  half-starved  drudge — to  be  cuffed 'and 
buffeted  through  the  world — despised  by  all,  and 
pitied  by  none. — Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  1. 

DRESS— Its  relations  to  dignity. 

There  are  some  promotions  in  life,  which,  in- 
dependent of  the  more  substantial  rewards  they 
offer,  acquire  peculiar  value  and  dignity  from 
the  coals  and  waistcoats  connected  with  them. 
A field-marshal  has  his  uniform  ; a bishop  his 
silk  apron  ; a counsellor  his  silk  gown  ; a beadle 
his  cocked  hat.  Strip  the  bishop  of  his  apron, 
or  the  beadle  of  his  hat  and  lace  ; what  are 
they?  Men.  Mere  men.  Dignity,  and  even 
holiness  too,  sometimes,  are  more  questions  of 
coat  and  waistcoat  than  some  people  imagine. 

Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  37. 


DRE3S  Of  Barkis. 

Mr.  Barkis  bloomed  in  a new  blue  coat,  of 
which  the  tailor  had  given  him  such  good  meas- 
ure, that  the  cuffs  would  have  rendered  gloves 
unnecessary  in  the  coldest  weather,  while  the 
collar  was  so  high  that  it  pushed  his  hair  up  on 
end  on  the  top  of  his  head.  His  bright  buttons, 
too,  were  of  the  largest  size.  Rendered  com- 
plete by  drab  pantaloons  and  a buff  waistcoat, 
I thought  Mr.  Barkis  a phenomenon  of  respecta- 
bility.— David  Copperjield,  Chap.  10. 

DRESS— Of  Mr.  Bounderby. 

So,  Mr.  Bounderby  threw  on  his  hat — he  al- 
ways threw  it  on,  as  expressing  a man  who  had 
been  far  too  busily  employed  in  making  himself, 
to  acquire  any  fashion  of  wearing  his  haf — and 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  sauntered  out  into 
the  hall.  “ I never  wear  gloves,”  it  was  his  cus- 
tom to  say.  “ I didn’t  climb  up  the  ladder  in 

them.  Shouldn’t  be  so  high  up,  if  I had.” 

Hard  Times,  Book  /.,  Chap.  4. 

DRESS— A seedy. 

Mr.  Jobling  is  buttoned  up  closer  than  mere 
adornment  might  require.  His  hat  presents  at 
the  rims  a peculiar  appearance  of  a glistening 
nature,  as  if  it  had  been  a favorite  snail-promen- 
ade. The  same  phenomenon  is  visible  on  some 
parts  of  his  coat,  and  particularly  at  the  seams. 
He  has  the  faded  appearance  of  a gentleman  in 
embarrassed  circumstances  ; even  his  light 
whiskers  droop  with  something  of  a shabby  air. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  20. 

DRESS-Of  Joe. 

I knew  he  made  himself  so  dreadfully  uncom- 
fortable entirely  on  my  account,  and  that  it  was 
for  me  he  pulled  up  his  shirt-collar  so  very  high 
behind,  that  it  made  the  hair  on  the  crown  of 
his  head  stand  up  like  a tuft  of  feathers. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  13. 

As  to  his  shirt-collar,  and  his  coat-collar,  they 
were  perplexing  to  reflect  upon — insoluble  mys- 
teries both.  Why  should  a man  scrape  himself 
to  that  extent,  before  he  could  consider  himself 
full-dressed  ? Why  should  he  suppose  it  neces- 
sary to  be  purified  by  suffering  for  his  holiday 
clothes  ? — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  27. 

DRESS— Pip  and  Joe  in  uncomfortable. 

My  sister  having  so  much  to  do,  was  going  to 
church  vicariously  ; that  is  to  say,  Joe  and  I 
were  going.  In  his  working  clothes,  Joe  was  a 
well-knit,  characteristic-looking  blacksmith;  in 
his  holiday  clothes,  he  was  more  like  a scarecrow 
in  good  circumstances  than  any  thing  else. 
Nothing  that  he  wore,  then,  fitted  him  or  seemed 
to  belong  to  him  ; and  everything  that  he  wore 

then,  grazed  him.  On  the  present  festive  oc- 
casion he  emerged  from  his  room,  when  the 
blithe  bells  were  going,  the  picture  of  misery, 
in  a full  suit  of  Sunday  penitentials.  As  to  me, 
I think  my  sister  must  have  had  some  general 
idea  that  I was  a young  offender  whom  an  ac- 
coucheur policeman  had  taken  up  (on  my  birth- 
day) and  delivered  over  to  her,  to  be  dealt  with 
according  to  the  outraged  majesty  of  the  law. 
I was  always  treated  as  if  I had  insisted  on  be- 
ing born,  in  opposition  to  the  dictates  of  reason, 
religion,  and  morality,  and  against  the  dissuad- 
ing arguments  of  my  best  friends.  Even,  when 


DRESS 


159 


DROWNED 


I was  taken  to  have  a new  suit  of  clothes,  the 
tailor  had  orders  to  make  them  like  a kind  of 
reformatory,  and  on  no  account  to  let  me  have 
the  free  use  of  my  limbs. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  4. 

DRESS— Of  Mr.  Sloppy. 

The  consideration  of  Mrs.  Boffin  had  clothed 
Mr.  Sloppy  in  a suit  of  black,  on  which  the 
tailor  had  received  personal  directions  from 
Rokesmith  to  expend  the  utmost  cunning  of  his 
art,  with  a view  to  the  concealment  of  the  co- 
hering and  sustaining  buttons.  But,  so  much 
more  powerful  were  the  frailties  of  Sloppy’s 
form  than  the  strongest  resources  of  tailoring 
science,  that  he  now  stood  before  the  Council  a 
perfect  Argus  in  the  way  of  buttons:  shining 
and  winking  and  gleaming  and  twinkling  out  of 
a hundred  of  those  eyes  of  bright  metal,  at  the 
dazzled  spectators.  The  artistic  taste  of  some 
unknown  hatter  had  furnished  him  with  a hat- 
band of  wholesale  capacity,  which  was  fluted 
behind,  from  the  crown  of  his  hat  to  the  brim, 
and  terminated  in  a black  bunch,  from  which 
the  imagination  shrunk  discomfited  and  the  rea- 
son revolted.  Some  special  powers  with  which 
his  legs  were  endowed,  had  already  hitched  up 
his  glossy  trousers  at  the  ankles,  and  bagged 
them  at  the  knees  ; while  similar  gifts  in  his 
arms  had  raised  his  coat-sleeves  from  his  wrists 
and  accumulated  them  at  his  elbows.  Thus  set 
forth,  with  the  additional  embellishments  of  a 
very  little  tail  to  his  coat,  and  a yawning  gulf 
at  his  waistband,  Sloppy  stood  confessed. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  //.,  Chap.  10. 

He  was  entombed  by  an  honest  jobbing  tailor 
of  the  district  in  a perfect  Sepulchre  of  coat  and 
gaiters,  sealed  with  ponderous  buttons. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  9. 

DRESS-Of  Mrs.  Wilfer. 

Mrs.  Wilfer  was,  of  course,  a tall  woman  and 
an  angular.  Her  lord  being  cherubic,  she  was 
necessarily  majestic,  according  to  the  principle 
which  matrimonially  unites  contrasts.  She  was 
much  given  to  tying  up  her  head  in  a pocket- 
handkerchief,  knotted  under  her  chin.  This 
head-gear,  in  conjunction  with  a pair  of  gloves 
worn  within  doors,  she  seemed  to  consider  as  at 
once  a kind  of  armor  against  misfortune  (inva- 
riably assuming  it  when  in  low  spirits  or  diffi- 
culties), and  as  a species  of  full  dress.  It  was 
therefore  with  some  sinking  of  the  spirit  that 
her  husband  beheld  her  thus  heroically  attired, 
putting  down  her  candle  in  the  little  hall,  and 
coming  down  the  doorsteps  through  the  little 
front  court  to  open  the  gate  for  him. 

Our  Mutual  F'riend,  Book  /.,  Chap.  4. 

DRESS— Dr.  Marigold’s. 

I am  at  present  a middle-aged  man  of  a broad- 
ish  build,  in  cords,  leggings,  and  a sleeved  waist- 
coat, the  strings  of  which  is  always  gone  behind. 
Repair  them  how  you  will,  they  go  like  fiddle- 
strings.  You  have  been  to  the  theatre,  and  you 
have  seen  one  of  the  wiolin -players  screw  up  his 
wiolin,  after  listening  to  it  as  if  it  had  been 
whispering  the  secret  to  him  that  it  feared  it 
was  out  of  order,  and  then  you  have  heard  it 
snap.  That’s  as  exactly  similar  to  my  waist- 
coat, as  a waistcoat  and  a wiolin  can  be  like  one 
another. 


I am  partial  to  a white  hat,  and  I like  a shawl 
round  my  neck  worn  loose  and  easy.  Sitting 
down  is  my  favorite  posture.  If  I have  a taste 
in  point  of  personal  jewelry,  it  is  mother-of- 
pearl  buttons.  There  you  have  me  again,  as 
large  as  life. — Dr.  Marigold. 

DRESS-A  bad  fit. 

The  Native  wore  a pair  of  ear-rings  in  his 
dark-brown  ears,  and  his  European  clothes  sat 
with  an  outlandish  impossibility  of  adjustment — 
being,  of  their  own  accord,  and  without  any  ref- 
erence to  the  tailor’s  art,  long  where  they  ought 
to  be  short,  short  where  they  ought  to  be  long, 
tight  where  they  ought  to  be  loose,  and  loose 
where  they  ought  to  be  tight — and  to  which  he 
imparted  a new  grace,  whenever  the  Major 
attacked  him,  by  shrinking  into  them  like  a 
shrivelled  nut,  or  a cold  monkey. 

Dombey  &r  Son , Chap.  20. 

DRESS-  Of  an  artificial  woman. 

Whereabout  in  the  bonnet  and  drapery  an- 
nounced by  her  name,  any  fragmerit  of  the  real 
woman  may  be  concealed,  is  perhaps  known  to 
her  maid  ; but  you  could  easily  buy  all  you  see 
of  her,  in  Bond  Street ; or  you  might  scalp  her, 
and  peel  her,  and  scrape  her,  and  make  two 
Lady  Tippinses  out  of  her,  and  yet  not  pene- 
trate to  the  genuine  article.  She  has  a large 
gold  eye-glass,  has  Lady  Tippins,  to  survey  the 
proceedings  with.  If  she  had  one  in  each  eye, 
it  might  keep  that  other  drooping  lid  up,  and 
look  more  uniform.  But  perennial  youth  is  in 
her  artificial  flowers,  and  her  list  of  lovers  is  full. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  to. 

DRESS— The  rustle  of. 

Through  a fortuitous  concourse  of  accidents, 
the  matronly  Tisher  heaves  in  sight,  rustling 
through  the  room  like  the  legendary  ghost  of  a 
dowager  in  silken  skirts. 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  3. 

DRESS— Its  Influence  on  age. 

What  does  she  do  to  be  so  neat?  How  is  it 
that  every  trifle  she  wears  belongs  to  her,  and 
cannot  choose  but  be  a part  of  her?  And  even 
Mystery,  look  at  her ! A model.  Mystery  is 
not  young,  not  pretty,  though  still  of  an  average 
candle-light  passabilily  ; but  she  does  such  mira- 
cles in  her  own  behalf,  that,  one  of  these  days, 
when  she  dies,  they’ll  be  amazed  to  find  an  old 
woman  in  her  bed,  distantly  like  her. 

A Flight. — Reprinted  Pieces. 

DRESS. 

“ Stop  ! ” cried  the  gentleman,  stretching  forth 
his  right  aian,  which  was  so  tightly  wedged  into 
his  threadbare  sleeve  that  it  looked  like  a cloth 
sausage. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  4. 

DRESS— An  antediluvian  pocket-handker- 
chief. 

* * * Mr.  Tigg  took  from  his  hat  what 

seemed  to  be  the  fossil  remains  of  an  antedilu- 
vian pocket-handkerchief,  and  wiped  his  eyes 
therewith. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  7. 

DROWNED— And  resuscitated.  (Rcbin  Ri- 
derhood.) 

If  you  are  not  gone  for  good,  Mr.  Riderhood, 
it  would  be  something  to  know  where  you  are 


DROWNED 


160 


DRUNKARD 


hiding  at  present.  This  flabby  lump  of  mor- 
tality that  we  work  so  hard  at  with  such  patient 
perseverance,  yields  no  sign  of  you.  If  you  are 
gone  for  good,  Rogue,  it  is  very  solemn,  and  if 
you  are  coming  back,  it  is  hardly  less  so.  Nay, 
in  the  suspense  and  mystery  of  the  latter  ques- 
tion, involving  that  of  where  you  may  be  now, 
there  is  a solemnity  even  added  to  that  of  death, 
making  us  who  are  in  attendance  alike  afraid  to 
look  on  you  and  to  look  off  you,  and  making 
those  below  start  at  the  least  sound  of  a creak- 
ing plank  on  the  floor. 

Stay  ! Did  that  eyelid  tremble?  So. the  doc- 
tor, breathing  low,  and  closely  watching,  asks 
himself. 

No. 

Did  that  nostril  twitch  ? 

No. 

This  artificial  respiration  ceasing,  do  I feel 
any  faint  flutter  under  my  hand  upon  the  chest  ? 

No. 

Over  and  over  again  No.  No.  But  try  over 
and  over  again,  nevertheless. 

See  ! A token  of  life  ! An  indubitable  token 
of  life  ! The  spark  may  smoulder  and  go  out, 
or  it  may  glow  and  expand,  but  see  ! The  four 
rough  fellows,  seeing,  shed  tears.  Neither 
Riderhood  in  this  world,  nor  Riderhood  in  the 
other,  could  draw  tears  from  them  ; but  a 
striving  human  soul  between  the  two  can  do  it 
easily. 

He  is  struggling  to  come  back.  Now,  he  is 
almost  here,  now  he  is  far  away  again.  Now  he 
is  struggling  harder  to  get  back.  And  yet — like 
us  all,  when  we  swoon — like  us  all,  every  day 
of  our  lives  when  we -wake — he  is  instinctively 
unwilling  to  be  restored  to  the  consciousness  of 
this  existence,  and  would  be  left  dormant,  if  he 
could. 

* $ « $ $ 

But  they  minister  to  him  with  such  extraordin- 
ary interest,  their  anxiety  is  so  keen,  their  vigil- 
ance is  so  great,  their  excited  joy  grows  so 
intense  as  the  signs  of  life  strengthen,  that  how 
can  she  resist  it,  poor  thing  ! And  now  he  be- 
gins to  breathe  naturally,  and  he  stirs,  and  the 
doctor  declares  him  to  have  come  back  from  that 
inexplicable  journey  where  he  stopped  on  the 
dark  road,  and  to  be  here. 

There  is  intelligence  in  his  eyes.  He  wants 
to  ask  a question.  He  wonders  where  he  is. 
Tell  him. 

“ Father,  you  were  run  down  on  the  river,  and 
are  at  Miss  Abbey  Potterson’s.” 

He  stares  at  his  daughter,  stares  all  round 
him,  closes  his  eyes,  and  lies  slumbering  on  her 
arm. 

The  short-lived  delusion  begins  to  fade.  The 
low,  bad,  unimpressible  face  is  coming  up  from 
the  depths  of  the  river,  or  what  other  depths,  to 
the  surface  again.  As  he  grows  warm,  the  doc- 
tor and  the  four  men  cool.  As  his  lineaments 
soften  with  life,  their  faces  and  their  hearts 
harden  to  him. 

“ He  will  do  now,”  says  the  doctor,  washing 
his  hands,  and  looking  at  the  patient  with  grow- 
ing disfavor. 

“ Many  a better  man,”  moralizes  Tom  Tootle 
with  a gloomy  shake  of  the  head,  “ ain’t  had  his 
luck.” 

“ It’s  to  be  hoped  he’ll  make  a better  use  of 
his  life,”  says  Bob  Glamour,  “ than  I expect  he 
will.” 


* * * * * 

Becoming  more  and  more  uncomfortable,  a3 
though  the  prevalent  dislike  were  finding  him 
out  somewhere  in  his  sleep  and  expressing  it- 
self to  him,  the  patient  at  last  opens  his  eyes 
wide,  and  is  assisted  by  his  daughter  to  sit  up 
in  bed. 

* * * * * 

He  has  an  impression  that  his  nose  is  bleed- 
ing, and  several  times  draws  the  back  of  his 
hand  across  it,  and  looks  for  the  result,  in  a pu- 
gilistic manner,  greatly  strengthening  that  in- 
congruous resemblance. 

“Where’s  my  fur  cap  ? ” he  asks  in  a surly 
voice,  when  he  has  shuffled  his  clothes  on. 

“ In  the  river,”  somebody  rejoins. 

“ And  warn’t  there  no  honest  man  to  pick  it 
up  ? O’  course  there  was,  though,  and  to  cut  of! 
with  it  arterwards.  You  are  a rare  lot,  all  on 
you  ! ” 

Thus,  Mr.  Riderhood  : taking  from  the  hands 
of  his  daughter,  with  special  ill-will,  a lent  cap, 
and  grumbling  as  he  pulls  it  down  over  his  ears. 
Then,  getting  on  his  unsteady  legs,  leaning 
heavily  upon  her,  and  growling  “ Hold  still, 
can’t  you?  What!  You  must  be  a staggering 
next,  must  you?  ” he  takes  his  departure  out  of 
the  ring  in  which  he  has  had  that  little  turn-up 
with  Death. 

Our  Mutual  Friend \ Book  III.,  Chap.  3. 

DROWNED-Gaffer. 

Father,  was  that  you  calling  me ? Father!  I 
thought  I heard  you  call  me  twice  before  ! 
Words  never  to  be  answered,  those,  upon  the 
earth-side  of  the  grave.  The  wind  sweeps  jeer- 
ingly  over  Father,  whips  him  with  the  frayed 
ends  of  his  dress  and  his  jagged  hair,  tries  to 
turn  him  where  he  lies  stark  on  his  back,  and 
force  his  face  towards  the  rising  sun,  that  he 
maybe  shamed  the  more.  A lull,  and  the  wind 
is  secret  and  prying  with  him  ; lifts  and  lets 
fall  a rag  ; hides  palpitating  under  another  rag  ; 
runs  nimbly  through  his  hair  and  beard.  Then, 
in  a rush,  it  cruelly  taunts  him.  Father,  was 
that  you  calling  me?  Was  it  you,  the  voiceless 
and  the  dead  ? Was  it  you,  thus  buffeted  as  you 
lie  here  in  a heap?  Was  it  you,  thus  baptized 
unto  Death,  with  these  flying  impurities  now 
flung  upon  your  face?  Why  not  speak,  Father? 
Soaking  into  this  filthy  ground  as  you  lie  here, 
is  your  own  shape.  Did  you  never  see  such  a 
shape  soaked  into  your  boat?  Speak,  Father. 
Speak  to  us,  the  winds,  the  only  listeners  left  you  ! 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  14. 

DRTJNKARD-His  descent. 

We  will  be  bold  to  say,  that  there  is  scarcely 
a man  in  the  constant  habit  of  walking,  day 
after  day,  through  any  of  the  crowded  thorough- 
fares of  London,  who  cannot  recollect  among 
the  people  whom  he  “ knows  by  sight,”  to  use 
a familiar  phrase,  some  being  of  abject  and 
wretched  appearance  whom  he  remembers  to 
have  seen  in  a very  different  condition,  whom 
he  has  observed  sinking  lower  and  lower,  by 
almost  imperceptible  degrees,  and  the  shabbi- 
ness and  utter  destitution  of  whose  appearance, 
at  last,  strike  forcibly  and  painfully  upon  him, 
as  he  passes  by.  Is  there  any  man  who  has 
mixed  much  with  society,  or  whose  avocations 
have  caused  him  to  mingle,  at  one  time  or  other, 
with  a great  number  of  people,  who  cannot  call 


DRUNKARD 


161 


DRUNKARD 


to  mind  the  time  when  some  shabby,  miserable 
wretch,  in  rags  and  filth,  who  shuffles  past  him 
now  in  all  the  squalor  of  disease  and  poverty, 
was  a respectable  tradesman,  or  a clerk,  or  a 
man  following  some  thriving  pursuit,  wi-th  good 
prospects,  and  decent  means  ? — or  cannot  any 
of  our  readers  call  to  mind  from  among  the  list 
of  their  quondam  acquaintance,  some  fallen  and 
degraded  man,  who  lingers  about  the  pavement 
in  hungry  misery — from  whom  every  one  turns 
coldly  away,  and  who  preserves  himself  from 
sheer  starvation,  nobody  knows  how?  Alas  ! 
such  cases  are  of  too  frequent  occurrence  to  be 
rare  items  in  any  man’s  experience  ; and  but 
too  often  arise  from  one  cause — drunkenness — 
that  fierce  rage  for  the  slow,  sure  poison  that 
oversteps  every  other  consideration  ; that  casts 
aside  wife,  children,  friends,  happiness,  and  sta- 
tion ; and  hurries  its  victims  madly  on  to  degra- 
dation and  death. 

Some  of  these  men  have  been  impelled,  by 
misfortune  and  misery,  to  the  vice  that  has  de- 
graded them.  The  ruin  of  worldly  expectations, 
the  death  of  those  they  loved,  the  sorrow  that 
slowly  consumes,  but  will  not  break  the  heart, 
has  driven  them  wild  ; and  they  present  the  hid- 
eous spectacle  of  madmen,  slowly  dying  by  their 
own  hands.  But  by  far  the  greater  part  have 
willfully,  and  with  open  eyes,  plunged  into  the 
gulf  from  which  the  man  who  once  enters  it 
never  rises  more,  but  into  which  he  sinks  deep- 
er and  deeper  down,  until  recovery  is  hopeless. 

Tales , Chap.  12. 

DRUNKARD— The  death  of  the. 

He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door. 
Every  halfpenny  he  could  wring  from  the  pity 
or  credulity  of  those  to  whom  he  addressed  him- 
self, was  spent  in  the  old  way.  A year  passed 
over  his  head  ; the  roof  of  a jail  was  the  only 
one  that  had  sheltered  him  for  many  months. 
He  slept  under  archways,  and  in  brickfields — 
anywhere,  where  there  was  some  warmth  or 
shelter  from  the  cold  and  rain.  But  in  the  last 
stage  of  poverty,  disease,  and  houseless  want,  he 
was  a drunkard  still. 

At  last,  one  bitter  night,  he  sunk  down  on  a 
door-step,  faint  a*nd  ill.  The  premature  decay 
of  vice  and  profligacy  had  worn  him  to  the  bone. 
His  cheeks  were  hollow  and  livid  ; his  eyes  were 
sunken,  and  their  sight  was  dim.  His  legs 
trembled  beneath  his  weight,  and  a cold  shiver 
ran  through  every  limb. 

And  now  the  long-forgotten  scenes  of  a mis- 
spent life  crowded  thick  and  fast  upon  him. 
He  thought  of  the  time  when  he  had  a home — 
a happy,  cheerful  home— and  of  those  who  peo 
pled  it,  and  flocked  about  him  then,  until  the 
forms  of  his  elder  children  seemed  to  rise  from 
the  grave,  and  stand  about  him — so  plain,  so 
clear,  and  so  distinct  they  were,  that  he  could 
touch  and  feel  them.  Looks  that  he  had  long 
forgotten  were  fixed  upon  him  once  more  ; 
voices  long  since  hushed  in  death  sounded  in 
his  ears  like  the  music  of  village  bells.  But  it 
was  only  for  an  instant.  The  rain  beat  heavily 
upon  him  ; and  cold  and  hunger  were  gnawing 
at  his  heart  again. 

He  rose,  and  dragged  his  feeble  limbs  a few 
paces  further.  The  street  was  silent  and  empty  ; 
the  few  passengers  who  passed  by,  at  that  late 
hour,  hurried  quickly  on,  and  his  tremulous 
voice  was  lost  in  the  violence  of  the  storm. 


Again  that  heavy  chill  struck  through  his  frame, 
and  his  blood  seemed  to  stagnate  beneath  it. 
He  coiled  himself  up  in  a projecting  doorway, 
and  tried  to  sleep. 

But  sleep  had  fled  from  his  dull  and  glazed 
eyes.  His  mind  wandered  strangely,  but  he 
was  awake,  and  conscious.  The  well-known 
shout  of  drunken  mirth  sounded  in  his  ear,  the 
glass  was  at  his  lips,  the  board  was  covered 
with  choice  rich  food — they  were  before  him  ; 
he  could  see  them  all,  he  had  but  to  reach  out 
his  hand,  and  take  them — and,  though  the  illu- 
sion was  reality  itself,  he  knew  that  he  was  sit- 
ting alone  in  the  deserted  street,  watching  the 
rain-drops  as  they  pattered  on  the  stones  ; that 
death  was  coming  upon  him  by  inches — and 
that  there  were  none  to  care  for  or  help  him. 

Suddenly  he  started  up  in  the  extremity  of 
terror.  He  had  heard  his  own  voice  shouting 
in  the  night  air,  he  knew  not  what  or  why. 
Hark  ! A groan  ! — another  ! His  senses  were 
leaving  him  : half-formed  and  incoherent  words 
burst  from  his  lips  ; and  his  hands  sought  to 
tear  and  lacerate  iiis  flesh.  He  was  going  mad, 
and  he  shrieked  for  help  till  his  voice  failed 
him. 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  up  the  long, 
dismal  street.  He  recollected  that  outcasts  like 
himself,  condemned  to  wander  day  and  night  in 
those  dreadful  streets,  had  sometimes  gone  dis- 
tracted with  their  own  loneliness.  He  remem- 
bered to  have  heard  many  years  before  that  a 
homeless  wretch  had  once  been  found  in  a soli- 
tary corner,  sharpening  a rusty  knife  to  plunge 
into  his  own  heart,  preferring  death  to  that  end- 
less, weary,  wandering  to  and  fro.  In  an  instant 
his  resolve  was  taken,  his  limbs  received  new 
life  ; he  ran  quickly  from  the  spot,  and  paused 
not  for  breath  until  he  reached  the  river-side. 

He  crept  softly  down  the  steep  stone  stairs 
that  lead  from  the  commencement  of  Waterloo 
Bridge,  down  to  the  water’s  level.  He  crouched 
into  a corner,  and  held  his  breath,  as  the  patrol 
passed.  Never  did  prisoner’s  heart  throb  with 
the  hope  of  liberty  and  life  half  so  eagerly  as  did 
that  of  the  wretched  man  at  the  prospect  of 
death.  The  watch  passed  close  to  him,  but  he 
remained  unobserved  ; and  after  waiting  till  the 
sound  of  footsteps  had  died  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, he  cautiously  descended,  and  stood  be- 
neath the  gloomy  arch  that  forms  the  landing- 
place  from  the  river. 

The  tide  was  in,  and  the  water  flowed  at  his 
feet.  The  rain  had  ceased,  the  wind  was  lulled, 
and  all  was,  for  the  moment,  still  and  quiet — so 
quiet,  that  the  slightest  Sound  on  the  opposite 
bank,  even  the  rippling  of  the  water  against  the 
barges  that  were  moored  there,  was  distinctly 
audible  to  his  ear.  The  stream  stole  languidly 
and  sluggishly  on.  Strange  and  fantastic  forms 
rose  to  the  surface,  and  beckoned  him  to  ap- 
proach ; dark  gleaming  eyes  peered  from  the 
water,  and  seemed  to  mock  his  hesitation,  while 
hollow  murmurs  from  behind  urged  him  on- 
wards. He  retreated  a few  paces,  took  a short 
run,  a desperate  leap,  and  plunged  into  the  water. 

Not  five  seconds  had  passed  when  he  rose 
to  the  water’s  surface — but  what  a change  had 
taken  place  in  that  short  time,  in  all  his  thoughts 
and  feelings  ! Life — life — in  any  form,  poverty, 
misery,  starvation — anything  but  death.  He 
fought  and  struggled  with  the  water  that  closed 
over  his  head,  and  screamed  in  agonies  of  terror. 


DRUNKENNE3S 


102 


DRUNKENNESS 


The  curse  of  his  own  son  rang  in  his  ears.  The 
shore — bill:  one  fool  of  dry  ground — he  could 
almost  touch  the  step.  One  hand’s-breadth 
nearer,  and  he  was  saved — but  the  tide  bore 
him  onward,  under  the  dark  arches  of  the 
bridge,  and  he  sank  to  the  bottom. 

Again  he  rose,  and  struggled  for  life.  For 
one  instant — for  one  brief  instant — the  build- 
ings on  the  river’s  banks,  the  lights  on  the 
bridge  through  which  the  current  had  borne 
him,  the  black  water,  and  the  fast-flying  clouds, 
were  distinctly  visible — once  more  he  sunk,  and 
once  again  he  rose.  Bright  flames  of  fire  shot 
up  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  reeled  before  his 
eyes,  while  the  water  thundered  in  his  ears,  and 
stunned  him  with  its  furious  roar. 

A week  afterwards  the  body  was  washed 
ashore,  some  miles  down  the  river,  a swollen 
and  disfigured  mass.  Unrecognised  and  unpit- 
ied, it  was  borne  to  the  grave  ; and  there  it  has 
long  since  mouldered  away! — Tales , Chap.  12. 

DRUNKENNESS-The  Pickwickians. 

Mr.  Pickwick,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  his  hat  cocked  completely  over  his  left  eye, 
was  leaning  against  the  dresser,  shaking  his  head 
from  side  to  side,  and  producing  a constant  suc- 
cession of  the  blandest  and  most  benevolent 
smiles  without  being  moved  thereunto  by  any 
discernible  cause  or  pretence  whatsoever ; old 
Mr.  Wardle,  with  a highly-inflamed  countenance, 
was  grasping  the  hand  of  a strange  gentleman, 
muttering  protestations  of  eternal  friendship  ; 
Mr.  Winkle,  supporting  himself  by  the  eight- 
day  clock,  was  feebly  invoking  destruction  upon 
the  head  of  any  member  of  the  family  who 
should  suggest  the  propriety  of  his  retiring  for 
the  night ; and  Mr.  Snodgrass  had  sunk  into  a 
chair,  with  an  expression  of  the  most  abject  and 
hopeless  misery  that  the  human  mind  can  im- 
agine, portrayed  in  every  lineament  of  his  ex- 
pressive face. 

* * * * * * 

“ It  wasn’t  the  wine,”  murmured  Mr.  Snod- 
grass, in  a broken  voice.  “ It  was  the  salmon.” 
(Somehow  or  other,  it  never  is  the  wine,  in  these 
cases.) 

“ Hadn’t  they  better  go  to  bed,  ma’am?”  in- 
quired Emma.  “ Two  of  the  boys  will  carry  the 
gentlemen  up  stairs.” 

“ I won’t  go  to  bed,”  said  Mr.  Winkle,  firmly. 

“No  living  boy  shall  carry  me,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick,  stoutly  ; and  he  went  on  smiling  as 
before. 

“ Hurrah  !”  gasped  Mr.  Winkle,  faintly. 

“ Hurrah  ! ” echoed  Mr.  Pickwick,  taking  off 
his  hat  and  dashing  it  on  the  floor,  and  insanely 
casting  his  spectacles  into  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen.  At  this  humorous  feat  he  laughed  out- 
right. 

“Let’s  — have — ’nother  — bottle,”  cried  Mr. 
Winkle,  commencing  in  a very  loud  key,  and 
ending  in  a very  faint  one.  His  head  dropped 
upon  his  breast ; and,  muttering  his  invincible 
determination  not  to  go  to  his  bed,  and  a san- 
guinary regret  that  he  had  not  “done  for  old 
Tupman”  in  the  morning,  he  fell  fast  asleep; 
in  which  condition  he  was  borne  to  his  apart- 
ment by  two  young  giants,  under  the  personal 
superintendence  of  the  fat  boy,  to  whose  pro- 
tecting care  Mr.  Snodgrass  shortly  afterwards 
confided  his  own  person.  Mr.  Pickwick  ac- 
cepted the  proffered  arm  of  Mr.  Tupman  and 


quietly  disappeared,  smiling  more  than  ever  ; and 
Mr.  Wardle,  after  taking  as  affectionate  a leave 
of  the  whole  family  as  if  he  were  ordered  for 
immediate  execution,  consigned  to  Mr.  Trundle 
the  honor  of  conveying  him  up  stairs,  and  re- 
tired with  a very  futile  attempt  to  look  impi'es 
sively  solemn  and  dignified. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  8. 

DRUNKENNESS  Of  Dick  Swivoller. 

Mr.  Swiveller  chanced  at  the  moment  to  be 
sprinkling  a glass  of  warm  gin  and  water  on  the 
dust  of  the  law,  and  to  be  moistening  his  clay, 
as  the  phrase  goes,  rather  copiously.  But  as 
clay  in  the  abstract,  when  too  much  moistened, 
becomes  of  a weak  and  uncertain  consistency, 
breaking  down  in  unexpected  places,  retain- 
ing impressions  but  faintly,  and  preserving  no 
strength  or  steadiness  of  character,  so  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller’s  clay,  having  imbibed  a considerable 
quantity  of  moisture,  was  in  a very  loose  and 
slippery  state,  insomuch  that  the  various  ideas 
impressed  upon  it  were  fast  losing  their  distinc- 
tive character,  and  running  into  each  other.  It 
is  not  uncommon  for  human  clay  in  this  condi- 
tion to  value  itself  above  all  things  upon  its 
great  prudence  and  sagacity. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  48. 

DRUNKENNESS-Of  Mr.  Pecksniff. 

They  carried  him  up  stairs,  and  crushed  the 
youngest  gentleman  at  every  step.  His  bedroom 
was  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and  it  was  a long 
way  ; but  they  got  him  there  in  course  of  time. 
He  asked  them  frequently  on  the  road  for  a 
little  drop  of  something  to  drink.  It  seemed  an 
idiosyncrasy.  The  youngest  gentleman  in  com- 
pany proposed  a draught  of  water.  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff called  him  opprobrious  names  for  the  sug- 
gestion. 

Jinkins  and  Gander  took  the  rest  upon  them- 
selves, and  made  him  as  comfortable  as  they 
could,  on  the  outside  of  his  bed ; and  when  he 
seemed  disposed  to  sleep,  they  left  him.  But 
before  they  had  all  gained  the  bottom  of  the 
staircase,  a vision  of  Mr.  Pecksniff,  strangely  at- 
tired, was  seen  to  flutter  on  the  top  landing.  Pie 
desired  to  collect  their  sentiments,  it  seemed, 
upon  the  nature  of  human  life. 

“ My  friends,”  cried  Mr.  Pecksniff,  looking 
over  the  banisters,  “ let  us  improve  our  minds 
by  mutual  inquiry  and  discussion.  Let  us  be 
moral.  Let  us  contemplate  existence.  Where 
is  Jinkins  ? ” 

“ Here,”  cried  that  gentleman.  “Go  to  bed 
again  ! ” 

“To  bed  ! ” said  Mr.  Pecksniff.  “ Bed  ! ’Tis 
the  voice  of  the  sluggard,  I hear  him  complain, 
you  have  woke  me  too  soon,  I must  slumber 
again.  If  any  young  orphan  will  repeat  the 
remainder  of  that  simple  piece  from  Doctor 
Watts’s  collection  an  eligible  opportunity  now 
offers.” 

Nobody  volunteered. 

“ This  is  very  soothing,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
after  a pause.  “ Extremely  so.  Cool  and  re- 
freshing ; particularly  to  the  legs  ! The  legs  of 
the  human  subject,  my  friends,  are  a beautiful 
production.  Compare  them  with  wooden  legs, 
and  observe  the  difference  between  the  anatomy 
of  nature  and  the  anatomy  of  art.  Do  you 
know,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  leaning  over  the 
I banisters,  with  an  odd  recollection  of  his  familial 


DRUNKENNESS 


163 


DRUNKENNESS 


manner  among  new  pupils  at  home,  “ that  I 
should  very  much  like  to  see  Mrs.  Todgers’s 
notion  of  a wooden  leg,  if  perfectly  agreeable 
to  herself ! ” 

As  it  appeared  impossible  to  entertain  any 
reasonable  hopes  of  him  after  this  speech,  Mr. 
Jinkins  and  Mr.  Gander  went  up  stairs  again, 
and  once  more  got  him  into  bed.  But  they  had 
not  descended  to  the  second  floor  before  he  was 
out  again  ; nor,  when  they  had  repeated  the  pro- 
cess, had  they  descended  the  first  flight,  before 
he  was  out  again.  In  a word,  as  often  as  he 
was  shut  up  in  his  own  room,  he  darted  out 
afresh,  charged  with  some  new  moral  sentiment, 
which  he  continually  repeated  over  the  banisters, 
with  extraordinary  relish,  and  an  irrepressible 
desire  for  the  improvement  of  his  fellow-creatures 
that  nothing  could  subdue. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  g. 

DRUNKENNESS- Of  David  Copperfield. 

Somebody  was  leaning  out  of  my  bedroom 
window,  refreshing  his  forehead  against  the  cool 
stone  of  the  parapet,  and  feeling  the  air  upon 
his  face.  It  was  myself.  I was  addressing  my- 
self as  “ Copperfield,”  and  saying,  “ Why  did 
you  try  to  smoke  ? You  might  have  known  you 
couldn’t  do  it.”  Now,  somebody  was  un- 
steadily contemplating  his  features  in  the  look- 
ing-glass. That  was  I too.  I was  very  pale  in 
the  looking-glass  ; my  eyes  had  a vacant  appear- 
ance ; and  my  hair — only  my  hair,  and  nothing 
else — looked  drunk. 

Somebody  said  to  me,  “ Let  us  go  to  the  thea- 
tre, Copperfield ! ” There  was  no  bedroom  be- 
fore me,  but  again  the  jingling  table  covered 
with  glasses  ; the  lamp  ; Grainger  on  my  right 
hand,  Markham  on  my  left,  and  Steerforth  op- 
posite— all  sitting  in  a mist,  and  a long  way  off. 
The  theatre  ! To  be  sure.  The  very  thing. 
Come  along ! But  they  must  excuse  me  if  I 
saw  everybody  out  first,  and  turned  the  lamp  off 
— in  case  of  fire. 

Owing  to  some  confusion  in  the  dark,  the 
door  was  gone.  I was  feeling  for  it  in  the 
window-curtains,  when  Steerforth,  laughing, 
took  me  by  the  arm  and  led  me  out.  We  went 
down  stairs,  one  behind  another.  Near  the  bot- 
tom, somebody  fell,  and  rolled  down.  Some- 
body else  said  it  was  Copperfield.  I was  angry 
at  that  false  report,  until,  finding  myself  on  my 
back  in  the  passage.  I began  to  think  there 
might  be  some  foundation  for  it. 

A very  foggy  night,  with  great  rings  round  the 
lamps  in  the  streets  ! There  was  an  indistinct 
talk  of  its  being  wet.  I considered  it  frosty. 
Steerforth  dusted  me  under  a lamp-post,  and 
put  my  hat  into  shape,  which  somebody  pro- 
duced from  somewhere  in  a most  extraordinary 
manner,  for  I hadn’t  had  it  on  before.  Steer- 
forth then  said,  “ You  are  all  right,  Copper- 
field,  are  you  not?”  and  I told  him,  “Never- 
berrer.” 

A man,  sitting  in  a pigeon-hole  place,  looked 
out  of  the  fog,  and  took  money  from  somebody, 
inquiring  if  I was  one  of  the  gentlemen  paid 
for,  and  appearing  rather  doubtful  (as  I remem- 
ber in  the  glimpse  I had  of  him)  whether  to 
take  the  money  for  me  or  not.  Shortly  after- 
wards, we  were  very  high  up  in  a very  hot  theatre, 
looking  down  into  a large  pit,  that  seemed  to 
me  to. smoke;  the  people  with  whom  it  was 
crammed  were  so  indistinct.  There  was  a great 


stage,  too,  looking  very  clean  and  smooth  after 
the  streets  ; and  there  were  people  upon  it,  talk- 
ing about  something  or  other,  but  not  at  all  in- 
telligibly. There  was  an  abundance  of  bright 
lights,  and  there  was  music,  and  there  were  ladies 
down  in  the  boxes,  and  I don’t  know  what  more. 
The  whole  building  looked  to  me  as  if  it  were 
learning  to  swim  ; it  conducted  itself  in  such 
an  unaccountable  manner,  when  I tried  to 
steady  it. 

On  somebody’s  motion,  we  resolved  to  go 
down  stairs  to  the  dress-boxes,  where  the  ladies 
were.  A gentleman  lounging,  full-dressed,  on 
a sofa,  with  an  opera-glass  in  his  hand,  passed 
before  my  view,  and  also  my  own  figure  at  full 
length  in  a glass.  Then  I was  being  ushered 
into  one  of  these  boxes,  and  found  myself  say- 
ing something  as  I sat  down,  and  people  about 
me  crying  “Silence!”  to  somebody,  and  ladies 
casting  indignant  glances  at  me,  and — what  ! 
yes  ! — Agnes,  sitting  on  the  seat  before  me,  in 
the  same  box,  with  a lady  and  gentleman  beside 
her,  whom  I didn’t  know.  I see  her  face  now 
better  than  I did  then,  I dare  say,  with  its  in- 
delible look  of  regret  and  wonder  turned  upon 
me. 

“ Agnes  ! ” I said  thickly,  “ Lorblessmer  ! Ag- 
nes ! ” 

“Hush!  Pray  !”  she  answered,  I could  not 
conceive  why.  “ You  disturb  the  company. 
Look  at  the  stage  ! ” 

I tried,  on  her  injunction,  to  fix  it,  and  to  hear 
something  of  what  was  going  on  there,  but  quite 
in  vain.  I looked  at  her  again  by-and-by,  and 
saw  her  shrink  into  her  corner,  and  put  her 
gloved  hand  to  her  forehead. 

“ Agnes  ! ” I said.  “ I’mafraidyou’renorwell.” 

“Yes,  yes.  Do  not  mind  me,  Trotwood,”  she 
returned.  “ Listen  ! Are  you  going  away  soon  ? ” 

“ Amigoarawaysoo  ? ” I repeated. 

“ Yes.” 

I had  a stupid  intention  of  replying  that  I was 
going  to  wait,  to  hand  her  down  stairs.  I sup- 
pose I expressed  it  somehow  ; for,  after  she  had 
looked  at  me  attentively  for  a little  while,  she 
appeared  to  understand,  and  replied  in  a low 
tone  : 

“ I know  you  will  do  as  I ask  you,  if  I tell 
you  I am  very  earnest  in  it.  Go  away  now,  Trot- 
wood, for  my  sake,  and  ask  your  friends  to  take 
you  home.” 

She  had  so  far  improved  me.  for  the  time, 
that  though  I was  angry  with  her,  I felt  ashamed, 
and  with  a short  “ Goori  ! ” (which  I intended 
for  “ Good-night ! ”)  got  up  and  went  away. 
They  followed,  and  I stepped  at  once  out  of  the 
box-door  into  my  bedroom,  where  only  Steer- 
forth was  with  me,  helping  me  to  undress,  and 
where  I was  by  turns  telling  him  that  Agnes  was 
my  sister,  and  adjuring  him  to  bring  the  cork- 
screw, that  I might  open  another  bottle  of 
wine. 

How  somebody,  lying  in  my  bed,  lay  saying 
and  doing  all  this  over  again,  at  cross  purposes, 
in  a feverish  dream  all  night — the  bed  a rocking 
sea  that  was  never  still ! How,  as  that  some- 
body slowly  settled  down  into  myself,  did  I be- 
gin to  parch,  and  feel  as  if  my  outer  covering  of 
skin  were  a hard  board  ; my  tongue  the  bottom 
of  an  empty  kettle,  furred  with  long  service,  and 
burning  up  over  a slow  fire  ; the  palms  of  my 
hands  hot  plates  of  metal  which  no  ice  could 
cool  ! — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  24. 


DRUNKENNE33 


131 


DUEL 


DRUNKENNESS  -The  effects  of. 

An  odd  confusion  in  my  mind,  as  if  a body  of 
Titans  had  taken  an  enormous  lever  and  pushed 
the  day  before  yesterday  some  months  back. 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  25. 

DRINKING— Without  moderation. 

“ ‘ Do  you  drink  ? * said  the  baron,  touching 
the  bottle  with  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

“ ‘ Nine  times  out  of  ten,  and  then  very  hard,’ 
rejoined  the  figure,  drily. 

“ ‘ Never  in  moderation  ?’  asked  the  baron. 

“ ‘ Never,’  replied  the  figure,  with  a shudder  ; 
* that  breeds  cheerfulness.’  ” 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  6. 

DRY  ROT— in  men— The. 

A very  curious  disease  the  Dry  Rot  in  men, 
and  difficult  to  detect  the  beginning  of.  It  had 
carried  Horace  Kinch  inside  thd  wall  of  the  old 
King’s  Bench  prison,  and  it  had  carried  him  out 
with  his  feet  foremost.  He  was  a likely  man  to 
look  at,  in  the  prime  of  life,  well  to  do,  as  clever 
as  he  needed  to  bey  and  popular  among  many 
friends.  He  was  suitably  married,  and  had 
healthy  and  pretty  children.  But,  like  some 
fair-looking  houses  or  fair-looking  ships,  he 
took  the  Dry  Rot.  The  first  strong  external 
revelation  of  the  Dry  Rot  in  men  is  a tendency 
to  lurk  and  lounge  ; to  be  at  street  corners 
without  intelligible  reason  ; to  be  going  any- 
where when  met ; to  be  about  many  places 
rather  than  at  any  ; to  do  nothing  tangible,  but 
to  fiave  an  intention  of  performing  a variety  of 
intangible  duties  to-morrow  or  the  day  after. 
When  this  manifestation  of  the  disease  is  ob- 
served, the  observer  will  usually  connect  it  with 
a vague  impression  once  formed  or  received, 
that  the  patient  was  living  a little  too  hard. 
He  will  scarcely  have  had  leisure  to  turn  it  over 
in  his  mind,  and  form  the  terrible  suspicion 
“ Dry  Rot,”  when  he  will  notice  a change  for 
the  worse  in  the  patient’s  appearance — a certain 
slovenliness  and  deterioration,  which  is  not  pov- 
erty, nor  dirt,  nor  intoxication,  nor  ill-health, 
but  simply  Dry  Rot.  To  this  succeeds  a smell 
as  of  strong  waters,  in  the  morning  ; to  that,  a 
looseness  respecting  money  ; to  that,  a stronger 
smell  as  of  strong  waters,  at  all  times  ; to  that, 
a looseness  respecting  everything ; to  that,  a 
trembling  of  the  limbs,  somnolency,  misery,  and 
crumbling  to  pieces.  As  it  is  in  wood,  so  it  is 
in  men.  Dry  Rot  advances  at  a compound 
usury  quite  incalculable.  A plank  is  found  in- 
fected with  it,  and  the  whole  structure  is  de- 
voted. Thus  it  had  been  with  the  unhappy 
Horace  Kinch,  lately  buried  by  a small  sub- 
scription. Those  who  knew  him  had  not  nigh 
done  saying,  “ So  well  off,  so  comfortably  estab- 
lished, with  such  hope  before  him — and  yet,  it 
is  feared,  with  a slight  touch  of  Dry  Rot ! ” 
when,  lo  ! the  man  was  all  Dry  Rot  and  dust. 

Unconwiercial  Traveller , Chap.  13. 

DUEL— Description  of  a. 

“ We  shall  just  have  comfortable  time,  my 
lord,”  said  the  captain,  when  he  had  communi- 
cated the  arrangements,  “ to  call  at  my  rooms 
for  a case  of  pistols,  and  then  jog  coolly  down. 
If  you  will  allow  me  to  dismiss  your  servant, 
we’ll  take  my  cab  ; for  yours,  perhaps,  might  be 
recognized.” 

What  a contrast,  when  they  reached  the  street, 


to  the  scene  they  had  just  left  ! It  was  already 
daybreak.  For  the  flaring  yellow  light  within, 
was  substituted  the  clear,  bright,  glorious  morn- 
ing : for  a hot,  close  atmosphere,  tainted  with 
the  smell  of  expiring  lamps,  and  reeking  with 
the  steams  of  riot  and  dissipation,  the  free,  fresh, 
wholesome  air.  But  to  the  fevered  head  on 
which  that  cool  air  blew,  it  seemed  to  come 
laden  with  remorse  for  the  time  misspent  and 
countless  opportunities  neglected.  With  throb- 
bing veins  and  burning  skin,  eyes  wild  and 
heavy,  thoughts  hurried  and  disordered,  he  felt 
as  though  the  light  were  a reproach,  and  shrank 
involuntarily  from  the  day  as  if  he  were  some 
foul  and  hideous  thing. 

“Shivering?”  said  the  captain.  “You  are 
cold.” 

“ Rather.” 

“It  does  strike  cool,  coming  out  of  those  hot 
rooms.  Wrap  that  cloak  about  you.  So,  so  ; 
now  we’re  off.” 

They  rattled  through  the  quiet  streets,  made 
their  call  at  the  captain’s  lodgings,  cleared  the 
town,  and  emerged  upon  the  open  road  without 
hindrance  or  molestation. 

Fields,  trees,  gardens,  hedges,  everything 
looked  very  beautiful : the  young  man  scarcely 
seemed  to  have  noticed  them  before,  though  he 
had  passed  the  same  objects  a thousand  times. 
There  was  a peace  and  serenity  upon  them  all, 
strangely  at  variance  with  the  bewilderment 
and  confusion  of  his  own  half-sobered  thoughts, 
and  yet  impressive  and  welcome.  He  had  no 
fear  upon  his  mind  ; but,  as  he  looked  about 
him,  he  had  less  anger  ; and  though  all  old  delu- 
sions, relative  to  his  worthless  late  companion, 
were  now  cleared  away,  he  rather  wished  he 
had  never  known  him  than  thought  of  its  hav- 
ing come  to  this. 

The  past  night,  the  day  before,  and  many 
other  days  and  nights  beside,  all  mingled  them- 
selves up  in  one  unintelligible  and  senseless 
whirl  ; he  could  not  separate  the  transactions 
of  one  time  from  those  of  another.  Now,  the 
noise  of  the  wheels  resolved  itself  into  some 
wild  tune  in  which  he  could  recognize  scraps 
of  airs  he  knew  ; now,  there  was  nothing  in  his 
ears  but  a stunning  and  bewildering  sound,  like 
rushing  water.  But  his  companion  rallied  him 
on  being  so  silent,  and  they  talked  and  laughed 
boisterously.  When  they  stopped,  he  was  a 
little  surprised  to  find  himself  in  the  act  of 
smoking ; but,  on  reflection,  he  remembered 
when  and  where  he  had  taken  a cigar. 

They  stopped  at  the  avenue  gate  and  alighted, 
leaving  the  carriage  to  the  care  of  the  servant, 
who  was  a smart  fellow,  and  nearly  as  well  ac- 
customed to  such  proceedings  as  his  master. 
Sir  Mulberry  and  his  friend  were  already  there. 
All  four  walked  in  profound  silence  up  the 
aisle  of  stately  elm-trees,  which,  meeting  far 
above  their  heads,  formed  a long  green  per- 
spective of  Gothic  arches,  terminating,  like  some 
old  ruin,  in  the  open  sky. 

After  a pause,  and  a brief  conference  between 
the  seconds,  they,  at  length,  turned  to  the  right, 
and  taking  a track  across  a little  meadow,  passed 
Ham  House  and  came  into  some  fields  beyond. 
In  one  of  these  they  stopped.  The  ground  was 
measured,  some  usual  forms  gone  through,  the 
two  principals  were  placed  front  to  front  at  the 
distance  agreed  upon,  and  Sir  Mulberry  turned 
his  face  towards  his  young  adversary  for  the  first 


DUST 


165 


EARLY  RISING 


time.  He  was  very  pale,  his  eyes  were  blood- 
shot, his  dress  disordered,  and  his  hair  dishev- 
elled. For  the  face,  it  expressed  nothing  but 
violent  and  evil  passions.  He  shaded  his  eyes 
with  his  hands ; gazed  at  his  opponent,  stead- 
fastly, for  a few  moments  ; and  then,  taking  the 
weapon  which  was  tendered  to  him,  bent  his 
eyes  upon  that,  and  looked  up  no  more  until 
the  word  was  given,  when  he  instantly  fired. 

The  two  shots  were  fired,  as  nearly  as  possi- 
ble, at  the  same  instant.  In  that  instant,  the 
young  lord  turned  his  head  sharply  round,  fixed 
upon  his  adversary  a ghastly  stare,  and,  without 
a groan  or  stagger,  fell  down  dead. 

“He’s  gone!”  cried  Westwood,  who,  with 
the  other  second,  had  run  up  to  the  body,  and 
fallen  on  one  knee  beside  it. 

“ His  blood  is  on  his  own  head,”  said  Sir 
Mulberry.  “ He  brought  this  upon  himself,  and 
forced  it  upon  me.” 

“ Captain  Adams,”  cried  Westwood,  hastily, 
“ I call  you  to  witness  that  this  was  fairly  done. 
Hawk,  we  have  not  a moment  to  lose.  We 
must  leave  this  place  immediately,  push  for 
Brighton,  and  cross  to  France  with  all  speed. 
This  has  been  a bad  business,  and  may  be 
worse,  if  we  delay  a moment.  Adams,  consult 
your  own  safety,  and  don’t  remain  here  ; the  liv- 
ing before  the  dead  ; good-bye  ! ” 

With  these  words,  he  seized  Sir  Mulberry  by 
the  arm,  and  hurried  him  away.  Captain  Adams 
— only  pausing  to  convince  himself,  beyond  all 
question,  of  the  fatal  result — sped  off  in  the  same 
direction,  to  concert  measures  with  his  servant 
for  removing  the  body,  and  securing  his  own 
safety  likewise. 

So  died  Lord  Frederick  Verisoplit,  by  the 
hand  which  he  had  loaded  with  gifts,  and 
clasped  a thousand  times ; by  the  act  of  him, 
but  for  whom,  and  others  like  him,  he  might 
have  lived  a happy  man,  and  died  with  chil- 
dren’s faces  round  his  bed. 

The  sun  came  proudly  up  in  all  his  majesty, 
the  noble  river  ran  its  winding  course,  the 
leaves  quivered  and  rustled  in  the  air,  the  birds 
poured  their  cheerful  songs  from  every  tree,  the 
short-lived  butterfly  fluttered  its  little  wings  ; all 
the  light  and  life  of  day  came  on  ; and,  amidst 
it  all,  and  pressing  down  the  grass  whose  every 
blade  bore  twenty  tiny  lives,  lay  the  dead  man, 
with  his  stark  and  rigid  face  turned  upward  to 
the  sky. — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  50. 

DUST— In  London. 

A very  dark  night  it  was,  and  bitter  cold  ; the 
east  wind  blowing  bleak,  and  bringing  with  it 
stinging  particles  from  marsh,  and  moor,  and 
fen — from  the  Great  Desert  and  Old  Egypt, 
may  be.  Some  of  the  component  parts  of  the 
sharp-edged  vapor  that  came  flying  up  the 
Thames  at  London  might  be  mummy-dust,  dry 
atoms  from  the  Temple  at  Jerusalem,  camels’ 
foot-prints,  crocodiles’  hatching  places,  loosened 
grains  of  expression  from  the  visages  of  blunt- 
nosed  sphynxes,  waifs  and  strays  from  caravans 
of  turbaned  merchants,  vegetation  from  jungles, 
frozen  snow  from  the  Himalayas.  O ! It  was 
very  dark  upon  the  Thames,  and  it  was  bitter, 
bitter  cold. 

Down  with  the  Tide.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

DUTY— The  test  of  a great  soul. 

He  was  simply  and  stanchly  true  to  his  duty, 


alike  in  the  large  case  and  in  the  small.  So  ah 
true  souls  ever  are.  So  every  true  soul  ever  was, 
ever  is,  and  ever  will  be.  There  is  nothing  Vit- 
tle  to  the  really,  great  in  spirit. 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  17. 

DUTY— To  society. 

“ No,  my  good  sir,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  firmly, 
“ No.  But  I have  a duty  to  discharge  which  1 
owe  to  society  ; and  it  shall  be  discharged,  my 
friend,  at  any  cost ! ” 

Oh,  late-remembered,  much-forgotten,  mouth- 
ing, braggart  duty ! always  owed,  and  seldom 
paid  in  any  other  coin  than  punishment  and 
wrath,  when  will  mankind  begin  to  know  thee? 
When  will  men  acknowledge  thee  in  thy  ne- 
glected cradle  and  thy  stunted  youth,  and  not 
begin  their  recognition  in  thy  sinful  manhood 
and  thy  desolate  old  age?  Oh,  ermined  Judge  ! 
whose  duty  to  society  is,  now,  to  doom  the 
ragged  criminal  to  punishment  and  death,  hadst 
thou  never,  Man,  a duty  to  discharge  in  barring 
up  the  hundred  open  gates  that  wooed  him  to 
the  felon’s  dock,  and  throwing  but  ajar  the  por- 
tals to  a decent  life  ? Oh,  Prelate,  Prelate  ! whose 
duty  to  society  it  is  to  mourn  in  melancholy 
phrase  the  sad  degeneracy  of  these  bad  times 
in  which  thy  lot  of  honors  has  been  cast,  did 
nothing  go  before  thy  elevation  to  the  lofty  seat, 
from  which  thou  dealest  out  thy  homilies  to 
other  tarriers  for  dead  men’s  shoes,  whose  duty 
to  society  has  not  begun?  Oh,  Magistrate  ! so 
rare  a country  gentleman  and  brave  a squire, 
had  you  no  duty  to  society,  before  the  ricks 
were  blazing  and  the  mob  were  mad  ; or  did  it 
spring  up,  armed  and  booted  from  the  earth,  a 
corps  of  yeomanry,  full-grown  ? 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  31. 

DUTY— The  world’s  idea  of. 

“ I have  heard  some  talk  about  duty  first  and 
last ; but  it  has  always  been  of  my  duty  to  other 
people.  I have  wondered  now  and  then — to 
pass  away  the  time — whether  no  one  ever  owed 
any  duty  to  me.” — Dotnbey  6°  Son,  Chap.  34. 


EAGLE— The  French. 

The  Eagle  of  France,  apparently  afflicted  with 
the  prevailing  infirmities  that  have  lighted  on 
the  poultry,  is  in  a very  undecided  state  of 
policy,  and  as  a bird  moulting. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  25. 

EARLY  RISING. 

If  there  be  one  thing  in  existence  more  miser- 
able than  another,  it  most  unquestionably  is  the 
being  compelled  to  rise  by  candle-light.  If  you 
ever  doubted  the  fact,  you  are  painfully  con- 
vinced of  your  error,  on  the  morning  of  your 
departure.  You  left  strict  orders,  overnight,  to 
be  called  at  half-past  four,  and  you  have  done 
nothing  all  night  but  doze  for  five  minutes  at  a 
time  and  start  up  suddenly  from  a terrific  dream 
of  a large  church  clock  with  the  small  hand  run- 
ning round,  with  astonishing  rapidity,  to  every 


EATING 


163 


EATING 


figure  on  the  dial-plate.  At  last,  completely 
exhausted,  you  fall  gradually  into  a refreshing 
sleep — your  thoughts  grow  confused — the  stage 
coaches,  which  have  been  “ going  off”  before 
your  eyes  all  night,  become  less  and  less  dis- 
tinct, until  they  go  off  altogether;  one  moment 
you  are  driving  with  all  the  skill  and  smartness 
of  an  experienced  whip — the  next  you  are  ex- 
hibiting, u la  Ducrovv,  on  the  off  leader  ; anon 
you  are  closely  muffled  up,  inside,  and  have  just 
recognized  in  the  person  of  the  guard  an  old 
schoolfellow,  whose  funeral,  even  in  your  dream, 
you  remember  to  have  attended  eighteen  years 
ago.  At  last  you  fall  into  a state  of  complete 
oblivion,  from  which  you  are  aroused,  as  if  into 
a new  state  of  existence,  by  a singular  illusion. 
You  are  apprenticed  to  a trunk-maker;  how,  or 
why,  or  when,  or  wherefore,  you  don’t  take  the 
trouble  to  inquire  ; but  there  you  are,  pasting 
the  lining  in  the  lid  of  a portmanteau.  Con- 
found that  other  apprentice  in  the  back  shop, 
how  he  is  hammering  ! — rap,  rap,  rap — what  an 
industrious  fellow  he  must  be  ! you  have  heard 
him  at  work  for  half  an  hour  past,  and  he  has 
been  hammering  incessantly  the  whole  time. 
Rap,  rap,  rap,  again — he’s  talking  now — what’s 
that  he  said?  Five  o’clock  ! You  make  a vio- 
lent exertion,  and  start  up  in  bed.  The  vision 
is  at  once  dispelled  ; the  trunk-maker’s  shop  is 
your  own  bed-room,  and  the  other  apprentice 
your  shivering  servant,  who  has  been  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  wake  you  for  the  last  quarter  of  an 
hour,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  breaking  either 
his  own  knuckles  or  the  panels  of  the  door. 

You  proceed  to  dress  yourself,  with  all  possi- 
ble despatch.  The  flaring  flat  candle  with  the 
long  snuff,  gives  light  enough  to  show  that  the 
things  you  want  are  not  where  they  ought  to  be, 
and  you  undergo  a trifling  delay  in  consequence 
of  having  carefully  packed  up  one  of  your  boots 
in  your  over-anxiety  of  the  preceding  night. 
You  soon  complete  your  toilet,  however,  for  you 
are  not  particular  on  such  an  occasion,  and  you 
shaved  yesterday  evening  ; so,  mounting  your 
» Petersham  great-coat,  and  green  travelling- 
shawl,  and  grasping  your  carpet-bag  in  your 
right  hand,  you  walk  lightly  down-stairs,  lest 
you  should  awaken  any  of  the  family,  and  after 
pausing  in  the  common  sitting-room  for  one 
moment,  just  to  have  a cup  of  coffee  (the  said 
common  sitting-room  looking  remarkably  com- 
fortable, with  everything  out  of  its  place,  and 
strewed  with  the  crumbs  of  last  night’s  supper), 
you  undo  the  chain  and  bolts  of  the  street-door, 
and  find  yourself  fairly  in  the  street. 

Scenes , Chap.  15. 


It  became  high  time  to  remember  the  first 
clause  of  that  great  discovery  made  by  the  an- 
cient philosopher,  for  securing  health,  riches, 
and  wisdom  ; the  infallibility  of  which  has  been 
for  generations  verified  by  the  enormous  for- 
tunes constantly  amassed  by  chimney-sweepers 
and  other  persons  who  get  up  early  and  go  to 
bed  betimes. — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  5. 

EATING— A pauper  overfed. 

“ It’s  not  madness,  ma’am,”  replied  Mr.  Bum- 
ble, after  a few  moments  of  deep  meditation. 
“ It’s  meat.” 

“What?”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sowerberry. 

“ Meat,  ma’am,  meat,”  replied  Bumble,  with 
stern  emphasis.  “ You’ve  overfed  him,  ma’am. 


You’ve  raised  a artificial  soul  and  spirit  in  him, 
ma’am,  unbecoming  a person  of  his  condition  ; 
as  the  board,  Mrs.  Sowerberry,  who  are  practi- 
cal philosophers,  will  tell  you.  What  have  pau- 
pers to  do  with  soul  or  spirit?  It’s  quite  enough 
that  we  let  ’em  have  live  bodies.  If  you  had 
kept  the  boy  on  gruel,  ma’am,  this  would  never 
have  happened.” — Oliver  Twist , Chap.  7. 

EATING-  A bill  of  fare. 

She  put  forth  a bill  of  fare  that  might  kindle 
exhilaration  in  the  breast  of  a misanthrope. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  24. 

EATING  Bread  and  butter  (Joe  and  Pip). 

My  sister  had  a trenchant  way  of  cutting  our 
bread-and-butter  for  us,  that  never  varied. 
First,  with  her  left  hand  she  jammed  the  loaf 
hard  and  fast  against  her  bib — where  it  some- 
times got  a pin  into  it,  and  sometimes  a needle, 
which  we  afterward  got  into  our  mouths.  Then 
she  took  some  butter  (not  too  much)  on  a knife 
and  spread  it  on  the  loaf,  in  an  apothecary  kind 
of  way,  as  if  she  was  making  a plaster — using 
both  sides  of  the  knife  with  a slapping  dexter- 
ity, and  trimming  and  moulding  the  butter  off 
round  the  crust.  Then  she  gave  the  knife  a 
final  smart  wipe  on  the  edge  of  the  plaster, 
and  then  sawed  a very  thick  round  off  the 
loaf : which  she  finally,  before  separating 
from  the  loaf,  hewed  into  two  halves,  of 
which  Joe  got  one,  and  I the  other.  I knew 
Mrs.  Joe’s  housekeeping  to  be  of  the  strictest 
kind,  and  that  my  larcenous  researches  might 
find  nothing  available  in  the  safe.  Therefore 
I resolved  to  put  my  hunk  of  bread-and-butter 
down  the  leg  of  my  trousers.  Joe  was  evi- 
dently made  uncomfortable  by  what  he  sup- 
posed to  be  my  loss  of  appetite,  and  took 
a thoughtful  bite  out  of  his  slice,  which  he 
didn’t  seem  to  enjoy.  He  turned  it  about  in 
his  mouth  much  longer  than  usual,  pondering 
over  it  a good  deal,  and  after  all  gulped  it 
down  like  a pill.  He  was  about  to  take  an- 
other bite,  and  had  just  got  his  head  on  one 
side  for  a good  purchase  on  it,  when  his  eye  fell 
on  me,  and  he  saw  that  my  bread-and-butter 
was  gone. 

The  wonder  and  consternation  with  which 
Joe  stopped  on  the  threshold  of  his  bite  and 
stared  at  me,  were  too  evident  to  escape  my 
sister’s  observation. 

“ What’s  the  matter'  now  ? ” said  she,  smartly, 
as  she  put  down  her  cup. 

“I  say,  you  know!”  muttered  Joe,  shaking 
his  head  at  me  in  very  serious  remonstrance, 
“ Pip,  old  chap  ! You’ll  do  yourself  a mischief. 
It’ll  stick  somewhere.  You  can’t  have  chawed 
it,  Pip.” 

“ What’s  the  matter  now  ? ” repeated  my  sis- 
ter, more  sharply  than  before. 

“ If  you  can  cough  any  trifle  on  it  up,  Pip, 
I’d  recommend  you  to  do  it,”  said  Joe,  all 
aghast.  “ Manners  is  manners,  but  still  your 
elth’s  your  elth.” 

By  this  time,  my  sister  was  quite  desperate, 
so  she  pounced  on  Joe,  and,  taking  him  by  the 
two  whiskers,  knocked  his  head  for  a little 
while  against  the  wall  behind  him  : while  I sat 
in  the  corner,  looking  guiltily  on. 

“Now,  perhaps,  you’ll  mention  what’s  the 
matter,”  said  my  sister,  out  of  breath,  “you 
staring  great  stuck  pig.” 


EATING  AND  GROWTH 


167 


EDUCATION 


Joe  looked  at  her  in  a helpless  way  ; then 
took  a helpless  bite,  and  looked  at  me  again. 

“You  know,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  solemnly,  with 
his  last  bite  in  his  cheek,  and  speaking  in  a 
confidential  voice,  as  if  we  two  were  quite 
alone,  “you  and  me  is  always  friends,  and  I’d 
be  the  last  to  tell  upon  you,  any  time.  But 
such  a — ” he  moved  his  chair,  and  looked  about 
the  floor  between  us,  and  then  again  at  me — 
“ such  a most  oncommon  bolt  as  that ! ” 

“Been  bolting  his  food,  has  he?”  cried  my 
sister. 

“ You  know,  old  chap,”  said  Joe,  looking  at 
me,  and  not  at  Mrs.  Joe,  with  his  bite  still  in 
his  cheek,  “ I Bolted,  myself,  when  1 was  your 
age — frequent — and  as  a boy  I’ve  been  among 
a many  Bolters  ; but  I never  see  your  bolting 
equal  yet,  Pip,  and  it’s  a mercy  you  ain’t  Bolted 
dead.” — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  2. 

EATING  AND  GEOWTH-Guppy’s  lunch. 

Beholding  him  in  which  glow  of  contentment, 
Mr.  Guppy  says : 

“ You  are  a man  again,  Tony  !” 

“ Well,  not  quite,  yet,”  says  Mr.  Jobling. 
“ Say,  just  born.” 

“ Will  you  take  any  other  vegetables?  Grass  ? 
Peas  ? Summer  cabbage  ? ” 

“Thank  you,  Guppy,”  says  Mr.  Jobling.  “I 
really  don’t  know  but  what  I will  take  summer 
cabbage.” 

Order  given  ; with  the  sarcastic  addition  (from 
Mr.  Smallweed)  of  “Without  slugs,  Polly!” 
And  cabbage  produced. 

“ I am  growing  up,  Guppy,”  says  Mr.  Jobling, 
plying  his  knife  and  fork  with  a relishing  steadi- 
ness. 

“ Glad  to  hear  it.” 

“ In  fact  I have  just  turned  into  my  teens,” 
says  Mr.  Jobling. 

He  says  no  more  until  he  has  performed  his 
task,  which  he  achieves  as  Messrs.  Guppy  and 
Smallweed  finish  theirs  ; thus  getting  over  the 
ground  in  excellent  style,  and  beating  those  two 
gentlemen  easily  by  a veal  and  ham  and  a cab- 
bage. 

“Now,  Small,”  says  Mr.  Guppy,  “what  would 
you  recommend  about  pastry?” 

“Marrow  puddings,”  says  Mr.  Smallweed,  in- 
stantly. 

Three  marrow  puddings  being  produced,  Mr. 
Jobling  adds,  in  a pleasant  humor,  that  he  is 
coming  of  age  fast.  To*  these  succeed,  by  com- 
mand of  Mr.  Smallweed,  “ three  Cheshires  ; ” and 
to  those,  “ three  small  rums.”  This  apex  of  the 
entertainment  happily  reached,  Mr.  Jobling  puts 
up  his  legs  on  the  carpeted  seat  (having  his  own 
side  of  the  box  to  himself),  leans  against  the 
wall,  and  says,  “ I am  grown  up,  now,  Guppy. 
I have  arrived  at  maturity.” 

“ What  do  you  think,  now,”  says  Mr.  Guppy. 

“ Why,  what  I may  think  after  dinner,”  re- 
turns Mr.  Jobling,  “ is  one  thing,  my  dear  Gup- 
py, and  what  I may  think  before  dinner  is  another 
thing.  Still,  even  after  dinner,  I ask  my- 
self the  question,  What  am  I to  do  ? How  am 
1 to  live?  Ill  fo  manger,  you  know,”  says  Mr. 
Jobling,  pronouncing  that  word  as  if  he  meant 
a necessary  fixture  in  an  English  stable.  “ 111 
fo  manger.  That’s  the  French  saying,  and 
mangering  is  as  necessary  to  me  as  it  is  to  a 
Frenchman.  Or  more  so.” 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  20. 


EATING— Its  “ mellering:”  influence. 

Wegg,  who  had  been  going  to  put  on  his 
spectacles,  immediately  laid  them  down,  with 
the  sprightly  observation  : 

“You  read  my  thoughts,  sir.  Do  my  eyes 
deceive  me,  or  is  that  object  up  there  a — a pie? 
It  can’t  be  a pie.” 

“ Yes,  it’s  a pie,  Wegg,”  replied  Mr.  Boffin, 
with  a glance  of  some  little  discomfiture  at  the 
Decline  and  Fail. 

“ Have  I lost  my  smell  for  fruits,  or  is  it  a 
apple  pie,  sir?”  asked  Wegg. 

“ It’s  a veal  and  ham  pie,”  said  Mr.  Boffin. 

“ Is  it  indeed,  sir  ? And  it  would  be  hard,  sir, 
to  name  the  pie  that  is  a better  pie  than  a weal 
and  hammer,”  said  Mr.  Wegg,  nodding  his  head 
emotionally. 

“ Have  some,  Wegg  ? ” 

•“  Thank  you,  Mr.  Boffin,  I think  I will,  at 
your  invitation.  I wouldn’t  at  any  other  party’s 
at  the  present  juncture  ; but  at  yours,  sir — And 
meaty  jelly  too,  especially  when  a little  salt, 
which  is  the  case  where  there’s  ham,  is  mellering 
to  the  organ,  is  very  mellering  to  the  organ.” 
Mr.  Wegg  did  not  say  what  organ,  but  spoke 
with  a cheerful  generality. 

Our  Alutual  Friend,  Book  I.,  Chap.  5. 

EATING— Beef  and  mutton. 

“ Here  I am  ! This  is  my  frugal  breakfast. 
Some  men  want  legs  of  beef  and  mutton  for 
breakfast  ; I don’t.  Give  me  my  peach,  my  cup 
of  coffee,  and  my  claret  ; I am  content.  I don’t 
want  them  for  themselves,  but  they  remind  me 
of  the  sun.  There’s  nothing  solar  about  legs  of 
beef  and  mutton.  Mere  animal  satisfaction  !” 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  43. 

EDU CATION— Of  children. 

Spitfire  seemed  to  be  in  the  main  a good-na- 
tured little  body,  although  a disciple  of  that 
school  of  trainers  of  the  young  idea  which  holds 
that  childhood,  like  money,  must  be  shaken  and 
rattled  and  jostled  about  a good  deal  to  keep  it 
bright. — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  3. 

EDUCATION— Mrs.  Pipchin’s  system. 

Master  Bitherstone  read  aloud  to  the  rest  a 
pedigree  from  Genesis  (judiciously  selected  by 
Mrs.  Pipchin),  getting  over  the  names  with  the 
ease  and  clearness  of  a person  tumbling  up  the 
treadmill.  That  done,  Miss  Pankey  was  borne 
away  to  be  shampoo’d  ; and  Master  Bitherstone 
to  have  something  else  done  to  him  with  salt 
water,  from  which  he  always  returned  very  blue 
and  dejected.  About  noon  Mrs.  Pipchin  pre- 
sided over  some  Early  Readings.  It  being  a 
part  of  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  system  not  to  encourage 
a child’s  mind  to  develop  and  expand  itself  like 
a young  flower,  but  to  open  it  by  force  like  an 
oyster,  the  moral  of  these  lessons  was  usually  of 
a violent  and  stunning  character:  the  hero — a 
naughty  boy — seldom,  in  the  mildest  catastrophe 
being  finished  off  by  anything  less  than  a lion, 
or  a bear. — Dombey  Son,  Chap.  8. 

EDU  CATION— A victim  of. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  reverence  for  the  in- 
spired writings,  under  the  admirable  system  of 
the  Grinders’  School,  had  been  developed  by  a 
perpetual  bruising  of  his  intellectual  shins  against 
all  the  proper  names  of  all  the  tribes  of  Judah, 
and  by  the  monotonous  repetition  of  hard,  verses, 


.EDUCATION 


168 


EDUCATION 


especially  by  way  by  punishment,  and  by  the 
parading  of  him  at  six  years  old  in  leather 
breeches,  three  times  a Sunday,  very  high  up, 
in  a very  hot  church,  with  a great  organ  buz- 
zing against  his  drowsy  head,  like  an  exceedingly 
busy  bee — Rob  the  Grinder  made  a mighty  show 
of  being  edified  when  the  Captain  ceased  to 
read,  and  generally  yawned  and  nodded  while 
the  reading  was  in  progress. 

Dombey  & Son,  Ch.  39. 

EDUCATION— Early. 

“ There  is  a great  deal  of  nonsense — and 
worse — talked  about  young  people  not  being- 
pressed  too  hard  at  first,  and  being  tempted  on, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  Sir,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
impatiently  rubbing  her  hooked  nose.  “It  never 
was  thought  of  in  my  time,  and  it  has  no  busi- 
ness to  be  thought  of  now.  My  opinion  is, 

‘ keep  ’em  at  it.’  ” — Doinbey  dr5  Son , Chap.  11. 

EDUCATION— The  forcing-  process  in  Dr. 

Blimher’s  School. 

Whenever  a young  gentleman  was  taken  in 
hand  by  Doctor  Blimber,  he  might  consider  him- 
self sure  of  a pretty  tight  squeeze.  The  doctor 
only  undertook  the  charge  of  ten  young  gentle- 
men, but  he  had,  always  ready,  a supply  of  learn- 
in^for  a hundred,  on  the  lowest  estimate  : and 
it  was  at  once  the  business  and  delight  of  his 
life  to  gorge  the  unhappy  ten  with  it. 

It  was  not  that  Miss  Blimber  meant  to  be  too 
haid  upon  him,  or  that  Doctor  Blimber  meant 
to  bear  too  heavily  on  the  young  gentlemen  in 
general.  Cornelia  merely  held  the  faith  in  which 
she  had  been  bred  ; and  the  Doctor,  in  some 
partial  confusion  of  his  ideas,  regarded  the 
young  gentlemen  as  if  they  were  all  Doctors, 
and  were  born  grown  up.  Comforted  by  the 
applause  of  the  young  gentlemen’s  nearest  rela- 
tions, and  urged  on  by  their  blind  vanity  and 
ill  considered  haste,  it  would  have  been  strange 
if  Doctor  Blimber  had  discovered  his  mistake,  or 
trimmed  his  swelling  sails  to  any  other  tack. 

Thus  in  the  case  of  Paul.  When  Doctor 
Blimber  said  he  made  great  progress;  and  was 
naturally  clever,  Mr.  Dombey  was  more  bent 
than  ever  on  his  being  forced  and  crammed. 
In  the  case  of  Briggs,  when  Doctor  Blimber 
reported  that  he  did  not  make  great  progress 
yet,  and  was  not  naturally  clever,  Briggs  senior 
was  inexorable  in  the  same  purpose.  In  short, 
however  high  and  false  the  temperature  at  which 
the  Doctor  kept  his  hot-house,  the  owners  of  the 
plants  were  always  ready  to  lend  a helping  hand 
at  the  bellows,  and  to  stir  the  fire. 

* * * * * 

In  fact,  Doctor  Blimber’s  establishment  was 
a great  hot-house,  in  which  there  was  a forcing 
apparatus  incessantly  at  work.  All  the  boys 
blew  before  their  time.  Mental  green-peas  were 
produced  at  Christmas,  and  intellectual  aspar- 
agus all  the  year  round.  Mathematical  goose- 
berries (very  sour  ones,  too)  were  common  at 
untimely  seasons,  and  from  mere  sprouts  of 
bushes,  under  Doctor  Blimber's  cultivation. 
Every  description  of  Greek  and  Latin  vegeta- 
ble was  got  off  the  driest  twigs  of  boys,  under 
the  frostiest  circumstances.  Nature  was  of  no 
consequence  at  all.  No  matter  what  a young 
gentleman  was  intended  to  bear,  Doctor  Blim- 
ber made  him  bear  to  pattern,  somehow  or 
other. 

'Phis  was  all  very  pleasant  and  ingenious,  but 


the  system  of  forcing  was  attended  with  its  usual 
disadvantages.  There  was  not  the  right  taste 
about  the  premature  productions,  and  they 
didn’t  keep  well.  Moreover,  one  young  gentle- 
man, with  a swollen  nose  and  an  excessively 
large  head  (the  oldest  of  the  ten  who  had  “gone 
through”  everything),  suddenly  left  off  blowing 
one  day,  and  remained  in  the  establishment  a 
mere  stalk.  And  people  did  say  that  the  Doc- 
tor had  rather  overdone  it  with  young  Toots, 
and  that  when  he  began  to  have  whiskers  he 
left  off  having  brains. 

***** 

The  young  gentlemen  were  prematurely  full 
of  carking  anxieties.  They  knew  no  rest  from  the 
pursuit  of  stony-hearted  verbs,  savage  noun- 
substantives, inflexible  syntactic  passages,  and 
ghosts  of  exercises  that  appeared  to  them  in 
their  dreams.  Under  the  forcing  system,  a 
young  gentleman  usually  took  leave  of  his  spi- 
rits in  three  weeks.  He  had  all  the  cares  of  the 
world  on  his  head  in  three  months.  He  con- 
ceived bitter  sentiments  against  his  parents  or 
guardians  in  four ; he  was  an  old  misanthrope, 
in  five  ; envied  Curtius  that  blessed  refuge  in 
the  earth,  in  six  ; and  at  the  end  of  the  first 
twelvemonth  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion, 
from  which  he  never  afterwards  departed,  that 
all  the  fancies  of  the  poets,  and  lessons  of  the 
sages,  were  a mere  collection  of  words  and  gram- 
mar, and  had  no  other  meaning  in  the  world. 

***** 

The  studies  went  round  like  a mighty  wheel, 
and  the  young  gentlemen  were  always  stretched 
upon  it. — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  12. 

EDUCATION— In  England. 

Of  the  monstrous  neglect  of  education  in  Eng- 
land, and  the  disregard  of  it  by  the  state  as 
the  means  of  forming  good  or  bad  citizens,  and 
miserable  or  happy  men,  private  schools  long 
afforded  a notable  example.  Although  any 
man  who  had  proved  his  unfitness  for  any  other 
occupation  in  life,  was  free,  without  examina- 
tion or  qualification,  to  open  a school  anywhere  ; 
although  preparation  for  the  functions  he  un- 
dertook, was  required  in  the  surgeon  who  as- 
sisted to  bring  a boy  into  the  world,  or  might 
one  day  assist,  perhaps,  to  send  him  out  of  it  ; 
in  the  chemist,  the  attorney,  the  butcher,  the 
baker,  the  candlestick-maker;  the  whole  round 
of  crafts  and  trades,  the  schoolmaster  excepted  : 
and  although  schoolmasters,  as  a race,  weie  the 
blockheads  and  impostors  who  might  naturally 
be  expected  to  spring  from  such  a state  of 
things,  and  to  flourish  in  it ; these  Yorkshire 
schoolmasters  were  the  lowest  and  most  rotten 
round  in  the  whole  ladder.  Traders  in  the  ava- 
rice, indifference,  or  imbecility  of  parents,  and 
the  helplessness  of  children  ; ignorant,  sordid, 
brutal  men,  to  whom  few  considerate  persons 
would  have  entrusted  the  board  and  lodging  of 
a horse  or  a dog  ; they  formed  the  worthy  cor- 
ner-stone of  a structure,  which,  for  absurdity 
and  a magnificent  high-minded  laissez-aller  neg- 
lect, has  rarely  been  exceeded  in  the  world. 

We  hear  sometimes  of  an  action  for  damages 
against  the  unqualified  medical  practitioner, 
who  has  deformed  a broken  limb  in  pretending 
to  heal  it.  But  what  of  the  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  minds  that  have  been  deformed  for- 
ever by  the  incapable  pettifoggers  who  have 
pretended  to  form  them  ! 


EDUCATION 


169 


EDUCATION 


I make  mention  of  the  race,  as  of  the  York- 
shire schoolmasters,  in  the  past  tense.  Though 
it  has  not  yet  finally  disappeared,  it  is  dwin- 
dling daily.  A long  day’s  work  remains  to  be 
done  about  us  in  the  way  ot  education,  Heaven 
knows  ; buf  great  improvements  and  facilities 
towards  the  attainment  of  a good  one,  have  been 
furnished  of  late  years. 

I cannot  call  to  mind,  now,  how  I came  to 
hear  about  Yorkshire  schools  when  I was  a not 
very  robust  child,  sitting  in  bye-places  near 
Rochester  Castle,  with  a head  full  of  Par- 
tridge, Strap,  Tom  Pipes,  and  Sancho 
Panza  ; but  I know  that  my  first  impressions 
of  them  were  picked  up  at  that  time,  and  that 
they  were  somehow  or  other  connected  with  a 
suppurated  abscess  that,  some  boy  had  come 
home  with,  in  consequence  1 of  his  Yorkshire 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  having  ripped  it 
open  with  an  inky  pen-knife.  The  impression 
made  upon  me,  however  made,  never  left  me. 
I was  always  curious  about  Yorkshire  schools — 
fell,  long  afterwards,  and  at  sundry  times,  into 
the  way  of  hearing  more  about  them — at  last, 
having  an  audience,  resolved  to  write  about 
them. — Preface  to  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

EDU  CATION— Practical. 

“No  man  of  sense  who  has  been  generally  im- 
proved, and  has  improved  himself,  can  be  called 
quite  uneducated  as  to  anything.  I don’t  par- 
ticularly favor  mysteries.  I would  as  soon,  on 
a fair  and  clear  explanation,  be  judged  by  one 
class  of  man  as  another,  provided  he  had  the 
qualification  I have  named.” 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  8. 

EDUCATION— The  Gradgrind  school  of. 

Let  us  strike  the  key-note  again,  before  pur- 
suing the  tune. 

When  she  was  half  a dozen  years  younger, 
Louisa  had  been  overheard  to  begin  a conversa- 
tion with  her  brother  one  day,  by  saying,  “ Tom, 
I wonder” — upon  which  Mr.  Gradgrind,  who 
was  the  person  overhearing,  stepped  forth  into 
the  light,  and  said,  “ Louisa,  never  wonder  ! ” 

Herein  lay  the  spring  of  the  mechanical  art 
and  mystery  of  educating  the  reason  without 
.stooping  to  the  cultivation  of  the  sentiments 
and  affections.  Never  wonder.  By  means  of 
addition,  subtraction,  multiplication,  and  divi- 
sion, settle  everything  somehow,  and  never  won- 
der. Bring  to  me,  said  M’Choakumchild,  yon- 
der baby  just  able  to  walk,  and  I will  engage 
that  it  shall  never  wonder. 

Now,  besides  very  many  babies  just  able  to 
walk,  there  happened  to  be  in  Coketown  a con- 
siderable population  of  babies  who  had  been 
walking  against  time  towards  the  infinite  world, 
twenty,  thirty,  forty,  fifty  years  and  more. 
Thgse  portentous  infants  being  alarming  crea- 
tures to  stalk  about  in  any  human  society,  the 
eighteen  denominations  incessantly  scratched 
one  another’s  faces,  and  pulled  one  another’s 
hair,  by  way  of  agreeing  on  the  steps  to  be  taken 
for  their  improvement — which  they  never  did  ; 
a surprising  circumstance,  when  the  happy  adap- 
tation of  the  means  to  the  end  is  considered. 
Still,  although  they  differed  in  every  other  par- 
ticular, conceivable  and  inconceivable  (espe- 
cially inconceivable),  they  were  pretty  well 
united  on  the  point  that  these  unlucky  infants 
were  never  to  wonder.  Body  number  one  said, 


they  must  take  everything  on  trust.  Body 
number  two  said,  they  must  take  everything 
on  political  economy.  Body  number  three 
wrote  leaden  little  books  for  them,  showing 
how  the  good  grown-up  baby  invariably  got 
to  the  Savings-bank,  and  the  bad  grown-up 
baby  invariably  got  transported.  Body  number 
four,  under  dreary  pretences  of  being  droll 
(when  it  was  very  melancholy  indeed),  made 
the  shallowest  pretences  of  concealing  pitfalls 
of  knowledge,  into  which  it  was  the  duty  of 
these  babies  to  be  smuggled  and  inveigled. 
But  all  the  bodies  agreed  that  they  were  never 
to  wonder. — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  8. 

EDUCATION— The  misfortune  of. 

It  seemed  that  Tozer  had  a dreadful  uncle, 
who  not  only  volunteered  examinations  of  him, 
in  the  holidays,  on  abstruse  points,  but  twisted 
innocent  events  and  things,  and  wrenched  them 
to  the  same  fell  purpose.  So  that  if  this  uncle 
took  him  to  the  Play,  or,  on  a similar  pretence 
of  kindness,  carried  him  to  see  a Giant,  or  a 
Dwarf,  or  a Conjuror,  or  anything,  Tozer 
knew  he  had  read  up  some  classical  allusion  to 
the  subject  beforehand,  and  was  thrown  into  a 
state  of  mortal  apprehension : not  foreseeing 
where  he  might  break  out,  or  what  authority 
he  might  not  quote  against  him. 

* % * * * 

Mr.  Tozer,  now  a young  man  of  lofty  stature, 
in  Wellington  boots,  was  so  extremely  full  of 
antiquity  as  to  be  nearly  on  a par  with  a genu- 
ine ancient  Roman  in  his  knowledge  of  En- 
glish : a triumph  that  affected  his  good  parents 
with  the  tenderest  emotions,  and  caused  the 
father  and  mother  of  Mr.  Briggs  (whose  learn- 
ing, like  ill-arranged  luggage,  was  so  tightly 
packed  that  he  couldn’t  get  at  anything  he 
wanted)  to  hide  their  diminished  heads.  The 
fruit  laboriously  gathered  from  the  tree  of 
knowledge  by  this  latter  young  gentleman,  in 
fact,  had  been  subjected  to  so  much  pressure, 
that  it  had  become  a kind  of  intellectual  Nor- 
folk Biffin,  and  had  nothing  oi  its  original  form 
or  flavor  remaining. — Dombey  Son,  Chap.  6o. 

EDUCATION— Josiah  Bounderby’s  practi- 
cal. 

“ I was  to  pull  through  it,  I suppose,  Mrs. 
Gradgrind.  Whether  I was  to  do  it  or  not, 
ma’am,  I did  it.  I pulled  through  it,  though 
nobody  threw  me  out  a rope.  Vagabond,  er- 
rand boy,  vagabond,  laborer,  porter,  clerk,  chief 
manager,  small  partner,  Josiah  Bounderby  of 
Coketown.  Those  are  the  antecedents  and  the 
culmination.  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown 
learned  his  letters  from  the  outsides  of  the  shops, 
Mrs.  Gradgrind,  and  was  first  able  to  tell  the 
time  upon  a dial-plate,  from  studying  the  steeple- 
clock  of  St.  Giles’s  Church,  London,  under  the 
direction  of  a drunken  cripple,  who  was  a con- 
victed thief,  and  an  incorrigible  vagrant.  Tell 
Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown,  of  your  district 
schools,  and  your  model  schools,  and  your  train- 
ing schools,  and  your  whole  kettle  of-fish  of 
schools  ; and  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown 
tells  you  plainly,  all  right,  all  correct — he  hadn’t 
such  advantages — but  let  us  have  hard-headed, 
solid-fisted  people — the  education  that  made  him 
won’t  do  for  everybody,  he  knows  well — such 
and  such  his  education  was,  however,  and  you 


EDUCATION 


170 


ELECTION 


may  force  him  to  swallow  boiling  fat,  but  you 
shall  never  force  him  to  suppress  the  facts  of 
his  life.” — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  4 

EDUCATION— A perverted. 

For  the  same  reason,  that  young  man’s  coarse 
allusions,  even  to  himself,  filled  him  with  a 
stealthy  glee  ; causing  him  to  rub  his  hands  and 
chuckle  covertly,  as  if  he  said  in  his  sleeve,  “/ 
taught  him.  I trained  him.  This  is  the  heir 
of  my  bringing-up.  Sly,  cunning,  and  covetous, 
he’ll  not  squander  my  money.  I worked  for 
this  ; .1  hoped  for  this  ; it  has  been  the  great 
end  and  aim  of  my  life.” 

What  a noble  end  and  aim  it  was  to  contem- 
plate in  the  attainment,  truly  ! But  there  be 
some  who  manufacture  idols  after  the  fashion  of 
themselves,  and  fail  to  worship  them  when  they 
are  made  ; charging  their  deformity  on  outraged 
nature.  Anthony  was  better  than  these  at  any 
rate. — AI art  in  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  11. 

EDUCATION— Early —The  alphabet. 

I struggled  through  the  alphabet  as  if  it  had 
been  a bramble-bush  ; getting  considerably  wor- 
ried and  scratched  by  every  letter.  After  that 
I fell  among  those  thieves,  the  nine  figures,  who 
seemed  every  evening  to  do  something  new  to 
disguise  themselves  and  baffle  recognition.  But, 
at  last  I began,  in  a purblind,  groping  way,  to 
read,  write,  and  cipher,  on  the  very  smallest 
scale. 

***** 

I leaned  over  Joe,  and,  with  the  aid  of  my 
forefinger,  read  him  the  whole  letter. 

“ Astonishing  1 ” said  Joe,  when  I had  finished. 
“ You  are  a scholar.” 

“ How  do  you  spell  Gargery,  Joe?  ” I asked 
him,  with  modest  patronage. 

“ I don’t  spell  it  at  all,”  said  Joe. 

“ But  supposing  you  did  ? ” 

“ It  can' t be  supposed,”  said  Joe.  “ Tho’  I’m 
oncommon  fond  of  reading,  too.” 

“ Are  you,  Joe  ? ” 

“ On-common.  Give  me,”  said  Joe,  “ a good 
book,  or  a good  newspaper,  and  sit  me  down 
afore  a good  fire,  and  I ask  no  better.  Lord  ! ” 
he  continued,  after  rubbing  his  knees  a little, 
“ when  you  do  come  to  a J and  a O,  and  says 
you,  ‘ Here,  at  last,  is  a J-O,  Joe,’  how  interest- 
ing reading  is  ! ” 

I derived  from  this,  that  Joe’s  education,  like 
steam,  was  yet  in  its  infancy. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  7. 

EDUCATION-  From  A to  Z. 

“ You  aie  oncommon  in  some  things.  You’re 
oncommon  small.  Likewise,  you’re  a oncom- 
mon scholar.” 

“ No  ; I am  ignorant  and  backward,  Joe.” 

“ Well,  Pip,”  said  Joe,  “ be  it  so  or  be  it  son’t,' 
you  must  be  a common  scholar  afore  you  can  be 
a oncommon  one,  I should  hope  ! The  king  upon 
his  throne,  with  his  crown  upon  his  ’ed,  can’t 
sit  and  write  his  acts  of  Parliament  in  print, 
without  having  begun,  when  he  were  a unpro- 
moted prince,  with  the  alphabet — ah!”  added 
Joe,  with  a shake  of  the  head  that  was  full  of 
meaning,  “and  begun  at  A too,  and  worked  his 
way  to  Z.  And  / know  what  that  is  to  do, 
though  I can’t  say  I’ve  exactly  done  it. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  7. 


EGOTISM. 

And  again  he  said  “ I)om  bey  and  Son,”  in 
exactly  the  same  tone  as  before. 

Those  three  words  conveyed  the  one  idea  of 
Mr.  Dombey’s  life.  The  earth  was  made  for 
Dombey  and  Son  to  trade  in,  and  the  sun  and 
moon  were  made  to  give  them  light.  Rivers 
and  seas  were  formed  to  float  their  ships  ; rain- 
bows gave  them  promise  of  fair  weather  ; winds 
blew  for  or  against  their  enterprises ; stars  and 
planets  circled  in  their  orbits,  to  preserve  in- 
violate a system  of  which  they  were  the  centre. 
Common  abbreviations  took  new  meanings  in 
his  eyes,  and  had  sole  reference  to  them  : A.  I), 
had  no  concern  with  Anno  Domini,  but  stood 
for  Anno  Dombei — and  Son. 

Dombey  (Sr*  Son , Chap.  1. 

ELECTION  Mr.  Weller  at  an. 

“ ‘ Oh,  I know  you,’  says  the  gen’l’m’n ; 

‘ know’d  you  when  you  was  a boy,’  says  he. — 
‘ Well,  I don’t  remember  you,’  says  my  father — 
‘ That’s  very  odd,’  says  the  genTm’n — ‘ Werry,’ 
says  my  father — 4 You  must  have  a bad  mem’ry, 
Mr.  Weller,’  says  the  genTm’n — ‘Well,  it  is  a 
werry  bad  ’un,’  says  my  father — 4 1 thought  so,’ 
says  the  genTm’n.  So  then  they  pours  him  out 
a glass  of  wine,  and  gammons  him  about  his 
driving,  and  gets  him  into  a reg’lar  good  humor, 
and  at  last  shoves  a twenty-pound  note  in  his 
hand.  4 It’s  a werry  bad  road  between  this  and 
London,’  says  the  genTm’n — 4 Here  and  there' 
it  is  a heavy  road,’  says  my  father — 4 Specially 
near  the  canal,  I think,’  says  the  genTm’n — 
4 Nasty  bit  that  ’ere,’  says  my  father — 4 Well,  Mr. 
Weller,’  says  the  genTm’n,  ‘you’re  a wery  good 
whip,  and  can  do  what  you  like  with  your  horses, 
we  know.  We’re  all  wery  fond  o’  you,  Mr. 
Weller,  so  in  case  you  should  have  an  accident 
when  you’re  a bringing  these  here  woters  down, 
and  should  tip  ’em  over  into  the  canal  vithout 
hurtin’  of  ’em,  this  is  for  yourself,’  says  he — 
4 GenTm’n,  you’re  wery  kind,’  says  my  father, 
4 and  I’ll  drink  your  health  in  another  glass  of 
wine,’  says  he  ; which  he  did,  and  then  buttons 
up  the  money,  and  bows  himself  out.  You 
wouldn’t  believe,  sir,”  continued  Sam,  with  a 
look  of  inexpressible  impudence  at  his  master, 
44  that  on  the  wery  day  as  he  came  down  with 
them  woters,  his  coach  was  upset  on  that  ’ere 
wery  spot,  and  ev’ry  man  on  ’em  was  turned  into 
the  canal.” 

44  And  got  out  again  ?”  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick, 
hastily. 

44  Why,”  replied  Sam,  very  slowly,  44 1 rather 
think  one  old  genTm’n  was  missin’  ; I know  his 
hat  was  found,  but  I a’n’t  quite  certain  whether 
his  head  was  in  it  or  not.  But  what  I look  at, 
is  the  hex-traordinary  and  wonderful  coinci- 
dence, that  arter  what  that  genTm’n  said,  my 
father’s  coach  should  be  upset  in  that  wery  place, 
and  on  that  wery  day  ! ” 

Pickwick , Chap.  13. 

ELECTION  A public ; the  devotion  of  par- 
ty. 

“ Ah,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  44  do  they  seem  de- 
voted to  their  party,  Sam?” 

“ Never  see  such  dewotion  in  my  life,  sir.” 

44  Energetic,  eh?”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Uncommon,”  replied  Sam;  “I  never  see 
men  eat  and  drink  so  much  afore.  I wonder 
they  a’n’t  afeer’d  o’  bustin.” 


ELECTION 


171 


EMIGHANT  SHIP 


“ That's  the  mistaken  kindness  of  the  gentry 
here,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Wery  likely,”  replied  Sam,  briefly. 

“ Fine,  fresh,  hearty  fellows  they  seem,”  said 
Mr.  Pickwick,  glancing  from  the  window. 

“Wery  fresh,”  replied  Sam;  “me,  and  the 
two  waiters  at  the  Peacock,  has  been  a pumpin’ 
over  the  independent  woters  as  supped  there  last 
night.” 

“ Pumping  over  independent  voters  ! ” ex- 
claimed Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Yes,”  said  his  attendant,  “every  man  slept 
vere  he  fell  down  ; we  dragged  ’em  out,  one  by 
one,  this  morn  in’,  and  put  ’em  under  the  pump, 
and  they’re  in  reg’lar  fine  order,  now.  Shillin’  a 
head  the  committee  paid  for  that  ’ere  job.” 

“Can  such  things  be  !”  exclaimed  the  aston- 
ished Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Lord  bless  your  heart,  sir,”  said  Sam,  “ why, 
where  was  you  half  baptized? — that’s  nothin’, 
that  a’nt.” 

“Nothing?”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Nothin’  at  all,  sir,”  replied  his  attendant. 
“ The  night  afore  the  last  day  o’  the  last  election 
here,  the  opposite  party  bribed  the  bar  maid  at 
the  Town  Arms,  to  hocus  the  brandy  and  water 
of  fourteen  unpolled  electors  as  was  a stoppin’ 
in  the  house.” 

“What  do  you  mean  by  ‘hocussing’  brandy 
and  water?”  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Puttin’  laud’num  in  it,”  replied  Sam. 
“Blessed  if  she  didn’t  send  ’em  all  to  sleep  till 
twelve  hours  arter  the  election  was  over.  They 
took  one  man  up  to  the  booth,  in  a truck,  fast 
asleep,  by  way  of  experiment,  but  it  was  no  go — 
they  wouldn’t  poll  him  ; so  they  brought  him 
back,  and  put  him  to  bed  again.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  13. 

ELECTION— A spirited. 

“And  what  are  the  probabilities  as  to  the 
result  of  the  contest  ?w  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Why,  doubtful,  my  dear  sir  ; rather  doubtful 
as  yet,”  replied  the  little  man.  “ Fizkin’s  peo- 
ple have  got  three-and-thirty  voters  in  the  lock- 
up coach-house  at  the  White  Hart.” 

“In  the  coach-house  ! ” said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
considerably  astonished  by  this  second  stroke 
of  policy. 

“ They  keep  ’em  locked  up  there  till  they 
want  ’em,”  resumed  the  little  man.  “ The 
effect  ol  that  is,  you  see,  to  prevent  our  getting 
at  them  ; and  even  if  we  could,  it  would  be  of 
no  use,  for  they  keep  them  very  drunk  on  pur- 
pose. Smart  fellow  Fizkin’s  agent — very  smart 
fellow  indeed.” 

Mr.  Pickwick  stared,  but  said  nothing. 

“We  are  pretty  confident,  though,”  said  Mr. 
Perker,  sinking  his  voice  almost  to  a whisper. 
“ We  had  a little  tea-party  here,  last  night — five- 
and-forty  women,  my  dear  sir — and  gave  every 
one  of  ’em  a green  parasol  when  she  went  away.” 

“ A parasol ! ” said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Fact,  my  dear  sir,  fact.  Five-and-forty 
green  parasols,  at  seven  and  sixpence  a-piece. 
All  women  like  finery, — extraordinary  the  effect 
of  those  parasols.  Secured  all  their  husbands, 
and  half  their  brothers — beats  stockings  and 
flannel,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  hollow.  My 
idea,  my  dear  sir,  entirely.  Hail,  rain,  or  sun- 
shine, you  can’t  walk  half  a dozen  yards  up  the 
street,  without  encountering  half  a dozen  green 
parasols.” — Pickwick , Chap.  13. 


ELECTION  CANDIDATES. 

Mr.  Horatio  Fizkin,  and  the  honorable  Sam- 
uel Slumkey,  with  their  hands  upon  their  hearts, 
were  bowing  with  the  utmost  affability  to  the 
troubled  sea  of  heads  that  inundated  the  open 
space  in  front ; and  from  whence  arose  a storm 
of  groans,  and  shouts,  and  yells,  and  hootings, 
that  would  have  done  honor  to  an  earthquake. 

Pickvjicky  Chap.  13. 

EMIGRANT  SHIP. 

Gigantic  in  the  basin  just  beyond  the  church 
looms  my  Emigrant  Ship,  her  name,  the  Ama- 
zon. Her  figure-head  is  not  ffwfigured,  as  those 
beauteous  founders  of  the  race  of  strong-minded 
women  are  fabled  to  have  been,  for  the  conve- 
nience of  drawing  the  bow  ; but  I sympathize 
with  the  carver : — 

“ A flattering  carver,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  carve  busts  as  they  ought  to  be,— not  as  they 
were.” 

My  Emigrant  Ship  lies  broadside  on-to  the  wharf* 
Two  great  gangvvays  made  of  spars  and  planks 
connect  her  with  the  wharf ; and  up  and  down 
these  gangways;  perpetually  crowding  to  and 
fro  and  in  and  out,  like  ants,  are  the  Emigrants 
who  are  going  to  sail  in  my  Emigrant  Ship. 
Some  with  cabbages,  some  with  loaves  of  bread, 
some  with  cheese  and  butter,  some  with  milk 
and  beer,  some  with  boxes,  beds,  and  bundles, 
some  with  babies — nearly  all  with  children — 
nearly  all  with  bran-new  tin  cans  for  their  daily 
allowance  of  water,  uncomfortably  suggestive 
of  a tin  flavor  in  the  drink.  To  and  fro,  up  and 
down,  aboard  and  ashore,  swarming  here  and 
there  and  everywhere,  my  Emigrants.  And 
still,  as  the  Dock  Gate  swings  upon  its  hinges, 
cabs  appear,  and  carts  appear,  and  vans  appear, 
bringing  more  of  my  Emigrants,  with  more 
cabbages,  more  loaves,  more  cheese  and  butter, 
more  milk  and  beer,  more  boxes,  beds,  and 
bundles,  more  tin  cans,  and  on  those  shipping 
investments  accumulated  compound  interest  of 
children. 

I go  aboard  my  Emigrant  Ship.  I go  first  to 
the  great  cabin,  and  find  it  in  the  usual  condi- 
tion of  a cabin  at  that  pass.  Perspiring  lands- 
men, with  loose  papers,  and  with  pens  and  ink- 
stands,  pervade  it ; and  the  general  appearance 
of  things  is  as  if  the  late  Mr.  Amazon’s  funeral 
had  just  come  home  from  the  cemetery,  and  the 
disconsolate  Mrs.  Amazon’s  trustees  found  the 
affairs  in  great  disorder,  and  were  looking  high 
and  low  for  the  will.  I go  out  on  the  poop- 
deck  for  air,  and,  surveying  the  emigrants  on 
the  deck  below  (indeed  they  are  crowded  all 
about  me,  up  there  too),  find  more  pens  and 
inkstands  in  action,  and  more  papers,  and  inter- 
minable complications  respecting  accounts  with 
individuals  for  tin  cans  and  what  not.  But  no- 
body is  in  an  ill-temper,  nobody  is  the  worse 
for  drink,  nobody  swears  an  oath  or  uses  a 
coarse  word,  nobody  appears  depressed,  nobody 
is  weeping  ; and  down  upon  the  deck,  in  every 
corner  where  it  is  possible  to  find  a few  square 
feet  to  kneel,  crouch,  or  lie  in,  people  in  every 
unsuitable  attitude  for  writing  are  writing  letters. 

Now,  I have  seen  emigrant  ships  before  this 
day  in  June.  And  these  people  are  so  strikingly 
different  from  all  other  people  in  like  circum- 
stances whom  I have  ever  seen,  that  I wonder 
aloud,  “What  would  a stranger  suppose  these 
emigrants  to  be  !” 


EMIGRANTS 


172 


ENERGY 


The  vigilant,  bright  face  of  the  weather- 
browned  captain  of  the  Amazon  is  at  my  shoul- 
der, and  he  says:  “What,  indeed  ! The  most 
of  these  came  aboard  yesterday  evening.  They 
came  from  various  parts  of  England  in  small 
parties  that  had  never  seen  one  another  before. 
Yet  they  had  not  been  a couple  of  hours  on 
board  when  they  established  their  own  police, 
made  their  own  regulations,  and  set  their  own 
watches  at  all  the  hatchways.  Before  nine 
o’clock  the  ship  was  as  orderly  and- as  quiet  as 
* a man-of-war.” 

I looked  about  me  again,  and  saw  the  letter- 
writing going  on  with  the  most  curious  com- 
posure. Perfectly  abstracted  in  the  midst  of 
the  crowd  ; while  great  casks  were  swinging 
aloft,  and  being  lowered  into  the  hold  ; while 
hot  agents  were  hurrying  up  and  down,  adjust- 
ing the  interminable  accounts  ; while  two  hun- 
dred strangers  were  searching  everywhere  for 
two  hundred  other  strangers,  and  were  asking 
questions  about  them  of  two  hundred  more  ; 
while  the  children  played  up  and  down  all  the 
steps,  and  in  and  out  among  all  the  people’s 
legs,  and  were  beheld,  to  the  general  dismay, 
toppling  over  all  the  dangerous  places, — the 
letter-writers  wrote  on  calmly.  On  the  star- 
board side  of  the  ship  a grizzled  man  dictated 
a long  letter  to  another  grizzled  man  in  an  im- 
mense fur  cap  ; which  letter  was  of  so  profound 
a quality,  that  it  became  necessary  for  the 
amanuensis  at  intervals  to  take  off  his  fur  cap 
in  both  his  hands,  for  the  ventilation  of  his 
brain,  and  stare  at  him  who  dictated,  as  a man 
of  many  mysteries,  who  was  worth  looking  at. 
On  the  larboard  side  a woman  had  covered  a 
belaying-pin  with  a white  cloth,  to  make  a neat 
desk  of  it,  and  was  sitting  on  a little  box,  writ- 
ing with  the  deliberation  of  a bookkeeper. 
Down  upon  her  breast  on  the  planks  of  the 
deck  at  this  woman's  feet,  with  her  head  diving 
in  under  a beam  of  the  bulwarks  on  that  side, 
as  an  eligible  place  of  refuge  for  her  sheet  of 
paper,  a neat  and  pretty  girl  wrote  for  a good 
hour  (she  fainted  at  last),  only  rising  to  the  sur- 
face occasionally  for  a dip  of  ink.  Alongside  the 
boat,  close  to  me  on  the  poop-deck,  another 
girl,  a fresh,"  well-grown  country  girl,  was  writ- 
ing another  letter  on  the  bare  deck.  Later  in 
the  day,  when  this  self-same  boat  was  filled 
with  a choir  who  sang  glees  and  catches  for  a 
long  time,  one  of  the  singers,  a girl,  sang  her 
part  mechanically  all  the  while,  and  wrote  a 
letter  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  while  doing  so. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  ig. 

EMIGRANTS— On  ship-board. 

There  were  English  people,  Irish  people, 
Welsh  people,  and  Scotch  people  there  ; all  with 
their  little  store  of  coarse  food  and  shabby 
clothes  ; and  nearly  all,  with  their  families  of 
children.  There  were  children  of  all  ages  ; 
from  the  baby  at  the  breast  to  the  slattern-girl 
who  was  as  much  a grown  woman  as  her  mother. 
Every  kind  of  domestic  suffering  that  is  bred  in 
poverty,  illness,  banishment,  sorrow,  and  long 
travel  in  bad  weather,  was  crammed  into  the 
lit  lie  space  ; and  yet  was  there  infinitely  less  of 
complaint  and  querulousness,  and  infinitely  more 
of  mutual  assistance  and  general  kindness  to  be 
found  in  that  unwholesome  ark,  than  in  many 
brilliant  ball-rooms. 

Mark  looked  about  him  wistfully,  and  his  face 


brightened  as  he  looked.  Here  an  old  grand- 
mother was  crooning  over  a sick  child,  and  rock- 
ing it  to  and  fro,  in  arms  hardly  more  wasted 
than  its  own  young  limbs  ; here  a poor  woman 
with  an  infant  in  her  lap,  mended  another  little 
creature’s  clothes,  and  quieted  another  who  was 
creeping  up  about  her  from  their  scanty  bed 
upon  the  floor.  Here  were  old  men  awkwardly 
engaged  in  little  household  offices,  wherein  they 
would  have  been  ridiculous  but  for  their  good- 
will and  kind  purpose  ; and  here  were  swarthy 
fellows— giants  in  their  way — doing  such  little 
acts  of  tenderness  for  those  about  them,  as  might 
have  belonged  to  gentlest-hearted  dwarfs.  The 
very  idiot  in  the  corner  who  sat  mowing  there 
all  day,  had  his  faculty  of  imitation  roused  by 
what  he  saw  about  him  ; and  snapped  his  fin- 
gers, to  amuse  a crying  child. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  15. 

EMBRACE— An  earnest. 

You  never  will  derive  so  much  delight  from 
seeing  a glorious  little  woman  in  the  arms  of  a 
third  party,  as  you  would  have  felt  if  you  had 
seen  Dot  run  into  the  Carrier’s  embrace.  It  was 
the  most  complete,  unmitigated,  soul-fraught 
little  piece  of  earnestness  that  ever  you  beheld 
in  all  your  days. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  3. 

EMBRACE— An;  likened  to  the  path  of 
virtue. 

By-and-by,  I noticed  Wemmick’s  arm  begin- 
ning to  disappear  again,  and  gradually  fading 
out  of  view.  Shortly  afterward,  his  mouth  be- 
gan to  widen  again.  After  an  interval  of  sus- 
pense on  my  part  that  was  quite  enthralling  and 
almost  painful,  I saw  his  hand  appear  on  the 
other  side  of  Miss  Skiffins.  Instantly,  Miss 
Skiffins  stopped  it  with  the  neatness  of  a placid 
boxer,  took  off  that  girdle  or  cestus  as  before, 
and  laid  it  on  the  table.  Taking  the  table  to 
represent  the  path  of  virtue,  I am  justified  in 
stating  that  during  the  whole  time  of  the  Aged’s 
reading,  Wemmick’s  arm  was  straying  from  the 
path  of  virtue  and  being  recalled  to  it  by  Miss 
Skiffins. — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  37. 

EMBRACE- An. 

“ A fraternal  railing.” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  14. 

ENTHUSIASM. 

“ We  are  all  enthusiastic,  are  we  not,  Mam- 
ma? ” said  Edith,  wuth  a cold  smile. 

“ Too  much  so  for  our  peace,  perhaps,  my 
dear,”  returned  her  mother;  “but  we  won’t 
complain.  Our  own  emotions  are  our  recom- 
pense. If,  as  your  cousin  Feenix  says,  the  sword 
wears  out  the  what’s-its-name — ” 

“ The  scabbard,  perhaps,”  -said  Edith. 

“ Exactly— a little  too  fast,  it  is  because  it  is 
bright  and  glowing,  you  know,  my  dearest  love.” 

Dombey  & Ion,  Chap.  27. 

ENERGY. 

“ Then  idiots  talk,”  said  Eugene,  leaning 
back,  folding  his  arms,  smoking  with  his  eyes 
shut,  and  speaking  slightly  through  his  nose, 
“ of  Energy.  If  there  is  a word  in  the  dictionary 
under  any  letter  from  A to  Z that  I abominate, 
it  is  energy.  It  is  such  a conventional  supersti- 
tion, such  parrot  gabble  ! What  the  deuce  ! Am 


ENGLISHMEN 


173 


EVENING 


I to  rush  out  into  the  street,  collar  the  first  man 
of  a wealthy  appearance  that  I meet,  shake  him, 
and  say,  ‘ Go  to  law  upon  the  spot,  you  dog,  and 
retain  me,  or  I’ll  be  the  death  of  you  ? ’ Yet  that 
would  be  energy.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

ENGLISHMEN— As  travellers. 

We  left  Philadelphia  by  steamboat  at  six 
o’clock  one  very  cold  morning*  and  turned  our 
faces  towards  Washington. 

In  the  course  of  this  day’s  journey,  as  on  sub- 
sequent occasions,  we  encountered  some  Eng- 
lishmen (small  farmers,  perhaps,  or  country 
publicans  at  home)  who  were  settled  in  America, 
and  were  travelling  on  their  own  affairs.  Of  all 
grades  and  kinds  of  men  that  jostle  one  in  the 
public  conveyances  of  the  States,  these  are  often 
the  most  intolerable  and  the  most  insufferable 
companions.  United  to  every  disagreeable 
characteristic  that  the  worst  kind  of  American 
travellers  possess,  these  countrymen  of  ours  dis- 
play an  amount  of  insolent  conceit  and  cool  as- 
sumption of  superiority  quite  monstrous  to 
behold.  In  the  coarse  familiarity  of  their  ap- 
proach, and  the  effrontery  of  their  inquisitive- 
ness (which  they  are  in  great  haste  to  assert,  as 
if  they  panted  to  revenge  themselves  upon  the 
decent  old  restraints  of  home),  they  surpass  any 
native  specimens  that  came  within  my  range  of 
observation  ; and  I often  grew  so  patriotic, 
wrhen  I saw  and  heard  them,  that  I would  cheer- 
fully have  submitted  to  a reasonable  fine,  if  I 
could  have  given  any  other  country  in  the  whole 
world  the  honor  of  claiming  them  for  its  chil- 
dren.— American  Notes , Chap.  8. 

EPIDEMICS— Moral. 

That  it  is  at  least  as  difficult  to  stay  a moral 
infection  as  a physical  one  ; that  such  a disease 
will  spread  with  the  malignity  and  rapidity  of 
the  Plague  ; that  the  contagion,  when  it  has 
once  made  head,  will  spare  no  pursuit  or  condi- 
tion, but  will  lay  hold  on  people  in  the  soundest 
health,  and  become  developed  in  the  most  un- 
likely constitutions,  is  a fact  as  firmly  established 
by  experience  as  that  we  human  creatures 
breathe  an  atmosphere.  A blessing  beyond  ap- 
preciation would  be  conferred  upon  mankind,  if 
the  tainted,  in  whose  weakness  or  wickedness 
these  virulent  disorders  are  bred,  could  be  in- 
stantly seized  and  placed  in  close  confinement 
(not  to  say  summarily  smothered)  before  the 
poison  is  communicable. 

* * * * * 

Bred  at  first,  as  many  physical  diseases  are,  in 
the  wickedness  of  men,  and  then  disseminated 
in  their  ignorance,  these  epidemics,  after  a 
period,  get  communicated  to  many  sufferers  who 
are  neither  ignorant  nor  wicked.  Mr.  Pancks 
might  or  might  not  have  caught  the  illness  him- 
self from  a subject  of  this  class  ; but,  in  this 
category  he  appeared  before  Clennam,  and  the 
infection  he  threw  off  was  all  the  more  virulent. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  II.,  Chap.  13. 

EPITHET— Definition  of  an. 

A very  common  imprecation  concerning  the 
most  beautiful  of  human  features : which,  if  it 
were  heard  above,  only  once  out  of  every  fifty 
thousand  times  that  it  is  uttered  below,  would 
render  blindness  as  common  a disorder  as 
measles. — Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  16. 


ESSAY— Pott’s  mode  of  preparing-  an. 

“ They  appeared  in  the  form  of  a copious  re- 
view of  a work  on  Chinese  metaphysics,  sir,” 
said  Pott. 

“ Oh,”  observed  Mr.  Pickwick  ; “ from  your 
pen,  I hope?” 

“From  the  pen  of  my  critic,  sir,”  rejoined 
Pott,  with  dignity. 

“ An  abstruse  subject,  I should  conceive,” 
said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Very,  sir,”  responded  Pott,  looking  in- 
tensely sage.  “ He  crammed  for  it,  to  use  a 
technical  but  expressive  term  ; he  read  up  for 
the  subject,  at  my  desire,  in  the  Encyclopcedia 
Bi  itannica.” 

“ Indeed  ! ” said  Mr.  Pickwick  ; “ I was  not 
aware  that  that  valuable  work  contained  any 
information  respecting  Chinese  metaphysics.” 

“ He  read,  sir,”  rejoined  Pott,  laying  his  hand 
on  Mr.  Pickwick’s  knee,  and  looking  around 
with  a smile  of  intellectual  superiority,  “ he 
read  for  metaphysics  under  the  letter  M,  and 
for  China  under  the  letter  C,  and  combined  his 
information,  sir  ! ” — Pickwick,  Chap.  51. 

ETERNITY. 

Alas,  alas  ! that  the  few  bubbles  on  the  sur- 
face of  eternity — all  that  Heaven  wills  we  should 
see  of  that  dark,  deep  Stream — should  be  so 
lightly  scattered ! — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  6. 

EVIDENCE-Of  a witness. 

I remember,  too,  how  hard  her  mistress  was 
upon  her  (she  was  a servant  of  all  work),  and 
with  what  a cruel  pertinacity  that  piece  of  Vir- 
tue spun  her  thread  of  evidence  double  by  in- 
tertwisting it  with  the  sternest  thread  of  con- 
struction.— Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  18. 

EVIDENCE— Circumstantial. 

In  his  lay  capacity,  he  persisted  in  sitting 
down  in  the'  damp  to  such  an  insane  extent, 
that  when  his  coat  was  taken  off  to  be  dried  at 
the  kitchen  fire,  the  circumstantial  evidence  on 
his  trousers  would  have  hanged  him  if  it  had  been 
a capital  offence. — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  6. 

EVENING— The  influences  of  a summer. 

No  doubt  there  are  a great  many  things  to 
be  said  appropriate  to  a summer  evening,  and 
no  doubt  they  are  best  said  in  a low  voice,  as 
being  most  suitable  to  the  peace  and  serenity 
of  the  hour  ; long  pauses,  too,  at  times,  and 
then  an  earnest  word  or  so,  and  then  another 
interval  of  silence,  which,  somehow,  does  not 
seem  like  silence,  either  ; and  perhaps  now  and 
then  a hasty  turning  away  of  the  head,  or  droop- 
ing of  the  eyes  towards  the  ground,  all  these 
minor  circumstances,  with  a disinclination  to 
have  candles  introduced  and  a tendency  to  con- 
fuse hours  with  minutes,  are  doubtless  mere  in- 
fluences of  the  time,  as  many  lovely  lips  can 
clearly  testify. — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  49. 

EVENING— A summer  Sunday. 

It  was  a hot  summer  Sunday  evening.  The 
residence  in  the  centre  of  the  habitable  globe, 
at  all  times  stuffed  and  close  as  if  it  had  an  in- 
curable cold  in  its  head,  was  that  evening  par- 
ticularly stifling.  The  bells  of  the  churches 
had  done  their  worst  in  the  way  of  clanging 
among  the  unmelodious  echoes  of  the  streets, 
and  the  lighted  windows  of  the  churches  had 


EVENING 


174 


EXAGGERATION 


ceased  to  be  yellow  in  the  gray  dusk,  and  had 
died  out  opaque  black. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  24. 

EVENING  -In  the  city. 

The  City  looked  unpromising  enough,  as 
Bella  made  her  way  along  its  gritty  streets. 
Most  of  its  money-mills  were  slackening  sail, 
or  had  left  off  grinding  for  the  day.  The  mas- 
ter-millers had  already  departed,  and  the  jour- 
neymen were  departing.  There  was  a jaded 
aspect  on  the  business  lanes  and  courts,  and 
the  very  pavements  had  a weary  appearance, 
confused  by  the  tread  of  a million  of  feet. 
There  must  be  hours  of  night  to  temper  down 
the  day’s  distraction  of  so  feverish  a place. 
As  yet  the  worry  of  the  newlv-stopped  whirling 
and  grinding  on  the  part  of  the  money -mills 
seemed  to  linger  in  the  air,  and  the  quiet  was 
more  like  the  prostration  of  a spent  giant  than 
the  repose  of  one  who  was  renewing  his  strength. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  III. , Chap.  16. 

EVENING -in  London— A dusty. 

A gray,  dusty,  withered  evening  in  London 
city  has  not  a hopeful  aspect.  The  closed 
warehouses  and  offices  have  an  air  of  death 
about  them,  and  the  national  dread  of  color 
has  an  air  of  mourning.  The  towers  and 
steeples  of  the  many  house-encompassed 
churches,  dark  and  dingy  as  the  sky  that 
seems  descending  on  them,  are  no  relief  to  the 
general  gloom  ; a sun-dial  on  a church  wall 
has  the  look,  in  its  useless  black  shade,  of  hav- 
ing failed  in  its  business  enterprise  and  stopped 
payment  forever  ; melancholy  waifs  and  strays 
of  housekeepers  and  porters  sweep  melancholy 
waifs  and  strays  of  papers  and  pins  into  the 
kennels,  and  other  more  melancholy  waifs  and 
strays  explore  them,  searching  and  stooping  and 
poking  for  anything  to  sell. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  //.,  Chap.  15. 

EVENING— In  the  spring-time. 

It  was  a lovely  evening,  in  the  spring-time  of 
the  year  ; and  in  the  soft  stillness  of  the  twi- 
light, all  nature  was  very  calm  and  beautiful. 
The  day  had  been  fine  and  warm  ; but  at  the 
coming  on  of  night  the  air  grew  cool,  and  in 
the  mellowing  distance,  smoke  was  rising  gently 
from  the  cottage  chimneys.  There  were  a thou- 
sand pleasant  scents  diffused  around,  from 
young  leaves  and  fresh  buds  ; the  cuckoo  had 
been  singing  all  day  long,  and  was  but  just  now 
hushed  ; the  smell  of  earth  newly  upturned,  first 
breath  of  hope  to  the  first  laborer,  after  his  gar- 
den withered,  was  fragrant  in  the  evening  breeze. 
It  was  a time  when  most  men  cherish  good  re- 
solves, and  sorrow  for  the  wasted  past ; when 
most  men,  looking  on  the  shadows,  as  they 
gather,  think  of  that  evening  which  must  close 
on  all,  and  that  to-morrow  which  has  none  be- 
yond.— Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  20. 

EVENING-An  autumn. 

A moment,  and  its  glory  was  no  more.  The 
sun  went  down  beneath  the  long  dark  lines,  of 
hill  and  cloud  which  piled  up  in  the  west  an 
airy  city,  wall  heaped  on  wall,  and  battlement 
on  battlement ; the  light  was  all  withdrawn  ; the 
shining  church  turned  cold  and  dark  ; the  stream 
forgot  to  smile  ; the  birds  were  silent ; and  the 
gloom  of  winter  dwelt  on  everything 


An  evening  wind  uprose  too,  and  the  slighter 
branches  cracked  and  rattled  as  they  moved,  in 
skeleton  dances,  to  its  moaning  music.  The 
withering  leaves,  no  longer  quiet,  hurried  to  and 
fro,  in  search  of  shelter  from  its  chill  pursuit ; 
the  laborer  unyoked  his  horses,  and  with  head 
bent  down,  trudged  briskly  home  beside  them  ; 
and  from  the  cottage  windows  lights  began  to 
glance  and  wink  upon  the  darkening  fields. 

Then  the  village  forge  came  out  in  all  its 
bright  importance.  The  lusty  bellows  roared 
Ha,  ha  ! to  the  clear  fire,  which  roared  in  turn, 
and  bade  the  shining  sparks  dance  gaily  to  the 
merry«clinking  of  the  hammers  on  the  anvil. 
The  gleaming  iron,  in  its  emulation,  sparkled 
too,  and  shed  its  red-hot  gems  around  profusely. 
The  strong  smith  and  his  men  dealt  such  strokes 
upon  iheir  work  as  made  even  the  melancholy 
night  rejoice,  and  brought  a glow  into  its  dark 
face  as  it  hovered  about  the  door  and  windows, 
peeping  curiously  in  above  the  shoulders  of  a 
dozen  loungers.  As  to  this  idle  company,  there 
they  stood,  spell-bound  by  the  place,  and,  cast- 
ing now  and  then  a glance  upon  the  darkness 
in  their  rear,  settled  their  lazy  elbows  more  at 
ease  upon  the  sill,  and  leaned  a little  further  in  : 
no  more  disposed  to  tear  themselves  away,  than 
if  they  had  been  born  to  cluster  round  the  blaz- 
ing hearth  like  so  many  crickets. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  2. 

EXAGGERATION  -Of  Caleb  Plummer. 

“ So  you  were  out  in  the  rain  last  night,  father, 
in  your  beautiful  new  great-coat,”  said  Caleb’s 
daughter. 

“ In  my  beautiful  new  great-coat,”  answered 
Caleb,  glancing  towards  a clothes-line  in  the 
room,  on  which  the  sackcloth  garment,  previous- 
ly described,  was  carefully  hung  up  to  dry. 

“ How  glad  I am  you  bought  it,  father!” 

“ And  of  such  a tailor,  too,”  said  Caleb. 
“ Quite  a fashionable  tailor.  It’s  too  good  for 
me.” 

The  Blind  Girl  rested  from  her  work,  and 
laughed  with  delight.  “Too  good,  father! 
What  can  be  too  good  for  you?” 

“ I’m  half  ashamed  to  wear  it  though,”  said 
Caleb,  watching  the  effect  of  what  he  said,  upon 
her  brightening  face,  “upon  my  word  ! When 
I hear  the  boys  and  people  say  behind  me, 
‘ Hal-loa  ! Here’s  a swell ! ’ I don’t  know  which 
way  to  look.  And  when  the  beggar  wouldn’t 
go  away  last  night ; and,  when  I said  I was  a 
very  common  man,  said  ‘No,  your  Honor! 
Bless  your  Honor,  don’t  say  that !’  I was  quite 
ashamed.  I really  felt  as  if  I hadn’t  a right  to 
wear  it.” 

Happy  Blind  Girl ! How  merry  she  was  in 
her  exultation  ! 

“ I see  you,  father,”  she  said,  clasping  her 
hands,  “ as  plainly,  as  if  I had  the  eyes  I never 
want  when  you  are  with  me.  A blue  coat — ” 

“ Bright  blue,”  said  Caleb. 

“ Yes,  yes  ! Bright  blue  ! ” exclaimed  the  girl, 
turning  up  her  radiant  face  ; “ the  color  I can 
just  remember  in  the  blessed  sky  ! You  told  me 
it  was  blue  before  ! A bright  blue  coat — ” 

“ Made  loose  to  the  figure,”  suggested  Caleb. 

“Yes!  loose  to  the  figure!”  cried  the  Blind 
Girl,  laughing  heartily;  “and  in  it,  you,  dear 
father,  with  your  merry  eye,  your  smiling  face, 
your  free  step,  and  your  dark  hair — looking  so 
young  and  handsome  1” 


EXECUTION 


175 


EXECUTION 


“ Halloa ! Halloa  ! ” said  Caleb.  “ I shall 
be  vain,  presently.” 

“/  think  you  are,  already,”  cried  the  Blind 
Girl,  pointing  at  him,  in  her  glee.  “ I know 
you,  father]  Ha,  ha,  ha!  I’ve  found  you  out, 
you  see  ! ” 

H ow  different  the  picture  in  her  mind,  from 
Caleb,  as  he  sat  observing  her  ! She  had  spoken 
of  his  free  step.  She  was  right  in  that.  For 
years  and  years,  he  had  never  once  crossed  that 
threshold  at  his  own  slow  pace,  but  with  a foot- 
fall counterfeited  for  her  ear  ; and  never  had  he, 
when  his  heart  was  heaviest,  forgotten  the  light 
tread  that  was  to  render  hers  so  cheerful  and 
courageous ! 

Heaven  knows  ! But  I think  Caleb’s  vague 
bewilderment  of  manner  may  have  half  origin- 
ated in  his  having  confused  himself  about  him- 
self and  everything  around  him,  for  the  love  of 
his  Blind  Daughter.  How  could  the  little  man 
be  otherwise  than  bewildered,  after  laboring  for 
so  many  years  to  destroy  his  own  identity,  and 
that  of  all  the  objects  that  had  any  bearing  on  it? 

“ There  we  are,”  said  Caleb,  falling  back  a 
pace  or  two  to  form  the  better  judgment  of  his 
work  ; “ as  near  the  real  thing  as  sixpenn’orth 
of  halfpence  is  to  sixpence.  What  a pity  that 
the  whole  front  of  the  house  opens  at  once  ! If 
there  was  only  a staircase  in  it,  now,  and  regu- 
lar doors  to  the  rooms  to  go  in  at ! But  that’s 
the  worst  of  my  calling,  I’m  always  deluding 
myself,  and  swindling  myself.” 

“You  are  speaking  quite  softly.  You  are  not 
tired,  father?” 

“ Tired,”  echoed  Caleb,  with  a great  burst  of 
animation,  “what  should  tire  me,  Bertha?  /was 
never  tired.  What  does  it  mean?” 

To  give  the  greater  force  to  his  words,  he 
checked  himself  in  an  involuntary  imitation  of 
two  half-length  stretching  and  yawning  figures 
on  the  mantel-shelf,  who  were  represented  as  in 
one  eternal  State  of  weariness  from  the  waist 
upwards  ; and  hummed  a fragment  of  a song. 
It  was  a Bacchanalian  song,  something  about  a 
Sparkling  Bowl.  He  sang  it  with  an  assump- 
tion of  a Devil-may-care  voice,  that  made  his 
face  a thousand  times  more  meagre  and  more 
thoughtful  than  ever. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  2. 

EXECUTION— The  gallows. 

The  time  wore  on.  The  noises  in  the  streets 
became  less  frequent  by  degrees,  until  silence 
was  scarcely  broken  save  by  the  bells  in  church 
towers,  marking  the  progress — softer  and  more 
stealthy  while  the  city  slumbered — of  that  Great 
Watcher  with  the  hoary  head,  who  never  sleeps 
or  rests.  In  the  brief  interval  of  darkness  and 
repose  which  feverish  towns  enjoy,  all  busy 
sounds  were  hushed  ; and  those  who  awoke  from 
dreams  lay  listening  in  their  beds,  and  longed 
for  dawn,  and  wished  the  dead  of  the  night  were 
past. 

Into  the  street  outside  the  jail’s  main  wall, 
workmen  came  straggling  at  this  solemn  hour, 
in  groups  of  two  or  three,  and  meeting  in  the 
centre,  cast  their  tools  upon  the  ground  and 
spoke  in  whispers.  Others  soon  issued  from  the 
jail  itself,  bearing  on  their  shoulders  planks  and 
beams  ; these  materials  being  all  brought  forth, 
the  rest  bestirred  themselves,  and  the  dull  sound 
of  hammers  began  to  echo  through  the  still- 
ness. 


Here  and  there  among  this  knot  of  laborers, 
one,  with  a lantern  or  a smoky  link,  stood  by  to 
light  his  fellows  at  their  work  ; and  by  its  doubt- 
ful aid,  some  might  be  dimly  seen  taking  up  the 
pavement  of  the  road,  while  others  held  great 
upright  posts,  or  fixed  them  in  the  holes  thus 
made  for  their  reception.  Some  dragged  slowly 
on  towards  the  rest  an  empty  cart,  which  they 
brought  rumbling  from  the  prison  yard  ; while 
others  erected  strong  barriers  across  the  street. 
All  were  busily  engaged.  Their  dusky  figures 
moving  to  and  fro,  at  that  unusual  hour,  so 
active  and  so  silent,  might  have  been  taken  for 
those  of  shadowy  creatures  toiling  at  midnight 
on  some  ghostly,  unsubstantial  work,  which, 
like  themselves,  would  vanish  with  the  first 
gleam  of  day,  and  leave  but  morning  mist  and 
vapor. 

While  it  was  yet  dark,  a few  lookers-on  col- 
lected, who  had  plainly  come  there  for  the  pur- 
pose and  intended  to  remain  : even  those  who 
had  to  pass  the  spot  on  their  way  to  some  other 
place,  lingered  yet,  as  though  the  attraction  of 
that  were  irresistible.  Meanwhile  the  noise  of 
saw  and  mallet  went  on  briskly,  mingled  with 
the  clattering  of  boards  on  the  stone  pavement 
of  the  road; and  sometimes  with  the  workmen's 
voices  as  they  called  to  one  another.  Whenever 
the  chimes  of  the  neighboring  church  were  heard 
— and  that  was  every  quarter  of  an  hour — a 
strange  sensation,  instantaneous  and  indescrib- 
able, but  perfectly  obvious,  seemed  to  pervade 
them  all. 

Gradually  a faint  brightness  appealed  in  the 
east,  and  the  air,  which  had  been  very  warm 
all  through  the  night,  felt  cool  and  chilly. 
Though  there  was  no  daylight  yet,  the  darkness 
was  diminished,  and  the  stars  looked  pale.  The 
prison,  which  had  been  a mere  black  mass  with 
little  shape  or  form,  put  on  its  usual  aspect ; and 
ever  and  anon  a solitary  watchman  could  be 
seen  upon  its  roof,  stopping  to  look  down  upon 
the  preparations  in  the  street.  This  man,  from 
formifig,  as  it  were,  a part  of  the  jail,  and  know- 
ing, or  being  supposed  to  know,  all  that  was 
passing  within,  became  an  object  of  as  much 
interest,  and  was  as  eagerly  looked  for,  and  as 
awfully  pointed  out,  as  if  he  had  been  a spirit. 

By-and-bye,  the  feeble  light  grew  stronger,  and 
the  houses,  with  their  sign  boards  and  inscrip- 
tions, stood  plainly  out,  in  the  dull  gray  morning. 
Heavy  stage  wagons  crawled  from  the  inn-yard 
opposite,  and  travellers  peeped  out  ; and  as 
they  rolled  sluggishly  away,  cast  many  a back- 
ward look  towards  the  jail.  And  now  the  sun’s 
first  beams  came  glancing  into  the  street  ; and 
the  night’s  work,  which,  in  its  various  stages  and 
in  the  varied  fancies  of  the  lookers-on  had  taken 
a hundred  shapes,  wore  its  own  proper  form — a 
scaffold  and  a gibbet. 

As  the  warmth  of  cheerful  day  began  to  shed 
itself  upon  the  scanty  crowd,  the  murmur  of 
tongues  was  heard,  shutters  were  thrown  open 
and  blinds  drawn  up,  and  those  who  had  slept 
in  rooms  over  against  the  prison,  where  places 
to  see  the  execution  were  let  at  high  prices,  rose 
hastily  from  their  beds.  In  some  of  the  houses, 
people  were  busy  taking  out  the  window  sashes 
for  the  better  accommodation  of  spectators  ; in 
others,  the  spectators  were  already  seated,  and 
beguiling  the  time  with  cards,  or  drinks,  or  jokes 
among  themselves.  Some  had  purchased  seats 
upon  the  house-tops,  and  were  already  crawling 


EXECUTION  170  EXECUTION 


to  their  stations  from  parapet  and  garret  win- 
dow. Some  were  yet  bargaining  for  good  places, 
and  stood  in  them  in  a slate  of  indecision  ; 
gazing  at  the  slowly-swelling  crowd,  and  at  the 
workmen  as  they  rested  listlessly  against  the 
scaffold — affecting  to  listen  with  indifference  to 
the  proprietor’s  eulogy  of  the  commanding  view 
his  house  afforded,  and  the  surpassing  cheapness 
of  his  terms. 

A fairer  morning  never  shone.  From  the 
roofs  and  upper  storie.s  of  these  buildings,  the 
spires  of  city  churches  and  the  great  cathedral 
dome  were  visible,  rising  up  beyond  the  prison, 
into  the  blue  sky,  and  clad  in  the  color  of  light 
summer  clouds,  and  showing  in  the  clear  atmos- 
phere their  every  scrap  of  tracery  and  fret-work, 
and  every  niche  and  -loophole.  All  was  bright- 
ness and  promise,  excepting  in  the  street  below, 
into  which  (for  it  yet  lay  in  shadow)  the  eye 
looked  down  as  into  a dark  trench,  where,  in 
the  midst  of  so  much  life,  and  hope,  and  re- 
newal of  existence,  stood  the  terrible  instrument 
of  death.  It  seemed  as  if  the  very  sun  forebore 
to  look  upon  it. 

But  it  was  better,  grim  and  sombre  in  the 
shade,  than  when,  the  day  being  more  advanced, 
it  stood  confessed  in  the  full  glare  and  glory  of 
the  sun,  with  its  black  paint  blistering,  and  its 
nooses  dangling  in  the  light  like  loathsome  gar- 
lands. It  was  better  in  the  solitude  and  gloom 
of  midnight,  with  a few  forms  clustering  about  it, 
than  in  the  freshness  and  the  stir  of  morning, 
the  centre  of  an  eager  crowd.  It  was  better 
haunting  the  street  like  a spectre,  when  men 
were  in  their  beds,  and  influencing  perchance 
the  city’s  dreams,  than  braving  the  broad  day, 
and  thrusting  its  obscene  presence  upon  their 
waking  senses. 

Five  o’clock  had  struck — six  — seven — and 
eight.  Along  the  two  main  streets  at  either  end 
of  the  cross-way,  a living  stream  had  now  set  in, 
rolling  towards  the  marts  of  gain  and  business. 
Carts,  coaches,  wagons,  trucks,  and  barrows, 
forced  a passage  through  the  outskirts  of  the 
throng,  and  clattered  onward  in  the  same  direc- 
tion. Some  of  these,  which  were  public  convey- 
ances and  had  come  from  a short  distance  in  the 
country,  stopped  ; and  the  driver  pointed  to  the 
gibbet  with  his  whip,  though  he  might  have 
spared  himself  the  pains,  for  the  heads  of  all  the 
passengers  were  turned  that  way  without  his 
help,  and  the  coach  windows  were  stuck  full  of 
staring  eyes.  In  some  of  the  carts  and  wagons, 
women  might  be  seen,  glancing  fearfully  at  the 
same  unsightly  thing  ; and  even  little  children 
were  held  up  above  the  people’s  heads  to  see 
what  kind  of  toy  a gallows  was,  and  learn  how 
men  were  hanged. 

Two  rioters  were  to  die  before  the  prison,  who 
had  been  concerned  in  the  attack  upon  it ; and 
one  directly  afterwards  in  Bloomsbury  Square. 

* -x-  -x-  * -x- 

As  the  hour  approached,  a buzz  and  hum  arose, 
which,  deepening  every  moment,  soon  swelled 
into  a roar,  and  seemed  to  fill  the  air.  No 
words  or  even  voices  could  be  distinguished  in 
this  clamor,  nor  did  they  speak  much  to  each 
other ; though  such  as  were  better  informed 
upon  the  topic  than  the  rest,  would  tell  their 
neighbors,  perhaps,  that  they  might  know  the 
hangman  when  he  came  out,  by  his  being  the 
shorter  one:  and  that  the  man  who  was  to  suffer 
with  him  was  named  Hugh:  and  that  it  was 


Barnaby  Kudge  who  would  be  hanged  in 
Bloomsbury  Square. 

The  hum  grew,  as  the  time  drew  near,  so 
loud,  that  those  who  were  at  the  windows  could 
not  hear  the  church-clock  strike,  though  it  was 
close  at,  hand.  Nor  had  they  any  need  to  hear 
it,  either,  for  they  could  see  it  in  the  people’s 
faces.  So  surely  as  another  quarter  chimed, 
there  was  a movement  in  the  crowd — as  if 
something  had  passed  over  it — as  if  the  light 
upon  them  had  been  changed — in  which  the 
fact  was  readable  as  on  a brazen  dial,  figured 
by  a giant’s  hand. 

Three  quarters  past  eleven  ! The  murmur  now 
was  deafening,  yet  every  man  seemed  mute. 
Look  where  you  would  among  the  crowd,  you 
saw  strained  eyes  and  lips  compressed  ; it  would 
have  been  difficult  for  the  most  vigilant  observer 
to  point  this  way  or  that,  and  say  that  yonder 
man  had  cried  out.  It  were  as  easy  to  detect 
the  motion  of  lips  in  a sea-shell. 

Three  quarters  past  eleven!  Many  specta- 
tors who  had  retired  from  the  windows  came 
back  refreshed,  as  though  their  watch  had  just 
begun.  Those  who  had  fallen  asleep  roused 
themselves ; and  every  person  in  the  crowd 
made  one  last  effort  to  better  his  position — 
which  caused  a press  against  the  sturdy  barriers 
that  made  them  bend  and  yield  like  twigs. 
The  officers,  who  until  now  had  kept  together, 
fell  into  their  several  positions,  and  gave  the 
words  of  command.  Swords  were  drawn,  mus- 
kets shouldered,  and  the  bright  steel,  winding 
its  way  among  the  crowd,  gleamed  and  glittered 
in  the  sun  like  a river.  Along  this  shining  path 
two  men  came  hurrying  on,  leading  a horse, 
which  was  speedily  harnessed  to  the  cart  at  the 
prison  door.  Then,  a profound  silence  replaced 
the  tumult  that  had  so  long  been  gathering,  and 
a breathless  pause  ensued.  Every  window  was 
now  choked  up  with  heads  ; the  house-tops  teem- 
ed with  people — clinging  to  chimneys,  peering 
over  gable-ends,  and  holding  on  where  the  sud- 
den loosening  of  any  brick  or  stone  would  dash 
them  down  into  the  street.  The  church-tower, 
the  church-roof,  the  church-yard,  the  prison- 
leads,  the  very  water-spouts  and  lamp-posts — 
every  inch  of  room — swarmed  with  human  life. 

At  the  first  stroke  of  twelve  the  prison-bell 
began  to  toll.  Then  the  roar — mingled  now 
with  cries  of  “ Hats  off ! ” and  “ Poor  fellows  ! ” 
and,  from  some  specks  in  the  great  concourse, 
with  a shriek  or  groan— burst  forth  again.  It 
was  terrible  to  see — if  any  one  in  that  distrac- 
tion of  excitement  could  have  seen — the  world 
of  eager  eyes,  all  strained  upon  the  scaffold  and 
the  beam. — Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  77. 

EXECUTION  OF  FAGIN— Hours  preced- 
ing- the. 

Pie  sat  down  on  a stone  bench  opposite  the 
door,  which  served  for  scat  and  bedstead  ; and 
casting  his  bloodshot  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
tried  to  collect  his  thoughts.  After  a while,  he 
began  to  remember  a few  disjointed  fragments 
of  what  the  judge  had  said  : though  it  had 
seemed  to  him,  at  the  time,  that  he  could  not 
hear  a word.  These  gradually  fell  into  their 
proper  places,  and  by  degrees  suggested  more  : 
so  that  in  a little  time  he  had  the  whole,  almost 
as  it  was  delivered.  To  be  hanged  by  the  neck, 
till  he  was  dead — that  w'as  the  end.  To  be 
hanged  by  the  neck  till  he  was  dead. 


EXECUTION 


177 


EXPRESSION 


As  it  came  on  very  dark,  he  began  to  tfrink 
of  all  the  men  he  had  known  who  had  died 
upon  the  scaffold  ; some  of  them  through  his 
means.  They  rose  up  in  such  quick  succession, 
that  he  could  hardly  count  them.  He  had  seen 
some  of  them  die — and  had  joked,  too,  because 
they  died  with  prayers  upon  their  lips.  With 
what  a rattling  noise  the  drop  went  down  ; and 
how  suddenly  they  changed,  from  strong  and 
vigorous  men  to  dangling  heaps  of  clothes  ! 

Some  of  them  might  have  inhabited  that  very 
cell — sat  upon  that  very  spot.  It  was  very 
dark;  why  didn’t  they  bring  a light?  The  cell 
had  been  built  for  many  years.  Scores  of  men 
must  have  passed  their  last  hours  there.  It 
was  like  sitting  in  a vault  strewn  with  dead 
bodies — the  cap,  the  noose,  the  pinioned  arms, 
the  faces  that  he  knew,  even  beneath  that  hid- 
eous veil. — Light,  light  ! 

At  length,  when-  his  hands  were  raw  with 
beating  against  the  heavy  door  and  walls,  two 
men  appeared : one  bearing  a candle,  which 
he  thrust  into  an  iron  candlestick  fixed  against 
the  wall : the  other  dragging  in  a mattress  on 
which  to  pass  the  night ; for  the  pfrisoner  was 
to  be  left  alone  no  more. 

Then  came  night — dark,  dismal,  silent  night. 
Other  watchers  are  glad  to  hear  the  church- 
clocks  strike,  for  they  tell  of  life  and  coming 
day.  To  the  Jew  they  brought  despair.  The 
boom  of  every  iron  bell  came  laden  with  the 
one,  deep,  hollow  sound — Death.  What  availed 
the  noise  and  bustle  of  cheerful  morning,  which 
penetrated  even  there,  to  him  ? It  was  another 
form  of  knell,  with  mockery  added  to  the  warn- 
ing. 

The  day  passed  off — day  ! — there  was  no 
day  ; it  was  gone  as  soon  as  come — and  night 
came  on  again  ; night  so  long,  and  yet  so  short ; 
long  in  its  dreadful  silence,  and  short  in  its  fleet- 
ing hours.  At  one  time  he  raved  and  blas- 
phemed, and  at  another  howled  and  tore  his 
hair.  Venerable  men  of  his  own  persuasion 
had  come  to  pray  beside  him,  but  he  had  driven 
them  away  with  curses.  They  renewed  their 
charitable  efforts,  and  he  beat  them  off. 

Saturday  night.  He  had  only  one  night 
more  to  live.  And  as  he  thought  of  this,  the 
day  broke — Sunday. 

It  was  not  until  the  night  of  this  last  awful 
day,  that  a withering  sense  of  his  helpless,  des- 
perate state  came  in  its  full  intensity  upon  his 
blighted  soul';  not  that  he  had  ever  held  any 
defined  or  positive  hope  of  mercy,  but  that  he 
had  never  been  able  to  consider  more  than  the 
dim  probability  of  dying  so  soon.  He  had 
spoken  little  to  either  of  the  twro  men  who  re- 
lieved each  other  in  their  attendance  upon 
him  , and  they,  for  their  parts,  made  no  effort 
to  rouse  his  attention.  He  had  sat  there,  awake, 
but  dreaming.  Now,  he  started  up,  every  min- 
ute, and  with  gasping  mouth  and  burning  skin, 
hurried  to  and  fro,  in  such  a paroxysm  of  fear 
and  wrath  that  even  they — used  to  such  sights 
— recoiled  from  him  with  horror.  He  grew  so 
terrible,  at  last,  in  all  the  tortures  of  his  evil 
conscience,  that  one  man  could  not  bear  to  sit 
there,  eying  him  alone  ; and  so  the  two  kept 
watch  together. 

He  cowered  down  upon  his  stone  bed,  and 
thought  of  the  past.  He  had  been  wounded 
with  some  missiles  from  the  crowd  on  the  day 
of  his  capture,  and  his  head  was  bandaged 


with  a linen  cloth.  His  red  hair  hung  down 
upon  his  bloodless  face  ; his  beard  was  torn, 
and  twisted  into  knots  ; his  eyes  shone  with  a 
terrible  light ; his  unwashed  flesh  crackled  with 
the  fever  that  burnt  him  up.  Eight — nine — 
ten.  If  it  was  not  a trick  to  frighten  him,  and 
those  were  the  real  hours  treading  on  each 
other’s  heels,  where  would  he  be  when  they 
came  round  again  ? Eleven  ! Another  struck 
before  the  voice  of  the  previous  hour  had  ceased 
to  vibrate.  At  eight,  he  would  be  the  only 
mourner  in  his  own  funeral  train  ; at  eleven — 

Those  dreadful  walls  of  Newgate,  which  have 
hidden  so  much  misery  and  such  unspeakable 
anguish,  not  only  from  the  eyes,  but,  too  often, 
and  too  long,  from  the  thoughts,  of  men,  never 
held  so  dread  a spectacle  as  that.  The  few  who 
lingered  as  they  passed,  and  wondered  what  the 
man  was  doing  who  was  to  be  hung  to-morrow, 
would  have  slept  but  ill  that  night,  if  they  could 
have  seen  him. 

$ $ $ ^ $ 

A great  multitude  had  already  assembled  ; 
the  windows  were-filled  with  people,  smoking 
and  playing  cards  to  beguile  the  time ; the 
crowd  were  pushing,  quarrelling,  and  joking. 
Everything  told  of  life  and  animation,  but  one 
dark  cluster  of  objects  in  the  very  centre  of  all 
— the  black  stage,  the  cross-beam,  the  rope,  and 
all  the  hideous  apparatus  of  death. 

Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  52. 

EXCITEMENT— Mental. 

His  little  black  eyes  sparkled  electrically. 
His  very  hair  seemed  to  sparkle,  as  he  rough- 
ened it.  He  was  in  that  highly- charged  state 
that  one  might  have  expected  to  draw  sparks 
and  snaps  from  him  by  presenting  a knuckle  to 
any  part  of  his  figure. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  32. 

EXPECTORATION- In  America. 

Chollop  sat  smoking  and  improving  the  cir- 
cle, without  making  any  attempts  either  to  con- 
verse, or  to  take  leave  ; apparently  laboring  un- 
der the  not  uncommon  delusion,  that  for  a free 
and  enlightened  citizen  of  the  United  States  to 
convert  another  man’s  house  into  a spittoon  for 
two  or  three  hours  together,  was  a delicate  at- 
tention, full  of  interest  and  politeness,  of  which 
nobody  could  ever  tire. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  33. 

EXPRESSION— A triumphant. 

The  hard-headed  man  looked  triumphantly 
round,  as  if  he  had  been  very  much  contradicted 
by  somebody,  but  had  got  the  better  of  him  at 
last. — Pickwick , Chap.  6. 

EXPRESSION— A fierce. 

The  old  lady,  quite  unconscious  that  she  had 
spoken  above  a whisper,  drew  herself  up,  and 
looked  carving-knives  at  the  hard-headed  delin- 
quent.— Pickwick , Chap.  6. 

EXPRESSION— Of  feature  (Joe). 

“ Supper’s  ready,  sir,”  was  the  prompt  reply. 

“Have  you  just  come  here,  sir?”  inquired 
Mr.  Tupman,  with  a piercing  look. 

“Just,”  replied  the  fat  boy. 

Mr.  Tupman  looked  at  him  very  hard  again  ; 
but  there  was  not  a wink  in  his  eye,  or  a curve 


EXPRESSION 


178 


EYE3 


in  liis  face ; there  was  not  a gleam  of  mirth,  or 
anything  but  (ceding  in  his  whole  visage. 

Pickwick , Chap.  8. 

EXPRESSION- An  unhappy. 

Mr.  Winkle  responded  with  a forced  smile, 
and  took  up  the  spare  gun  with  an  expression 
of  countenance  which  a metaphysical  rook,  im- 
pressed .with  a foreboding  of  his  approaching 
death  by  violence,  may  be  supposed  to  assume. 
It  might  have  been  keenness,  but  it  looked  re- 
markably like  misery. — Pickwick , Chap.  7. 

EXPRESSION-  A weighty. 

Amidst  the  general  hum  of  mirth  and  conver- 
sation that  ensued,  there  was  a little  man  with 
a puffy  Say-nothing-to-me,  or-I’ll-contradict-you 
sort  of  countenance,  who  remained  very  quiet ; 
occasionally  looking  round  him  when  the  con- 
versation slackened,  as  if  he  contemplated  put- 
ting in  something  very  weighty  ; and  now  and 
then  bursting  into  a short  cough  of  inexpressible 
grandeur. — Pickwick , Chap.  7. 

EXPRESSION. 

Mr.  Craggs  seemed  positively  to  grate  upon 
his  own  hinges,  as  he  delivered  this  opinion. 

Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  1. 

EXPRESSION— A convivial. 

As  they  drank  with  a great  relish,  and  were 
naturally  of  a red-nosed,  pimple-faced,  convivial 
look,  their  presence  rather  increased  than  de- 
tracted from  that  decided  appearance  of  com- 
fort which  was  the  great  characteristic  of  the 
party. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  49. 

EXPRESSION— After  sleep. 

Here  Bazzard  awoke  himself  by  his  own 
snoring ; and,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  sat 
apoplectically  staring  at  vacancy,  as  defying 
vacancy  to  accuse  him  of  having  been  asleep. 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  11. 

EXPRESSION— The  imitation  of. 

Any  strongly  marked  expression  of  face  on 
the  part  of  a chief  actor  in  a scene  of  great  in- 
terest, to  whom  many  eyes  are  directed,  will  be 
unconsciously  imitated  by  the  spectators. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  II.,  Chap.  3. 

EXPRESSION— Of  dress. 

“ He  is  the  most  friendly  and  amenable  crea- 
ture in  existence  ; and  as  for  advice  ! — But  no- 
body knows  what  that  man’s  mind  is,  except 
myself.” 

My  aunt  smoothed  her  dress  and  shook  her 
head,  as  if  she  smoothed  defiance  of  the  whole 
world  out  of  the  one,  and  shook  it  out  of  the 
other. — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  14. 

EXPRESSION— Of  benevolence. 

As  to  the  General,  he  observed,  with  his  usual 
benevolence,  that  being  one  of  the  company,  he 
wouldn’t  interfere  in  the  transaction  on  any 
account  ; so  he  appropriated  the  rocking-chair 
to  himself,  and  looked  at  the  prospect,  like  a 
good  Samaritan  waiting  for  a traveller. 

Martin  Chuzzlcwit , Chap.  21. 

EXPRESSION  A concentrated. 

With  the  quick  observation  of  his  class,  Ste- 
phen Blackpool  bent  his  attentive  face — his  face, 


which,  like  the  faces  of  many  of  his  order,  by 
dint  of  long  working  with  eyes  and  hands  in  the 
midst  of  a prodigious  noise,  had  acquired  the 
concentrated  look  with  which  we  are  familiar  in 
the  countenances  of  the  deaf — the  better  to  hear 
what  she  asked  him. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  12. 

EYES. 

But  his  eyes,  too  close  together,  were  not  so 
nobly  set  in  his  head  as  those  of  the  king  of 
beasts  are  in  his,  and  they  were  sharp  rather 
than  bright — pointed  weapons  with  little  surface 
to  betray  them.  They  had  no  depth  or  change  ; 
they  glittered,  and  they  opened  and  shut.  So 
far,  and  waiving  their  use  to  himself,  a clock-, 
maker  could  have  made  a better  pair. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  I.,  Chap.  1. 

EYES-Sinister. 

He  had  eyes  of  a surface  black,  with  no  depth 
in  the  color  or  form,  and  much  too  near  together 
— as  if  they  were  afraid  of  being  found  out  in 
something,  singly,  if  they  kept  too  far  apart. 
They  had  a sinister  expression,  under  an  old 
cocked-hat  like  a three-cornered  spittoon,  and 
over  a great  muffler  for  the  chin  and  throat, 
which  descended  nearly  to  the  wearer’s  knees. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  3. 

EYE— A solemn. 

It  made  him  hot  to  think  what  the  Chief  But- 
ler’s opinion  of  him  would  have  been,  if  that 
illustrious  personage  could  have  plumbed  with 
that  heavy  eye  of  his  the  stream  of  his  medita- 
tions.— Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  18. 

EYES— Of  Mr.  Crisparkle. 

He  had  the  eyes  of  a microscope  and  a tele- 
scope combined,  when  they  were  unassisted. 

Edzvin  Drood,  Chap.  6. 

EYES— Inexpressive. 

Mr.  Charles  Kitterbell  was  a small,  sharp, 
spare  man,  with  a very  large  head,  and  a broad, 
good-humored  countenance.  He  looked  like  a 
faded  giant,  with  the  head  and  face  partially  re- 
stored ; and  he  had  a cast  in  his  eye  which  ren- 
dered it  quite  impossible  for  anyone  with  whom 
he  conversed  to  know  where  he  was  looking. 
His  eyes  appeared  fixed  on  the  wall,  and  he  was 
staring  you  out  of  countenance  : in  short,  there 
was  no  catching  his  eye,  and  perhaps  it  is  a mer- 
ciful dispensation  of  Providence  that  such  eyes 
are  not  catching, — Tales,  Chap.  11. 

EYES— Inquisitive. 

A tall,  thin,  bony  man,  with  an  interrogative 
nose,  and  little  restless  perking  eyes,  which  ap- 
pear to.  have  been  given  him  for  the  sole  pur- 
pose of  peeping  into  other  people’s  aftairs  with. 

Sketches  ( Scenes ),  Chap.  4. 

EYES-Of  Ruth. 

They  walked  up  and  down  three  or  four  times, 
speaking  about  Tom  and  his  mysterious  employ- 
ment. Now  that  was  a very  natural  and  in- 
nocent subject,  surely.  Then  why,  whenever  j 
Ruth  lifted  up  her  eyes,  did  she  let  them  fall  again 
immediately,  and  seek  the  uncongenial  pave- 
ment of  the  court?  They  were  not  such  eyes 
as  shun  the  light : they  were  not  such  eyes  as 
require  to  be  hoarded  to  enhance  their  value. 


EYES 


179 


FACES 


They  were  much  too  precious  and  too  genuine 
to  stand  in  need  of  arts  like  those.  Somebody 
must  have  been  looking  at  them  ! 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  45. 


There  was  no  flour  on  Ruth’s  hands  when  she 
received  them  in  the  triangular  parlor,  but  there 
were  pleasant  smiles  upon  her  face,  and  a crowd 
of  welcomes  shining  out  of  every  smile,  and 
gleaming  in  her  bright  eyes.  By-the-bye,  how 
bright  they  were  ! Looking  into  them  for  but 
a moment,  when  you  took  her  hand,  you  saw,  in 
each,  such  a capital  miniature  of  yourself,  repre- 
senting you  as  such  a restless,  flashing,  eager, 
brilliant  littie  fellow — 

Ah  ! if  you  could  only  have  kept  them  for 
your  own  miniature  ! But,  wicked,  roving,  rest- 
less, too  impartial  eyes,  it  was  enough  for  any 
one  to  Stand  before  them,  and  straightway,  there 
he  danced  and  sparkled  quite  as  merrily  as  you  ! 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  39. 

EYE— Its  expression. 

He  gave  me  only  a look  with  his  aiming  eye 
— no,  not  a look,  for  he  shut  it  up,  but  wonders 
may  be  done  with  an  eye  by  hiding  it. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  10. 

EYES— Bright. 

Bright  eyes  they  were.  Eyes  that  would  bear 
a world  of  looking  in,  before  their  depth  was 
fathomed.  Dark  eyes,  that  reflected  back  the 
eyes  which  searched  them  ; not  flashingly,  or  at 
the  owner’s  will,  but  with  a clear,  calm,  honest, 
patient  radiance, claiming  kindred  with  that  light 
which  Heaven  called  into  being.  Eyes  that 
were  beautiful  and  true,  and  beaming  with  Hope. 
With  Hope  so  young  and  fresh  ; with  Hope  so 
buoyant,  vigorous,  and  bright,  despite  the  twenty 
years  of  work  and  poverty  on  which  they  had 
looked,  that  they  became  a voice  to  Trotty 
Veck,  and  said  : “ I think  we  have  some  busi- 
ness here — a little  ! ” 

Christmas  Chimes,  1st  quarter. 

EYE— Its  devilish  expression. 

Witch  Two  laughs  at  us.  Witch  Three 
scowls  at  us.  Witch  sisterhood  all  stitch,  stitch. 
First  Witch  has  a red  circle  round  each  eye.  I 
fancy  it  like  the  beginning  of  the  development 
of  a perverted  diabolical  halo,  and  that,  when  it 
spreads  all  round  her  head,  she  will  die  in  the 
odor  of  devilry. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  5. 

EYE— A learned. 

As  Mr.  Pickwick  said  this,  he  looked  ency- 
clopaedias at  Mr.  Peter  Magnus. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  24. 

EYE— An  expressive. 

He  had  always  one  eye  wide  open,  and  one 
eye  nearly  shut  ; and  the  one  eye  nearly  shut 
was  always  the  expressive  eye. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  1. 


F 

FACES— Their  expression. 

He  had  that  rather  wild,  strained,  seared 
marking  about  the  eyes,  which  may  be  observed 
in  all  free  livers  of  his  class,  from  the  portrait  of 
Jeffries  downward,  and  which  can  be  traced, 
under  various  disguises  of  Art,  through  the 
portraits  of  every  Drinking  Age. 

* * ❖ * * 

Shouldering  itself  towards  the  visage  of  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice  in  the  Court  of  King’s 
Bench,  the  florid  countenance  of  Mr.  Stryver 
might  be  daily  seen,  bursting  out  of  the  bed  of 
wigs,  like  a great  sunflower  pushing  its  way  at 
the  sun  from  among  a rank  garden-full  of  flar- 
ing companions. 

Stryver,  in  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Chap.  5. 

Mr.  Pancks  was  making  a very  porcupine  of 
himself  by  sticking  his  hair  up,  in  the  contem- 
plation of  this  state  of  accounts. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  13. 


Mrs.  General  stopped,  and  added  internally, 
for  the  setting  of  her  face,  “ Papa,  potatoes, 
poultry,  prunes,  and  prism.” 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  16. 

Mr.  Pancks  listened  with  such  interest  that 
regardless  of  the  charms  of  the  Eastern  pipe, 
he  put  it  in  the  grate  among  the  fire-irons,  and 
occupied  his  hands  during  the  whole  recital  in 
so  erecting  the  loops  and  hooks  of  hair  all  over 
his  head,  that  he  looked,  when  it  came  to  a con- 
clusion, like  a journeyman  Hamlet  in  conversa- 
tion with  his  father’s  spirit. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  13. 

His  villainous  countenance  was  a regular 
stamped  receipt  for  cruelty. 

Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  3. 

With  a face  that  might  have  been  carved  out 
of  lignum  vita,  for  anything  that  appeared  to 
the  contrary. — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  14. 


At  the  word  Suspect,  she  turned  her  eyes 
momentarily  upon  her  son,  with  a dark  frown, 
as  if  the  sculptor  of  old  Egypt  had  indented 
it  in  the  hard  granite  face,  to  frown  for  ages. 

Mrs.  Clennam,  in  Little  Dorrit,  Book  I.,  Chap.  5. 


A pale,  puffy-faced,  dark-haired  person  of 
thirty,  with  big  dark  eyes  that  wholly  wanted 
lustre,  and  a dissatisfied,  doughy  complexion, 
that  seemed  to  ask  to  be  sent  to  the  baker’s. 
A gloomy  person,  with  tangled  locks,  and  a 
general  air  of  having  been  reared  under  the 
shadow  of  that  baleful  tree  of  Java  which  has 
given  shelter  to  more  lies  than  the  whole  botan- 
ical kingdom. — Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  11. 

His  color  has  turned  to  a livid  white,  and 
ominous  marks  have  come  to  light  about  his 
nose,  as  if  the  finger  of  the  very  devil  himself 
had,  within  the  last  few  moments,  touched  it 
here  and  there. 

* * * * *. 

Here,  too,  the  bride’s  aunt  and  next  relation  ; 
a widowed  female  of  a Medusa  sort,  in  a stony 
cap,  glaring  petrifaction  at  her  fellow-creatures.. 


FACES 


180 


FACES 


Here,  too,  the  bride’s  trustee  ; an  oilcake-fed 
style  of  business-gentleman  with  mooney  spec- 
tacles, and  an  object  of  much  interest. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  io. 

Mrs.  Varden  slightly  raised  her  hands,  shook 
her  head,  and  looked  at  the  ground,  as  though 
she  saw  straight  through  the  globe,  out  at  the 
other  end,  and  into  the  immensity  of  space  be- 
yond.— Barnaby  Fudge , Chap.  27. 

“To  be  plain  with  you,  friend,  you  don’t 
carry  in  your  countenance  a letter  of  recom- 
mendation.’’ 

“ It’s  not  my  wish,”  said  the  traveller.  “ My 
humor  is  to  be  avoided.” 

Barnaby  Fudge,  Chap.  2. 

Mr.  Willet  drew  back  from  his  guest’s  ear, 
and  without  any  visible  alteration  of  features, 
chuckled  thrice  audibly.  This  nearest  approach 
to  a laugh  in  which  he  ever  indulged  (and  that 
but  seldom,  and  only  on  extreme  occasions) 
never  even  curled  his  lip  or  effected  the  small- 
est change  in — no,  not  so  much  as  a slight  wag- 
ging of — his  great  fat,  double  chin,  which  at 
these  times,  as  at  all  others,  remained  a perfect 
desert  in  the  broad  map  of  his  face  ; one  change- 
less, dull,  tremendous  blank. 

Barnaby  Fudge , Chap.  29. 


His  imperturbable  face  has  been  as  inexpres- 
sive as  his  rusty  clothes.  One  could  not  even 
say  he  has  been  thinking  all  this  while.  He 
has  shown  neither  patience  nor  impatience,  nor 
attention  nor  abstraction.  He  has  shown  noth- 
ing but  his  shell.  As  easily  might  the  tone  of 
a delicate  musical  instrument  be  inferred  from 
its  case,  as  the  tone  of  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  from 
his  case. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  11. 


“ Here,  sir,”  replied  Job,  presenting  himself 
on  the  staircase.  We  have  described  him,  by- 
the-bye,  as  having  deeply  sunken  eyes,  in  the 
best  of  times.  In  his  present  state  of  want  and 
distress,  he  looked  as  if  those  features  had  gone 
out  of  town  altogether. — Pickwick,  Chap.  42. 


Marley’s  face.  It  was  not  in  impenetrable 
shadow,  as  the  other  objects  in  the  yard  were, 
but  had  a dismal  light  about  it,  like  a bad  lob- 
ster in  a dark  cellar.  It  was  not  angry  or  fero- 
cious, but  looked  at  Scrooge  as  Marley  used  to 
look,  with  ghostly  spectacles  turned  up  on  its 
ghostly  forehead.  The  hair  was  curiously  stir- 
red, as  if  by  breath  or  hot  air  ; and,  though  the 
eyes  were  wide  open,  they  were  perfectly  motion- 
less. That,  and  its  livid  color,  made  it  horrible  ; 
but  its  horror  seemed  to  be  in  spite  of  the  face, 
and  beyond  its  control,  rather  than  a part  of  its 
own  expression. — Christmas  Carol,  Stave  1. 

Ag  racious  change  had  come  over  Benjamin 
from  head  to  foot.  lie  was  much  broader,  much 
redder,  much  more  cheerful,  and  much  jollier  in 
all  respects.  It  seemed  as  if  his  face  had  been 
tied  up  in  a knot  before,  and  was  now  untwisted 
and  smoothed  out. — Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  2. 

He  was  tall,  thin,  and  pale  ; he  always  fancied 
he  had  a severe  pain  somewhere  or  other,  and 
his  face  invariably  wore  a pinched,  screwed-up 


expression  ; he  looked,  indeed,  like  a man  who 
had  got  his  feet  in  a tub  of  exceedingly  hot 
water,  against  his  will. — 7'ales , Chap.  1. 

“ I told  you  not  to  bang  the  door  so  ! ” repeat- 
ed Dumps,  with  an  expression  of  countenance 
like  the  knave  of  clubs,  in  convulsions. 

Tales,  Chap.  11. 

Such  a thoroughly  Irish  face,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  he  ought,  as  a matter  of  right  and  principle, 
to  be  in  rags,  and  could  have  no  sort  of  business 
to  be  looking  cheerfully  at  anybody  out  of  a 
whole  suit  of  cloth  js. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  17. 

Miss  Sarah  Pocket,  whom  I now  saw  to  be  a 
little,  dry,  brown,  corrugated  old  woman,  with  a 
small  face,  that  might  have  been  made  of  walnut- 
shells,  and  a large  mouth,  like  a cat’s  without 
the  whiskers. — Greet  Expectations,  Chap.  11. 

All  his  features  seemed,  with  delight,  to  be 
going  up  into  his  forehead,  and  never  coming 
back  again  any  more. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  13. 

Her  severe  'face  had  no  thread  of  relaxation 
in  it,  by  which  any  explorer  could  have  been 
guided  to  the  gloomy  labyrinth  of  her  thoughts. 

Little  DoiTit,  Book  I.,  Chap.  5. 

Mrs.  Meagles  was  like  Mr.  Meagles,  comely 
and  healthy,  with  a pleasant  English  face  which 
had  been  looking  at  homely  things  for  five-and- 
fifty  years  or  more,  and  shone  with  a bright  re- 
flection of  them. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

There  is  no  sort  of  whiteness  in  all  the  hues 
under  the  sun,  at  all  like  the  whiteness  of  Mon- 
sieur Rigaud’s  face  as  it  was  then.  Neither  is 
there  any  expression  of  the  human  countenance 
at  all  like  that;  expression,  in  every  little  line  of 
which  the  frightened  heart  is  seen  to  beat.  Both 
are  conventionally  compared  with  death  ; but  the 
difference  is  the  whole  deep  gulf  between  the 
struggle  done,  and  the  light  at  its  most  desper- 
ate extremity. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  1. 

“ Persons  don’t  make  their  own  faces,  and  it’s 
no  more  my  fault  if  mine  is  a good  one  than  it 
is  other  people’s  fault  if  theirs  is  a bad  one.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  12. 

The  expression  of  a man’s  face  is  commonly 
a help  to  his  thoughts,  or  glossary  on  his  speech  ; 
but  the  countenance  of  Newman  Noggs,  in  his 
ordinary  moods,  was  a problem  which  no  stretch 
of  ingenuity  could  solve. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  3. 

MVIr.  Fang  was  a lean,  long-backed,  stiff-neck- 
ed, middle-sized  man,  with  no  great  quantity 
of  hair,  and  what  he  had,  growing  on  the  back 
and  sides  of  his  head.  His  face  was  stern,  and 
much  flushed.  If  he  were  really  not  in  the 
habit  of  drinking  rather  more  than  was  exactly 
good  for  him,  he  might  have  biought  an  action 
against  his  countenance  for  libel,  and  have  re- 
covered heavy  damages. — Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  11. 

Squeers  scowled  at  him  with  the  worst  and 


FACE 


181 


FACE 


most  malicious  expression  of  which  his  face  was 
capable — it  was  a face  of  remarkable  capability, 
too,  in  that  way — and  shook  his  fist  stealthily. 

“ Coom,  coom,  schoolmeasther,”  said  John, 
“ dinnot  make  a fool  o’  thyself  ; for  if  I was  to 
sheake  mine — only  once — thou’d  fa’  doon  wi’  the 
wind  o’  it.” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  42. 


“ I will  not  look  for  blushes  in  such  a quar- 
ter,” said  Miss  Squeers,  haughtily,  “ for  that 
countenance  is  a stranger  to  everything  but  hig- 
nominiousness  and  red-faced  boldness.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  42. 

He  had  the  special  peculiarity  of  some  birds 
of  prey,  that  when  he  knitted  his  brow,  his  ruf- 
fled crest  stood  highest. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  I.,  Chap.  3. 


What  my  aunt  saw,  or  did  not  see,  I defy 
the  science  of  physiognomy  to  have  made  out, 
without  her  own  consent.  I believe  there  never 
was  anybody  with  such  an  imperturbable  coun- 
tenance when  she  chose.  Her  face  might  have 
been  a dead  wall  on  the  occasion  in  question, 
for  any  light  it  threw  upon  her  thoughts. 

David  Copper  field , Chap.  35. 


Having  done  the  honors  of  his  house  in  this 
hospitable  manner,  Mr.  Peggotty  went  out  to 
wash  himself  in  a kettleful  of  hot  water,  re- 
marking that  “ cold  would  never  get  his  muck 
off.”  He  soon  returned,  greatly  improved  in 
appearance  ; but  so  rubicund,  that  I couldn’t 
help  thinking  his  face  had  this  in  common  with 
the  lobsters,  crabs,  and  crawfish — that  it  went 
into  the  hot  water  very  black  and  came  out  very 
red. — David  Copperfeld , Chap.  3. 

Tom  stopping  in  the  street  to  look  at  him, 
Mr.  Tapley  for  a moment  presented  to  his  view 
an  utterly  stolid  and  expressionless  face  : a per- 
fect dead  wall  of  countenance.  But  opening 
window  after  window  in  it,  with  astonishing 
rapidity,  and  lighting  them  all  up  as  for  a gen- 
eral illumination,  he  repeated. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  48. 

With  these  parting  words,  and  with  a gi*in 
upon  his  features  altogether  indescribable,  but 
which  seemed  to  be  compounded  of  every  mon- 
strous grimace  of  which  men  or  monkeys  are 
Capable,  the  dwarf  slowly  retreated  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  48. 

He  was  something  the  worse  for  it,  undenia- 
bly. The  thick  mist  hung  in  clots  upon  his 
eyelashes  like  candied  thaw  ; and,  between  the 
fog  a&d  fire  together,  there  were  rainbows  in 
his  very  whiskers. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  1. 


. The  features  of  her  companion  were  less  easy 
•'■'to  him.  The  great  broad  chin,  with  creases  in 
it  large  enough  to  hide  a finger  in  ; the  aston- 
ished eyes,  that  seemed  to  expostulate  with 
themselves  for  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  yielding  fat  of  the  soft  face  ; the  nose,  af- 
flicted with  that  disordered  action  of  its  func- 
tions which  is  generally  termed  The  Snuffles  ; 
the  short  thick  throat  and  laboring  chest,  with 
other  beauties  of  the  like  description,  though 


calculated  to  impress  the  memory,  Trotty  could 
at  first  allot  to  nobody  he  had  ever  known  ; 
and  yet  he  had  some  recollection  of  them  too. 

Chimes , 4 th  quarter. 

With  that,  and  with  an  expression  of  face  in 
which  a great  number  of  opposite  ingredients, 
such  as  mischief,  cunning,  malice,  triumph,  and 
patient  expectation,  were  all  mixed  up  together 
in  a kind  of  physiognomical  punch,  Miss  Miggs 
composed  herself  to  wait  and  listen,  like  some 
fair  ogress  who  had  set  a trap  and  was  watching 
for  a nibble  from  a plump  young  traveller. 

Miss  Miggs,  in  Barnaby  Budge , Chap.  9. 


Happening  to  look  down  into  the  pit,  I saw 
Mr.  Guppy,  with  his  hair  flattened  down  upon 
his  head,  and  woe  depicted  in  his  face,  looking 
up  at  me.  I felt,  all  through  the  performance, 
that  he  never  looked  at  the  actors,  but  con- 
stantly looked  at  me,  and  always  with  a care- 
fully prepared  expression  of  the  deepest  misery 
and  the  profoundest  dejection. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  13. 

With  Mr.  Gusher,  appeared  Mr.  Quale  again. 
Mr.  Gusher,  being  a flabby  gentleman  with  a 
moist  surface,  and  eyes  so  much  too  small  for 
his  moon  of  a face  that  they  seemed  to  have 
been  originally  made  for  somebody  else,  was 
not  at  first  sight  prepossessing. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  15. 

“ By  my  soul,  the  countenance  of  that  fellow, 
when  he  was  a boy,  was  the  blackest  image  of 
perfidy,  cowardice,  and  cruelty  ever  set  up  as  a 
scarecrow  in  a field  of  scoundrels.  If  I were  to 
meet  that  most  unparalleled  despot  in  the  streets 
to-morrow,  I would  fell  him  like  a rotten  tree  ! ” 
Bleak  House,  Chap.  9. 


The  dear  little  fellow,  having  recovered  his 
animal  spirits,  was  standing  upon  her  most  ten- 
der foot,  by  way  of  getting  his  face  (which  looked 
like  a capital  O in  a red-lettered  play-bill)  on  a 
level  with  the  writing-table. — Tales,  Chap.  3. 

The  Major,  with  his  complexion  like  a Stil- 
ton cheese,  and  his  eyes  like  a prawn’s,  went 
roving  about,  perfectly  indifferent. 

Every  knob  in  the  Captain’s  face  turned 
white  with  astonishment  and  indignation  ; even 
the  red  rim  on  his  forehead  faded*  like  a rain- 
bow among  the  gathering  clouds. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey  pleased  to  see  this?  He 
testified  no  pleasure  by  the  relaxation  of  a 
nerve  ; but  outward  tokens  of  any  kind  of  feel- 
ing were  unusual  with  him.  If  any  sunbeam 
stole  into  the  room  to  light  the  children  at  their 
play,  it  never  reached  his  face.  He  looked  on 
so  fixedly  and  coldly,  that  the  warm  light  van- 
ished even  from  the  laughing  eyes  of  little  Flor- 
ence, when,  at  last,  they  happened  to  meet  his. 

There  was  an  entire  change  in  the  Captain’s 
face,  as  he  went  up  stairs.  He  wiped  his  eyes 
with  his  handkerchief,  and  he  polished  the 
bridge  of  his  nose  with  his  sleeve  as  he  had 
done  already  that  morning,  but  his  face  was 
absolutely  changed.  Now,  he  might  have  been 
thought  supremely  happy ; now,  he  might  have 


FACE 


182 


FACE 


been  thought  sad  ; but  the  kind  of  gravity  that 
sat  upon  his  features  was  quite  new  to  them, 
and  was  as  great  an  improvement  to  them  as  if 
they  had  undergone  some  sublimating  process. 

* sfc  * $ sH 

But  never  in  all  his  life  had  the  Captain’s 
face  so  shone  and  glistened,  as  when,  at  last,  he 
sat  stationary  at  the  tea-board,  looking  from 
Florence  to  Walter,  and  from  Walter  to  Flor- 
ence. Nor  was  this  effect  produced  or  at  all 
heightened  by  the  immense  quantity  of  polish- 
ing he  had  administered  to  his  face  with  his 
coat-sleeve  during  the  last  half-hour.  It  was 
solely  the  effect  of  his  internal  emotions.  There 
was  a glory  and  delight  within  the  Captain  that 
spread  itself  over  his  whole  visage,  and  made  a 
perfect  illumination  there. 

* * * The  yellow  face  with  its  grotesque 

action,  and  the  ferret  eyes  with  their  keen,  cold, 
wintry  gaze. — Dombey  & Son. 

FACE— Of  Mr.  Grrewgious. 

“ Death  is  not  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence.” 

His  voice  was  as  hard  and  dry  as  himself,  and 
Fancy  might  have  ground  it  straight,  like  him- 
self, into  high-dried  snuff.  And*  yet,  through 
the  very  limited  means  of  expression  that  he 
possessed,  he  seemed  to  express  kindness.  If 
Nature  had  but  finished  him  off,  kindness  might 
have  been  recognizable  in  his  face  at  this  mo- 
ment. But  if  the  notches  in  his  forehead 
wouldn’t  fuse  together,  and  if  his  face  would 
Work  and  couldn’t  play,  what  could  he  do,  poor 
man  ? — Edwin  Drood , Chap.  9. 

FACE— Of  Job  Trotter. 

Nature’s  handiwork  never  was  disguised  with 
such  extraordinary  artificial  carving  as  the  man 
had  overlaid  his  countenance  with,  in  one  mo- 
ment. 

“ It  won’t  do,  Job  Trotter,”  said  Sam.  “ Come  ! 
None  o’  that  ’ere  nonsense.  You  ain’t  so  wery 
'andsome  that  you  can  afford  to  throw  avay  many 
o’  your  good  looks.  Bring  them  ’ere  eyes  o’ 
your’n  back  into  their  proper  places,  or  I’ll  knock 
’em  out  of  your  head.  Dy’e  hear?  ” 

* * * Mr.  Trotter  burst  into  a regular  in- 

undation of  tears,  and  flinging  his  arms  around 
those  of  Mr.  Weller,  embraced  him  closely,  in 
an  ecstasy  of  joy. 

“Get  off!”  cried  Sam,  indignant  at  this  pro- 
cess, and  vainly  endeavoring  to  extricate  him- 
self from  the  grasp  of  his  enthusiastic  acquaint- 
ance. “ Get  off,  I tell  you.  What  are  you  crying 
over  me  for,  you  portable  ingine  ? ” 

Pickwick , Chap.  23. 

FACE— Of  a hypocrite. 

His  smooth  face  had  a bloom  upon  it,  like 
ripe  wall-fruit.  What  with  his  blooming  face, 
and  that  head,  and  his  blue  eyes,  he  seemed  to 
be  delivering  sentiments  of  rare  wisdom  and 
virtue.  In  like  manger,  his  physiognomical  ex- 
pression seemed  to  teem  with  benignity.  No- 
body could  have  said  where  the  wisdom  was,  or 
where  the  virtue  was,  or  where  the  benignity 
was ; but  they  all  seemed  to  be  somewhere 
about  him. — Little  Doivit , Book  /.,  Chap.  13. 

FACE  A frosty. 

It  was  morning  ; and  the  beautiful  Aurora,  of 
whom  so  much  hath  been  written,  said,  and 


sung,  did,  with  her  rosy  fingers,  nip  and  tweak 
Miss  Pecksniff’s  nose.  It  was  the  frolicsome 
custom  of  the  Goddess,  in  her  intercourse  with 
the  fair  Cherry,  so  to  do ; or,  in  more  prosaic 
phrase,  the  tip  of  that  feature  in  the  sweet  girl’s 
countenance  was  always  very  red  at  breakfast- 
time. For  the  most  part,  indeed,  it  wore,  at 
that  season  of  the  day,  a scraped  and  frosty 
look,  as  if  it  had  been  rasped  ; while  a similar 
phenomenon  developed  itself  in  her  humor, 
which  was  then  observed  to  be  of  a sharp  and 
acid  quality,  as  though  an  extra  lemon  (figura- 
tively speaking)  had  been  squeezed  into  the 
nectar  of  her  disposition,  and  had  rather  dam- 
aged its  flavor. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  6. 

FACE— Of  a proud  and  scornful  woman. 

The  shadow  in  which  she  sat,  falling  like  a 
gloomy  veil  across  her  forehead,  accorded  very 
well  with  the  character  of  her  beauty.  One 
could  hardly  see  the  face,  so  still  and  scornful, 
set  off  by  the  arched  dark  eyebrows,  and  the 
folds  of  dark  hair,  without  wondering  what  its 
expression  would  be  if  a change  came  over  it. 
That  it  could  soften  or  relent,  appeared  next  to 
impossible.  That  it  could  deepen  into  anger  or 
any  extreme  of  defiance,  and  that  it  must  change 
in  that  direction  when  it  changed  at  all,  would 
have  been, its  peculiar  impression  upon  most 
observers.  It  was  dressed  and  trimmed  into  no 
ceremony  of  expression.  Although  not  an  open 
face,  there  was  no  pretence  in  it.  I am  self- 
contained  and  self-reliant ; your  opinion  is 
nothing  to  me  ; I have  no  interest  in  you,  care 
nothing  for  you,  and  see  and  hear  you  with  in- 
difference— this  it  said  plainly.  It  said  so  in  the 
proud  eyes,  in  the  lifted  nostril,  in  the  hand- 
some, but  compressed  and  even  cruel  mouth. 
Cover  either  two  of  those  channels  of  expres- 
sion, and  the  third  would  have  said  so  still. 
Mask  them  all,  and  the  mere  turn  of  the  head 
would  have  shown  an  unsubduable  nature. 

Lady  Dedlock,  in  Little  Dorr  it.  Book  I.,  Chap.  2. 

FACE— Shadowed  by  a memory. 

She  was  about  forty — perhaps  two  or  three 
years  older — with  a cheerful  aspect,  and  a face 
that  had  once  been  pretty.  It  bore  traces  of 
affliction  and  care,  but  they  were  of  an  old  date, 
and  Time  had  smoothed  them.  Any  one  who 
had  bestowed  but  a casual  glance  on  Barnaby 
might  have  known  that  this  was  his  mother, 
from  the  strong  resemblance  between  them  ; but 
where  in  his  face  there  was  wildness  and  vacan- 
cy, in  hers  there  was  the  patient  composure  of 
long  effort  and  quiet  resignation. 

One  thing  about  this  face  was  very  strange 
and  startling.  You  could  not  look  upon  it  in  its 
most  cheerful  mood  without  feeling  that  it  had 
some  extraordinary  capacity  of  expressing  ter- 
ror. It  was  not  on  the  surface.  It  was  in  no 
one  feature  that  it  lingered.  You  could  not  take 
the  eyes,  or  mouth,  or  lines  upon  the  cheek,  and 
say  if  this  or  that  were  otherwise,  it  would  not 
be  so.  Yet  there  it  always  lurked — something 
forever  dimly  seen,  but  ever  there,  and  never 
absent  for  a moment.  It  was  the  faintest,  palest 
shadow  of  some  look,  to  which  an  instant  of  in- 
tense and  most  unutterable  horror  only  could 
have  given  birth  ; but  indistinct  and  feeble  as  it 
was,  it  did  suggest  what  that  look  must  have 
been,  and  fixed  it  in  the  mind  as  if  it  had  had 
existence  in  a dream. 


FACTORY-TOWN 


183 


FACTORY-TOWN 


More  faintly  imaged,  and  wanting  force  and 
purpose,  as  it  were,  because  of  his  darkened  in- 
tellect, there  was  this  same  stamp  upon  the  son. 
Seen  in  a picture,  it  must  have  had  some  legend 
with  it,  and  would  have  haunted  those  who 
looked  upon  the  canvas.  They  who  knew  the 
Maypole  story,  and  could  remember  what  the 
widow  was,  before  her  husband’s  and  his  mas- 
ter’s murder,  understood  it  well.  They  recol- 
lected how  the  change  had  come,  and  could  call 
to  mind  that  when  her  son  was  born,  upon  the 
very  day  the  deed  was  known,  he  bore  upon  his 
wrist  what  seemed  a smear  of  blood  but  half 
washed  out. — Barnaby  Rudge , Chap . 5. 

FACTORY-TOWN-A  triumph  of  fact. 

Coketown,  to  which  Messrs.  Bounderby  and 
Gradgrind  now  walked,  was  a triumph  of  fact ; 
it  had  no  greater  taint  of  fancy  in  it  than  Mrs. 
Gradgrind  herself.  Let  us  strike  the  key-note, 
Coketown,  before  pursuing  our  tune. 

It  was  a town  of  red  brick,  or  of  brick  that 
would  have  been  red  if  the  smoke  and  ashes  had 
allowed  it ; but  as  matters  stood  it  was  a town 
of  unnatural  red  and  black,  like  the  painted  face 
of  a savage.  It  was  a town  of  machinery  and 
tall  chimneys,  out  of  which  interminable  ser- 
pents of  smoke  trailed  themselves  forever  and 
ever,  and  never  got  uncoiled.  It  had  a black 
canal  in  it,  and  a river  that  ran  purple  with  ill- 
smelling dye,  and  vast  piles  of  building  full  of 
windows,  where  there  was  a rattling  and  a trem- 
bling all  day  long,  and  where  the  piston  of  the 
steam-engine  worked  monotonously  up  and 
down,  like  the  head  of  an  elephant  in  a state 
of  melancholy  madness.  It  contained  several 
.large  streets  all  very  like  one  another,  and  many 
small  streets  still  more  like  one  another,  inhab- 
ited by  people  equally  like  one  another,  who  all 
went  in  and  out  at  the  same  hours,  with  the 
same  sound  upon  the  same  pavements,  to  do  the 
same  work,  and  to  whom  everyday  was  the  same 
as  yesterday  and  to-morrow,  and  every  year  the 
counterpart  of  the  last  and  the  next. 

These  attributes  of  Coketown  were  in  the 
main  inseparable  from  the  work  by  which  it  was 
sustained  ; against  them  were  to  be  set  off,  com- 
forts of  life  which  found  their  way  all  over  the 
world,  and  elegancies  of  life  which  made,  we 
will  not  ask  how  much  of  the  fine  lady,  who 
could  scarcely  bear  to  hear  the  place  mentioned. 
The  rest  of  its  features  were  voluntary,  and  they 
were  these. 

You  saw  nothing  in  Coketown  but  what  was 
severely  workful.  If  the  members  of  a religious 
persuasion  built  a chapel  there — as  the  members 
of  eighteen  religious  persuasions  had  done — they 
made  it  a pious  warehouse  of  red  brick,  with 
sometimes  (but  this  is  only  in  highly  ornamented 
examples)  a bell  in  a bird-cage  on  the  top  of  it. 
The  solitary  exception  was  the  New  Church  ; a 
stuccoed  edifice  with  a square  steeple  over  the 
door,  terminating  in  four  short  pinnacles  like 
florid  wooden  legs.  All  the  public  inscriptions 
in  the  town  were  painted  alike,  in  severe  char- 
acters of  black  and  white.  The  jail  might  have 
been  the  infirmary,  the  infirmary  might  have 
been  the  jail,  the  town-hall  might  have  been 
either,  or  both,  or  anything  else,  for  anything 
that  appeared  to  the  contrary  in  the  graces 
of  their  construction.  Fact,  fact,  fact,  every- 
where in  the  material  aspect  of  the  town  ; 
fact,  fact,  fact,  everywhere  in  the  immaterial. 


The  M’Choakumchild  school  was  all  fact,  and 
the  school  of  design  was  all  fact,  and  the  rela- 
tions between  master  and  man  were  all  fact, 
and  everything  was  fact  between  the  lying-in- 
hospital and  the  cemetery,  and  what  you  couldn’t 
state  in  figures,  or  show  to  be  purchasable  in 
the  cheapest  market  and  salable  in  the  dearest, 
was  not,  and  never  should  be,  world  without 
end,  Amen. — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  5. 

FACTORY-TOWN— Its  peculiarities. 

A sunny  midsummer  day.  There  was  such  a 
thing  sometimes,  even  in  Coketown. 

Seen  from  a distance  in  such  weather,  Coke- 
town lay  shrouded  in  a haze  of  its  own,  which 
appeared  impervious  to  the  sun’s  rays.  You 
only  knew  the  town  was  theVe,  because  you  knew 
there  could  have  been  no  such  sulky  blotch  upon 
the  prcfcpect  without  a town.  A blur  of  soot 
and  smoke,  now  confusedly  tending  this  way, 
now  that  way,  now  aspiring  to  the  vault  of  Hea- 
ven, now  murkily  creeping  along  the  earth,  as 
the  wind  rose  and  fell,  or  changed  its  quarter  : 
a dense,  formless  jumble,  with  sheets  of  cross 
light  in  it,  that  showed  nothing  but  masses  of 
darkness  : — Coketown  in  the  distance  was  sug- 
gestive of  itself,  though  not  a brick  of  it  could 
be  seen. 

The  wonder  was,  it  was  there-  at  all.  It  had 
been  ruined  so  often,  that  it  was  amazing  how  it 
had  borne  so  many  shocks.  Surely  there  never 
was  such  fragile  china-ware  as  that  of  which  the 
millers  of  Coketown  were  made.  Handle  them 
never  so  lightly,  and  they  fell  to  pieces  with  such 
ease  that  you  might  suspect  them  of  having  been 
flawed  before.  They  were  ruined  when  they 
were  required  to  send  laboring  children  to 
school ; they  Aere  ruined  when  inspectors  were 
appointed  to  look  into  their  works  ; they  were 
ruined  when  such  inspectors  considered  it  doubt- 
ful whether  they  were  quite  justified  in  chopping 
people  up  with  their  machinery  ; they  were  ut- 
terly undone,  when  it  was  hinted  that  perhaps 
they  need  not  always  make  quite  so  much  smoke. 
Besides  Mr.  Bounderby’s  gold  spoon,  which  was 
generally  received  in  Coketown,  another  preva- 
lent fiction  was  very  popular  there.  It  took  the 
form  of  a threat.  Whenever  a Colcetowner  felt 
he  was  ill-used — that  is  to  say,  whenever  he  was 
not  left  entirely  alone,  and  it  was  proposed  to 
hold  him  accountable  for  the  consequences  of 
any  of  his  acts — he  was  sure  to  come  out  with 
the  awful  menace,  that  he  would  “ sooner  pitch 
his  property  into  the  Atlantic.”  This  had  terri- 
fied the  Home  Secretary  within  an  inch  of  his 
life,  on  several  occasions. 

However,  the  Coketowners  were  so  patriotic, 
after  all,  that  they  never  had  pitched  their  prop- 
erty into  the  Atlantic  yet,  but  on  the  contrary, 
had  been  kind  enough  to  take  mighty  good  care 
of  it.  So  there  it  was,  in  the  haze  yonder  ; and 
it  increased  and  multiplied. 

The  streets  were  hot  and  dusty  on  the  sum- 
mer day,  and  the  sun  was  so  bright  that  it  even 
shone  through  the  heavy  vapor  drooping  over 
Coketown,  and  could  not  be  looked  at  steadily. 
.Stokers  emerged  from  low  underground  door- 
ways into  factory  yards,  and  sat  on  steps,  and 
posts,  and  palings,  wiping  their  swarthy  visages, 
and  contemplating  coals.  The  whole  town 
seemed  to  be  frying  in  oil.  There  was  a sti- 
fling smell  of  hot  oil  everywhere.  The  steam- 


FACTORY-TOWN 


184 


FACTORIES 


engines  shone  with  it,  the  dresses  of  the  Hands 
were  soiled  with  it,  the  mills  throughout  their 
many  stories  oozed  and  trickled  it.  The  atmos- 
phere of  those  Fairy  palaces  was  like  the  breath 
of  the  simoon  ; and  their  inhabitants,  wasting 
with  heat,  toiled  languidly  in  the  desert.  But 
no  temperature  made  the  melancholy  - mad 
elephants  more  mad  or  more  sane.  Their  weari- 
some heads  went  up  and  down  at  the  same  rate, 
in  hot  weather  and  cold,  wet  weather  and  dry, 
fair  weather  and  foul.  The  measured  motion 
of  their  shadows  on  the  walls,  was  the  substitute 
Coketown  had  to  show  for  the  shadows  of  rus- 
tling woods  ; while,  for  the  summer  hum  of  in- 
sects, it  could  offer,  all  the  year  round,  from  the 
dawn  of  Monday  to  the  night  of  Saturday,  the 
whirr  of  shafts  and  wheels. 

Drowsily  they  whirred  all  through  this  sunny 
day,  making  the  passenger  more  sleepy  and  more 
hot  as  he  passed  the  humming  walls  of  the  mills. 
Sun-blinds,  and  sprinklings  of  water,  a little 
cooled  the  main  streets  and  the  shops  ; but  the 
mills,  and  the  courts  and  alleys,  baked  at  a 
fierce  heat.  Down  upon  the  river,  that  was  black 
and  thick  with  dye,  some  Coketown  boys  who 
were  at  large — a rare  sight  there — rowed  a crazy 
boat,  which  made  a spumous  track  upon  the 
water  as  it  jogged  along,  while  every  dip  of  an 
oar  stirred  up  vile  smells.  But  the  sun  itself, 
however  beneficent  generally,  was  less  kind  to 
Coketown  than  hard  frost,  and  rarely  looked  in- 
tently into  any  of  its  closer  regions  without 
engendering  more  death  than  life.  So  does  the 
eye  of  Heaven  itself  become  an  evil  eye,  when 
incapable  or  sordid  hands  are  interposed  between 
it  and  the  things  it  looks  upon  to  bless. 

Hard  Times , Book  //.,  Chap.  i. 

FACTORY-TOWN— The  working-men. 

I entertain  a weak  idea  that  the  English  peo- 
ple are  as  hard-worked  as  any  people  upon  whom 
the  sun  shines.  I acknowledge  to  this  ridiculous 
idiosyncrasy,  as  a reason  why  I would  give  them 
a little  more  play. 

In  the  hardest  working  part  of  Coketown  ; in 
the  innermost  fortifications  of  that  ugly  citadel, 
where  Nature  was  as  strongly  bricked  out  as 
killing  airs  and  gases  were  bricked  in  ; at  the 
heart  of  the  labyrinth  of  narrow  courts  upon 
courts,  and  close  streets  upon  streets,  which  had 
come  into  existence  piecemeal,  every  piece  in  a 
violent  hurry  for  some  one  man’s  purpose,  and 
the  whole  an  unnatural  family,  shouldering,  and 
trampling,  ancl  pressing  one  another  to  death  ; 
in  the  last  close  nook  of  this  great  exhausted 
receiver,  where  the  chimneys,  for  want  of  air  to 
make  a draught,  were  built  in  an  immense  vari- 
ety of  stunted  and  crooked  shapes,  as  though 
every  house  put  out  a sign  of  the  kind  of  peo- 
ple who  might  be  expected  to  be  born  in  it  ; 
among  the  multitude  of  Coketown,  generically 
called  “ the  Ilands,” — a race  who  would  have 
found  more  favor  with  some  people,  if  Provi- 
dence had  seen  fit  to  make  them  only  hands,  or 
like  the  lower  creatures  of  the  sea-shore,  only 
hands  and  stomachs— lived  a certain  Stephen 
Blackpool,  forty  years  of  age. 

Stephen  looked  older,  but  he  had  had  a hard 
life.  It  is  said  that  every  life  has  its  roses  and 
thorns  ; there  seemed,  however,  to  have  been  a 
misadventure  or  mistake  in  Stephen’s  case, 
whereby  somebody  else  had  become  possessed 
of  his  roses,  and  he  had  become  possessed  of 


the  same  somebody  else’s  thorns  in  addition  to 
his  own.  lie  had  known,  to  use  his  words, 
a peck  of  trouble.  He  was  usually  called  Old 
Stephen,  in  a kind  of  rough  homage  to  the  fact. 

A rather  stooping  man,  with  a knitted  brow,  a 
pondering  expression  of  face,  and  a hard-look- 
ing head  sufficiently  capacious,  on  which  his  iron- 
grey  hair  lay  long  and  thin,  Old  Stephen  might 
have  passed  for  a particularly  intelligent  man  in 
his  condition.  Yet  he  was  not.  He  took  no 
place  among  those  remarkable  “ Ilands,”  who, 
piecing  together  their  broken  intervals  of  leisure 
through  many  years,  had  mastered  difficult 
sciences,  and  acquired  a knowledge  of  most 
unlikely  things.  Pie  held  no  station  among  the 
Ilands  who  could  make  speeches  and  carry  on 
debates.  Thousands  of  his  compeers  could  talk 
much  better  than  he,  at  any  time.  He  was  a 
good  power-loom  weaver,  and  a man  of  perfect 
integrity.  What  more  he  was,  or  what  else  he 
had  in  him,  if  anything,  let  him  show  for  him- 
self. 

The  lights  in  the  great  factories,  which  looked, 
when  they  were  illuminated,  like  Fairy  palaces — 
or  the  travellers  by  express-train  said  so — were 
all  extinguished  ; and  the  bells  had  rung  for 
knocking  off  for  the  night,  and  had  ceased  again  ; 
and  the  Hands,  men  and  women,  boy  and  girl, 
were  clattering  home.  Old  Stephen  was  stand- 
ing in  the  street,  with  the  odd  sensation  upon 
him  which  the  stoppage  of  the  machinery  always 
produced — the  sensation  of  its  having  worked 
and  stopped  in  his  own  head. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  io. 

FACTORY— Iron-Works. 

He  comes  to  agateway  in  the  brick  wall,  looks 
in,  and  sees  a great  perplexity  of  iron  lying 
about,  in  every  stage,  and  in  a vast  variety  of 
shapes  ; in  bars,  in  wedges,  in  sheets  ; in  tanks, 
in  boilers,  in  axles,  in  wheels,  in  cogs,  in  cranks, 
in  rails ; twisted  and  wrenched  into  eccentric 
and  perverse  forms,  as  separate  parts  of  machin- 
ery ; mountains  of  it  broken-up,  and  rusty  in 
its  age  ; distant  furnaces  of  it  glowing  and  bub- 
bling in  its  youth  ; bright  fireworks  of  it  shower- 
ing about,  under  the  blows  of  the  steam  ham- 
mer ; red-hot  iron,  white-hot  iron,  cold-black 
iron  ; an  iron  taste,  an  iron  smell,  and  a Babel 
of  iron  sounds. 

* * -X  ❖ 

There  is  iron-dust  on  everything ; and  the 
smoke  is  seen,  through  the  windows,  rolling 
heavily  out  of  the  tall  chimneys,  to  mingle  with 
the  smoke  from  a vaporous  Babylon  of  other 
chimneys. — Bleak  House , Chap.  63. 

FACTORIES. 

Machinery  slackened  ; throbbing  feebly  like 
a fainting  pulse  ; stopped.  The  bell  again  ; the 
glare  of  light  and  heat  dispelled  ; the  factories, 
looming  heavy  in  the  black  wet  night — their  tall 
chimneys  rising  up  into  the  air  like  competing 
Towers  of  Babel. 

Hat'd  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  12. 

FACTORIES— The  hands. 

The  Fairy  palaces  burst  into  illumination, 
before  pale  morning  showed  the  monstrous  ser- 
pents of  smoke  trailing  themselves  over  Coke- 
town. A clattering  of  clogs  upon  the  pave- 
ment ; a rapid  ringing  of  bells  ; and  all  the 
melancholy-mad  elephants,  polished  and  oiled 


FACTS 


185 


FACTS 


up  for  the  day’s  monotony,  were  at  their  heavy 
exercise  again. 

Stephen  bent  over  his  loom,  quiet,  watchful, 
and  steady.  A special  contrast,  as  every  man 
was  in  the  forest  of  looms  where  Stephen 
worked,  to  the  crashing,  smashing,  tearing 
piece  of  mechanism  at  which  he  labored. 
Never  fear,  good  people  of  an  anxious  turn  of 
mind,  that  Art  will  consign  Nature  to  oblivion. 
Set  anywhere,  side  by  side,  the  work  of  God 
and  the  work  of  man  ; and  the  former,  even 
though  it  be  a troop  of  Hands  of  very  small  ac- 
count, will  gain  in  dignity  from  the  comparison. 

So  many  hundred  Hands  in  this  Mill ; so 
many  hundred  horse  Steam  Power.  It  is 
known,  to  the  force  of  a single  pound  weight, 
what  the  engine  will  do  ; but  not  all  the  calcu- 
lators of  the  National  Debt  can  tell  me  the  ca- 
pacity for  good  or  evil,  for  love  or  hatred,  for 
patriotism  or  discontent,  for  the  decomposition 
of  virtue  into  vice,  or  the  reverse,  at  any  single 
moment  in  the  soul  of  one  of  these,  its  quiet 
servants,  with  the  composed  faces  and  the  reg- 
ulated actions.  There  is  no  mystery  in  it ; 
there  is  an  unfathomable  mystery  in  the  mean- 
est of  them,  forever. — Supposing  we  were  to 
reserve  our  arithmetic  for  material  objects,  and 
to  govern  these  awful  unknown  quantities  by 
other  means  ! 

The  day  grew  strong,  and  showed  itself  out- 
side, even  against  the  flaming  lights  within. 
The  lights  were  turned  out,  and  the  work  went 
on.  The  rain  fell,  and  the  Smoke-serpents, 
submissive  to  the  curse  of  all  that  tribe,  trailed 
themselves  upon  the  earth.  In  the  waste-yard 
outside,  the  steam  from  the  escape  pipe,  the  litter 
of  barrels  and  old  iron,  the  shining  heaps  of  coals, 
the  ashes  everywhere,  were  shrouded  in  a veil 
of  mist  and  rain. 

The  work  went  on  until  the  noon-bell  rang. 
More  clattering  upon  the  pavements.  The 
looms,  and  wheels,  and  Hands  all  out  of  gear 
for  an  hour. — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  n. 

FACTS— Gradgrind  the  man  of. 

Thomas  Gradgrind,  sir.  A man  or  realities. 
A man  of  facts  and  calculations.  A man  who 
proceeds  upon  the  principle  that  two  and  two 
are  four,  and  nothing  over,  and  who  is  not  to 
be  talked  into  allowing  for  anything  over. 
Thomas  Gradgrind,  sir — peremptorily  Thomas 
— -Thomas  Gradgrind.  With  a rule  and  a pair 
of  scales,  and  the  multiplication  table  always 
in  his  pocket,  sir,  ready  to  weigh  and  measure 
any  parcel  of  human  nature,  and  tell  you  ex- 
actly what  it  comes  to.  It  is  a mere  question 
of  figures,  a case  of  simple  arithmetic.  You 
might  hope  to  get  some  other  nonsensical  be- 
lief into  the  head  of  George  Gradgrind,  or  Au- 
gustus Gradgrind,  or  John  Gradgrind,  or  Jo- 
seph Gradgrind  (all  supposititious,  non-existent 
persons),  but  into  the  head  of  Thomas  Grad- 
grind— no,  sir. 

In  such  terms  Mr.  Gradgrind  always  men- 
tally introduced  himself,  whether  to  his  private 
circle  of  acquaintance,  or  to  the  public  in  general. 
In  such  terms,  no  doubt,  substituting  the  words 
“ boys  and  girls,”  for  “ sir,”  Thomas  Gradgrind 
now  presented  Thomas  Gradgrind  to  the  little 
pitchers  before  him,  who  were  to  be  filled  so 
full  of  facts. 

Indeed,  as  he  eagerly  sparkled  at  them  from 
the  cellarage  before  mentioned,  he  seemed  a 


kind  of  cannon  loaded  to  the  muzzle  with  facts, 
and  prepared  to  blow  them  clean  out  of  the 
regions  of  childhood  at  one  discharge.  He 
seemed  a galvanizing  apparatus,  too,  charged 
with  a grim  mechanical  substitute  for  the  ten- 
der young  imaginations  that  were  to  be  stormed 
away. — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

FACTS— Gradgrind’s  lessons  of. 

Mr.  Gradgrind  walked  homeward  from  the 
school,  in  a state  of  considerable  satisfaction. 
It  was  his  school,  and  he  intended  it  to  be  a mod- 
el. He  intended  every  child  in  it  to  be  a model 
— -just  as  the  young  Gradgrinds  were  all  models. 

There  were  five  young  Gradgrinds,  and  they 
were  models  every  one.  They  had  been  lec- 
tured at,  from  their  tenderest  years  ; coursed 
like  little  hares.  Almost  as  soon  as  they  could 
run  alone,  they  had  been  made  to  run  to  the 
lecture-room.  The  first  object  with  which  they 
had  an  association';  or  of  which  they  had  a re- 
membrance, was  a large  black-board  with  a dry 
Ogre  chalking  ghastly  white  figures  on  it. 

Not  that  they  knew,  by  name  or  nature,  any- 
thing about  an  Ogre.  Fact  forbid  ! I only  use 
the  word  to  express  a monster  in  a lecturing 
castle,  with  Heaven  knows  how  many  heads 
manipulated  into  one,  taking  childhood  cap- 
tive, and  dragging  it  into  gloomy  statistical 
dens  by  the  hair. 

No  little  Gradgrind  had  ever  seen  a face  in 
the  moon  ; it  was  up  in  the  moon  before  it 
could  speak  distinctly.  No  little  Gradgrind 
had  ever  learned  the  silly  jingle,  Twinkle, 
twinkle,  little  star;  how  I wonder  what  you 
are  ! No  little  Gradgrind  had  ever  known  won- 
der on  the  subject,  each  little  Gradgrind  hav- 
ing at  five  years  old  dissected  the  Great  Bear 
like  a Professor  Owen,  and  driven  Charles’s 
Wain  like  a locomotive  engine-driver.  No 
little  Gradgrind  had  ever  associated  a cow  in  a 
field  with  that  famous  cow  with  the  crumpled 
horn  who  tossed  the  dog  who  worried  the  cat 
who  killed  the  rat  who  ate  the  malt,  or  with 
that  yet  more  famous  cow  who  swallowed  Tom 
Thumb  : it  had  never  heard  of  those  celebrities, 
and  had  only  been  introduced  to  a cow  as  a 
graminiverous,  ruminating  quadruped  with  sev- 
eral stomachs. — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

FACTS— The  man  of. 

In  gauging  fathomless  deeps  with  his  little 
mean  excise-rod,  and  in  staggering  over  the  uni- 
verse with  his  rusty  stiff-legged  compasses,  he 
had  meant  to  do  great  things.  Within  the  lim- 
its of  his  short  tether  he  had  tumbled  about,  an- 
nihilating the  flowers  of  existence  with  greater 
singleness  of  purpose  than  many  of  the  blatant 
personages  whose  company  he  kept. 

Hard  Times , Book  III.,  Chap.  1. 

FACTS— A disgust  for. 

“ I wish  I could  collect  all  the  Facts  we  hear 
so  much  about,”  said  Tom,  spitefully  setting  his 
teeth,  “and  all  the  Figures,  and  all  the  people 
who  found  them  out ; and  I wish  I could  put  a 
thousand  barrels  of  gunpowder  under  them,  and 
blow  them  all  up  together  ! ” 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  S. 

FACTS— The  Gradgrind  philosophers. 

The  Gradgrind  party  wanted  assistance  in 
cutting  the  throats  of  the  Graces.  They  went 


FACTS 


1£6 


FAINTING 


about  recruiting;  and1  where  could  they  enlist 
recruits  more  hopefully,  than  among  the  fine 
gentlemen  who,  having  found  out  everything  to 
be  worth  nothing,  were  equally  ready  for  any- 
thing ? 

Moreover,  the  healthy  spirits  who  had  mounted 
to  this  sublime  height  were  attractive  to  many  of 
the  Gradgrind  school.  They  liked  fine  gentle- 
men ; they  pretended  that  they  did  not,  but  they 
did.  They  became  exhausted  in  imitation  of 
them  ; and  they  yavv-vawed  in  their  speech  like 
them  ; and  they  served  out,  with  an  enervated 
air,  the  little  mouldy  rations  of  political  econo- 
my, on  which  they  regaled  their  disciples.  There 
never  before  was  seen  on  earth  such  a wonder- 
ful hybrid  race  as  was  thus  produced. 

Hard  Times , Book  //.,  Chap . 2. 

FACTS— Mr.  Gradgrind  on. 

“Now,  what  I want  is,  Facts.  Teach  these 
boys  and  girls  nothing  but  Facts.  Facts  alone 
are  wanted  in  life.  Plant  nothing  else,  and  root 
out  everything  else.  You  can  only  form  the 
minds  of  reasoning  animals  upon  Facts  : nothing 
else  will  ever  be  of  any  service  to  them.  This 
is  the  principle  on  which  I bring  up  my  own 
children,  and  this  is  the  principle  on  which  I 
bring  up  these  children.  Stick  to  Facts,  sir !” 

The  scene  was  a plain,  bare,  monotonous  vault 
of  a school-room,  and  the  speaker’s  square  fore- 
finger emphasized  his  observations  by  under- 
scoring every  sentence  with  a line  on  the  school- 
master’s sleeve.  The  emphasis  was  helped  by 
the  speaker’s  square  wall  of  a forehead,  which 
had  his  eyebrows  for  its  base,  while  his  eyes 
found  commodious  cellarage  in  two  dark  caves, 
overshadowed  by  the  wall.  The  emphasis  was 
helped  by  the  speaker’s  mouth,  which  was  wide, 
thin,  and  hard  set.  The  emphasis  was  helped 
by  the  speaker’s  voice,  which  was  inflexible,  dry, 
and  dictatorial.  The  emphasis  was  helped  by 
the  speaker’s  hair,  which  bristled  on  the  skirts 
of  his  bald  head,  a plantation  of  firs  to  keep  the 
wind  from  its  shining  surface,  all  covered  with 
knobs,  like  the  crust  of  a plum  pie,  as  if  the 
head  had  scarcely  warehouse-room  for  the  hard 
facts  stored  inside.  The  speaker’s  obstinate 
carriage,  square  coat,  square  legs,  square  shoul- 
ders— nay,  his  very  neckcloth,  trained  to  take 
him  by  the  throat  with  an  unaccommodating 
grasp,  like  a stubborn  fact,  as  it  was — all  helped 
the  emphasis. 

“ In  this  life,  we  want  nothing  but  Facts,  sir  ; 
nothing  but  Facts  ! ” 

The  speaker,  and  the  schoolmaster,  and  the 
third  grown  person  present,  all  backed  a little, 
and  swept  with  their  eyes  the  inclined  plane  of 
little  vessels  then  and  there  arranged  in  order, 
ready  to  have  imperial  gallons  of  facts  poured 
into  them  until  they  were  full  to  the  brim. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  I. 

FACTS  versus  fancies. 

“ Girl  number  twenty,”  said  the  gentleman, 
smiling  in  the  calm  strength  of  knowledge. 

Sissy  blushed,  and  stood  up. 

“So  you  would  carpet  your  room — or  your 
husband’s  room,  if  you  were  a grown  woman, 
and  had  a husband — with  representations  of 
flowers,  would  you,”  said  the  gentleman.  “ Why 
would  you?” 

“If  you  please,  sir,  I am  very  fond  of  flowers,” 
returned  the  girl. 


“ And  is  that  why  you  would  put  tallies  and 
chairs  upon  them,  and  have  people  walking  ovei 
them  with  heavy  boots?” 

“ It  wouldn’t  hurt  them,  sir.  They  wouldn’t 
crush  and  wither,  if  you  please,  sir.  They  would 
be  the  pictures  of  what  was  very  pretty  and  pleas- 
ant, and  I would  fancy — ” 

“ Ay,  ay,  ay  ! But  you  mustn’t  fancy,”  cried 
the  gentleman,  quite  elated  by  coming  so  hap- 
pily to  his  point.  “ That’s  it ! You  are  never 
to  fancy.” 

“You  are  not,  Cecilia  Jupe,”  Thomas  Grad- 
grind solemnly  repeated,  “ to  do  anything  of  that 
kind.” 

“Fact,  fact,  fact !”  said  the  gentleman.  And 
“ Fact,  fact,  fact !”  repeated  Thomas  Gradgrind. 

“You  are  to  be  in  all  things  regulated  and 
governed,”  said  the  gentleman,  “ by  fact.  We 
hope  to  have,  before  long,  a board  of  fact,  com- 
posed of  commissioners  of  fact,  who  will  force 
the  people  to  be  a people  of  fact,  and  of  nothing 
but  fact.  You  must  discard  the  word  Fancy 
altogether.  You  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
You  are  not  to  have,  in  any  object  of  use  or 
ornament,  what  would  be  a contradiction  in 
fact.  You  don’t  walk  upon  flowers  in  fact; 
you  cannot  be  allowed  to  walk  upon  flowers  in 
carpets.  You  don’t  find  that  foreign  birds  and 
butterflies  come  and  perch  upon  your  crockery  ; 
you  cannot  be  permitted  to  paint  foreign  birds 
and  butterflies  upon  your  crockery.  You  never 
meet  with  quadrupeds  going  up  and  down  walls  ; 
you  must  not  have  quadrupeds  represented  upon 
walls.  You  must  use,”  said  the  gentleman,  “ for 
all  these  purposes,  combinations  and  modifica- 
tions (in  primary  colors)  of  mathematical  figures 
which  are  susceptible  of  proof  and  demonstra- 
tion. This  is  the  new  discovery.  This  is  fact. 
This  is  taste.” 

The  girl  curtseyed,  and  sat  down.  She  was 
very  young,  and  she  looked  as  if  she  were  fright- 
ened by  the  matter  of  fact  prospect  the  world 
afforded. — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

FAINTING— Mrs.  Varden’s  family  tactics. 

Mrs.  Varden  wept,  and  laughed,  and  sobbed, 
and  shivered,  and  hiccoughed,  and  choaked  . 
and  said  she  knew  it  was  very  foolish,  but  she 
couldn’t  help  it  ; and  that  when  she  was  dead 
and  gone,  perhaps  they  would  be  sorry  for  it — 
which  really,  under  the  circumstances,  did  not 
appear  quite  so  probable  as  she  seemed  to  think 
— with  a great  deal  more  to  the  same  effect. 
In  a word,  she  passed  with  great  decency 
through  all  the  ceremonies  incidental  to  such 
occasions  ; and  being  supported  up-stairs,  was 
deposited,  in  a highly  spasmodic  state  on  her 
own  bed,  where  Miss  Miggs  shortly  afterwards 
flung  herself  upon  the  body. 

The  philosophy  of  all  this  was,  that  Mrs. 
Varden  wanted  to  go  to  Chigwell ; that  she  did 
not  want  to  make  any  concession  or  explana- 
tion ; that  she  would  only  go  on  being  im- 
plored and  entreated  so  to  do  ; and  that  she 
would  accept  no  other  terms.  Accordingly, 
after  a vast  amount  of  moaning  and  crying  up- 
stairs, and  much  dampening  of  foreheads,  and 
vinegaring  of  temples,  and  hartshorning  of 
noses,  and  so  forth  ; and  after  most  pathetic 
adjurations  from  Miggs,  assisted  by  warm  bran- 
dy-and-  water  not  over-weak,  and  divers  other 
cordials  also  of  a stimulating  quality,  adminis- 
tered at  first  in  teaspoonsful,  and  afterwards  in 


FAINTING 


187 


FAIR 


increasing  doses,  and  of  which  Miss  Miggs  her- 
self partook  as  a preventive  measure  (for  faint- 
ing is  infectious) ; after  all  these  remedies,  and 
many  more  too  numerous  to  mention,  but  not 
to  take,  had  been  applied  ; and  many  verbal 
consolations,  moral,  religious,  and  miscellaneous, 
had  been  superadded  thereto,  the  locksmith 
humbled  himself,  and  the  end  was  gained. 

“ If  it’s  only  for  the  sake  of  peace  and  quiet- 
ness, father,”  said  Dolly,  urging  him  to  go  up- 
stairs. 

“Oh,  Doll,  Doll,”  said  her  good-natured  fa- 
ther. “ If  you  ever  have  a husband  of  your 
own — ” 

Dolly  glanced  at  the  glass. 

“Well,  when  you  have,”  said  the  locksmith, 
“never  faint,  my  darling.  More  domestic  un- 
happiness has  come  of  easy  fainting,  Doll,  than 
from  all  the  greater  passions  put  together.  Re- 
member that,  my  dear,  if  you  would  be  truly 
happy,  which  you  never  can  be,  if  your  hus- 
band isn’t.  And  a word  in  your  ear,  my  pre- 
cious. Never  have  a Miggs  about  you  ! ” 

Barnaby  Budge , Chap.  19. 

FAINTING- Of  Miss  Miggs. 

Having  helped  the  wayward  ’prentice  in,  she 
faintly  articulated  the  words  “Simmun  is  safe  ! ” 
and  yielding  to  her  woman’s  nature,  immedi- 
ately became  insensible. 

“I  knew  I should  quench  her,”  said  Sim, 
rather  embarrassed  by  this  circumstance.  “ Of 
course  I was  certain  it  would  come  to  this,  but 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done — if  I hadn’t 
eyed  her  over,  she  wouldn’t  have  come  down. 
Here.  Keep  up  a minute,  Miggs.  What  a slip- 
pery figure  she  is  ! There’s  no  holding  her  com- 
fortably. Do  keep  up  a minute,  Miggs,  will  you  ? ” 

As  Miggs,  however,  was  deaf  to  all  entrea- 
ties, Mr.  Tappertit  leaned  her  against  the  wall 
as  one  might  dispose  of  a walking-stick  or  um- 
brella, until  he  had  secured  the  window,  when 
he  took  her  in  his  arms  again,  and,  in  short 
stages  and  with  great  difficulty — arising  mainly 
from  her  being  tall  and  his  being  short,  and 
perhaps  in  some  degree  from  that  peculiar  phy- 
sical conformation  on  which  he  had  already  re- 
marked— carried  her  up-stairs,  and  planting  her 
in  the  same  umbrella  or  walking  stick  fashion, 
just  inside  her  own  door,  left  her  to  her  repose. 

“He  may  be  as  cool  as  he  likes,”  said  Miss 
Miggs,  recovering  as  soon  as  she  was  left  alone  ; 
“but  I’m  in  his  confidence  and  he  can’t  help 
himself,  nor  couldn’t  if  he  was  twenty  Sim- 
munses  ! ” — Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  9. 

FAINTING— The  freemasonry  of. 

But  none  of  that  gentle  concern  which  usually 
characterizes  the  daughters  of  Eve  in  their  tend- 
ing of  each  other ; none  of  that  freemasonry  in 
fainting,  by  which  they  are  generally  bound  to 
gether  in  a mysterious  bond  of  sisterhood,  was 
visible  in  Mrs.  Chick’s  demeanor.  Rather  like 
the  executioner  who  restores  the  victim  to  sen- 
sation previous  to  proceeding  with  the  torture 
(or  was  wont  to  do  so,  in  the  good  old  times  for 
which  all  true  men  wear  perpetual  mourning), 
did  Mrs.  Chick  administer  the  smelling-bottle, 
the  slapping  on  the  hands,  the  dashing  of  cold 
water  on  the  face,  and  the  other  proved  reme- 
dies. And  when,  at  length,  Miss  Tox  opened 
her  eyes,  and  gradually  became  restored  to  ani- 
mation and  consciousness,  Mrs.  Chick  drew  off 


as  from  a criminal,  and  reversing  the  precedent 
of  the  murdered  king  of  Denmark,  regarded 
her  more  in  anger  than  in  sorrow. 

Dojnbey  Son,  Chap.  29. 

FAIR— A village. 

It  was  a Saturday  evening,  and  at  such  a time 
the  village  dogs,  always  much  more  interested 
in  the  doings  of  humanity  than  in  the  affairs  of 
their  own  species,  were  particularly  active.  At 
the  general  shop,  at  the  butcher’s,  and  at  the 
public-house,  they  evinced  an  inquiring  spirit 
never  to  be  satiated.  Their  especial  interest  in 
the  public-house  would  seem  to  imply  some 
latent  rakishness  in  the  canine  character  ; for 
little  was  eaten  there,  and  they,  having  no  taste 
for  beer  or  tobacco  (Mrs.  Hubbard’s  dog  is  said 
to  have  smoked,  but  proof  is  wanting),  could 
only  have  been  attracted  by  sympathy  with  loose 
convivial  habits.  Moreover,  a most  wretched 
fiddle  .played  within;  a fiddle  so  unutterably 
vile,  that  one  lean,  long-bodied  cur,  with  a bet- 
ter ear  than  the  rest,  found  himself  under  com- 
pulsion at  intervals  to  go  round  the  corner  and 
howl.  Yet,  even  he  returned  to  the  public- 
house  on  each  occasion  with  the  tenacity  of  a 
confirmed  drunkard. 

Fearful  to  relate,  there  was  ev^n  a sort  of  little 
Fair  in  the  village.  Some  despairing  ginger- 
bread that  had  been  vainly  trying  to  dispose  of 
itself  all  over  the  country,  and  had  cast  a quan- 
tity of  dust  upon  its  head  in  its  mortification, 
again  appealed  to  the  public  from  an  infirm 
booth.  So  did  a heap  of  nuts,  long,  long  exiled 
from  Barcelona,  and  yet  speaking  English  so  in- 
differently as  to  call  fourteen  of  themselves  a 
pint.  A Peep-show  which  had  originally  started 
with  the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  and  had  since  made 
it  every  other  battle  of  later  date  by  altering  the 
Duke  of  Wellington’s  nose,  tempted  the  student 
of  illustrated  history.  A Fat  Lady,  perhaps  in 
part  sustained  upon  postponed  pork,  her  pro- 
fessional associate  being  a Learned  Pig,  dis- 
played her  life-size  picture  in  a low  dress  as  she 
appeared  when  presented  at  Court,  several  yards 
round.  All  this  was  a vicious  spectacle,  as  any 
poor  idea  of  amusement  on  the  part  of  the 
rougher  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water 
in  this  land  of  England  ever  is  and  shall  be. 
They  must  not  vary  the  rheumatism  with  amuse- 
ment. They  may  vary  it  with  fever  and  ague, 
or  with  as  many  rheumatic  variations  as  they 
have  joints  ; but  positively  not  with  entertain- 
ment after  their  own  manner. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  IV.,  Chap.  6. 

FAIR— The  Greenwich. 

If  the  Parks  be  “ the  lungs  of  London,”  we 
wonder  what  Greenwich  Fair  is — a periodical 
breaking  out,  we  suppose  ; a sort  of  spring-rash  ; 
a three  days’  fever,  which  cools  the  blood  for 
six  months  afterwards,  and  at  the  expiration  of 
which  London  is  restored  to  its  old  habits  of 
plodding  industry,  as  suddenly  and  completely 
as  if  nothing  had  ever  happened  to  disturb  them. 

Pedestrians  linger  in  groups  at  the  roadside, 
unable  to  resist  the  allurements  of  the  stout  pro- 
prietress of  the  “ Jack-in-the  box,  three  shies  a 
penny,”  or  the  more  splendid  offers  of  the  man 
with  three  thimbles  and  a pea  on  a little  round 
board,  who  astonishes  the  bewildei'ed  crowd  with 
some  such  address  as,  “ Here’s  the  sort  o’  game 
to  make  you  laugh  seven  years  arter  you’re  dead. 


FASHIONABLE  PARTY 


188 


FASHIONABLE  PEOPLE 


and  turn  ev’ry  air  on  youred  gray  with  delight  1 
Three  thimbles  and  vun  little  pea — with  a vun, 
two,  three,  and  a two,  three,  vun  : catch  him  who 
can,  look  on,  keep  your  eyes  open,  and  niversay 
die  ! niver  mind  the  change,  and  the  expense  : 
all  fair  and  above  board  : them  as  don’t  play 
can’t  vin,  and  luck  attend  the  ryal  sportsman  ! 
Bet  any  gen’lm’n  any  sum  of  money,  from  harf- 
a-crown  up  to  a suverin,  as  he  doesn’t  name  the 
thimble  as  kivers  the  pea  !”  Here  some  green- 
horn whispers  his  friend  that  he  distinctly  saw 
the  pea  roll  under  the  middle  thimble — an  im- 
pression which  is  immediately  confirmed  by  a 
gentleman  in  top-boots,  who  is  standing  by,  and 
who,  in  a low  tone,  regrets  his  own  inability  to 
bet  in  consequence  of  having  unfortunately  left 
his  purse  at  home,  but  strongly  urges  the  stran- 
ger not  to  neglect  such  a golden  opportunity. 
The  “ plant  ” is  successful,  the  bet  is  made,  the 
stranger  of  course  loses  ; and  the  gentleman 
with  the  thimble  consoles  him.  as  he  pockets  the 
money,  with  an  assurance  that  it’s  “all  the  fortin 
cd  war  ! this  time  I vin,  next  time  you  vin  : niver 
mind  the  loss  of  two  bob  and  a bender!  Do 
it  up  in  a small  parcel,  and  break  out  in  a fresh 
place.  Here’s  the  sort  o’  game,”  etc. — and  the 
eloquent  harangue,  with  some  variations  as  the 
speaker’s  exuberant  fancy  suggests,  is  again  re- 
peated to  the  gaping  crowd,  reinforced  by  the 
accession  of  several  new  comers. 

* * * * * 

Imagine  yourself  in  an  extremely  dense  crowd, 
which  swings  you  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
and  every  way  but  the  right  one  ; add  to  this 
the  screams  of  women,  the  shouts  of  boys,  the 
clanging  of  gongs,  the  firing  of  pistols,  the  ring- 
ing of  bells,  the  bellowings  of  speaking-trum- 
pets, the  squeaking  of  penny  dittos,  the  noise 
of  a dozen  bands,  with  three  drums  in  each,  all 
playing  different  tunes  at  the  same  time,  the 
hallooing  of  showmen,  and  an  occasional  roar 
from  the  wild-beast  shows  ; and  you  are  in  the 
very  centre  and  heart  of  the  fair. 

Scenes , Chap.  12. 

FASHIONABLE  PARTY-A. 

And  now  the  haunch  of  mutton  vapor-bath 
having  received  a gamey  infusion,  and  a few  last 
touches  of  sweets  and  coffee,  was  quite  ready, 
the  bathers  came ; but  not  before  the  dis- 
creet automaton  had  got  behind  the  bars  of  the 
piano  music-desk,  and  there  presented  the  ap- 
pearance of  a captive  languishing  in  a rosewood 
jail. — Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  I.,  Chap.  11. 

FASHIONABLE  SOCIETY. 

They  all  go  up  again  into  the  gorgeous  draw- 
ing rooms — all  of  them  flushed  with  breakfast, 
as  having  taken  scarlatina  sociably — and  ther^  1 
the  combined  unknowns  do  malignant  things] 
with  their  legs  to  ottomans,  and  take  as  muchas; 
possible  out  of  the  splendid  furniture. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  /.,  Chap.  10. 

FASHIONABLE  CONVENTIONALITIES. 

The  social  ice  on  which  all  the  children  of 
Podsnappery,  with  genteel  souls  to  be  saved,  are 
required  to  skate  in  circles,  or  to  slide  in  long 
rows. — Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  II.,  Chap.  8. 

FASHIONABLE  CALLS. 

And  now,  in  the  blooming  summer  days,  be- 
hold Mr.  and  Mi  :.  Boffin  established  in  the  emi- 


nently aristocratic  family  mansion,  an  1 behold 
all  manner  of  crawling,  creeping,  fluttering,  and 
buzzing  creatures,  attracted  by  the  gold-dust  of 
the  Golden  Dustman  ! 

Foremost  among  those  leaving  cards  at  the 
eminently  aristocratic  door,  before  it  is  quite 
painted,  are  the  Veneerings  ; out  of  breath,  one 
might  imagine,  from  the  impetuosity  of  their 
rush  to  the  eminently  aristocratic  steps.  One 
copper  plate  Mrs.  Veneering,  two  copper-plate 
Mr.  Veneerings,  and  a connubial  copper-plate 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Veneering,  requesting  the  honor 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boffin’s  company  at  dinner  with 
the  utmost  Analytical  solemnities.  The  enchant 
ing  Lady  Tippins  leaves  a card.  Twemlow 
leaves  cards.  A tall  custard-colored  phaeton 
tooling  up  in  a solemn  manner  leaves  four  cards, 
to  wit,  a couple  of  Mr.  Podsnaps,  a Mrs.  Pod- 
snap,  and  a Miss  Podsnap.  All  the  world  and 
his  wife  ai\d  daughter  leave  cards.  Some- 
times the  world’s  wife  has  so  many  daughters, 
that  her  card  reads  rather  like  a Miscellaneous 
Lot  at  an  Auction  ; comprising  Mrs.  Tapkins, 
Miss  Tapkins,  Miss  Frederica  Tapkins,  Miss 
Antonia  Tapkins,  Miss  Malvina  Tapkins,  and 
Miss  Euphemia  Tapkins  ; at  the  same  time  the 
same  lady  leaves  the  card  of  Mrs.  Henry  George 
Alfred  Swoshle,  nie  Tapkins;  also  a card,  Mrs. 
Tapkins  at  Home  Wednesdays,  Music,  Port- 
land Place. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap . 17. 

FASHIONABLE  EXCLUSIVENESS. 

The  Podsnaps  lived  in  a shady  angle  adjoin- 
ing Portman  Square.  They  were  a kind  of  peo- 
ple certain  to  dwell  in  the  shade,  wherever  they 
dwelt.  Miss  Podsnap’s  life  had  been,  from  her 
first  appearance  on  this  planet,  altogether  of  a 
shady  order  ; for,  Mr.  Podsnap’s  young  person 
was  likely  to  get  little  good  out  of  association 
with  other  young  persons,  and  had  therefore 
been  restricted  to  companionship  with  not  very 
congenial  older  persons,  and  with  massive  furni- 
ture. Miss  Podsnap’s  early  views  of  life  being 
principally  derived  from  the  reflections  of  it  in 
her  father’s  boots,  and  in  the  walnut  and  rose- 
wood tables  of  the  dim  drawing-rooms,  and  in 
their  swarthy  giants  of  looking  glasses,  were  of 
a sombre  cast  ; and  it  was  not  wonderful  that 
now,  when  she  was  on  most  days  solemnly 
tooled  through  the  Park  by  the  side  of  her  moth- 
er, in  a great,  tall,  custard-colored  phaeton,  she 
showed  above  the  apron  of  that  vehicle  like  a 
dejected  young  person  sitting  up  in  bed  to  take 
a startled  look  at  things  in  general,  and  very 
strongly  desiring  to  get  her  head  under  the 
counterpane  again. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  /.,  Chap.  II. 

FASHIONABLE  PEOPLE— The  Veneer- 
ing-s. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Veneering  were  bran-new  peo- 
ple in  a bran-new  house  in  a bran-new  quarter 
of  London.  Everything  about  the  Veneerings 
was  spick  and  span  new.  All  their  furniture 
was  new,  all  their  friends  were  new,  all  their 
servants  were  new,  their  plate  was  new,  their 
carriage  was  new,  their  harness  was  new',  their 
horses  were  new,  their  pictures  were  new,  they 
themselves  were  new,  :hey  were  as  newly  mar- 
ried as  w'as  lawfully  compatible  with  their  hav- 
ing a bran-new  baby,  and  if  they  had  set  up  a 
great-grandfather,  he  would  have  come  home 


FASHIONABLE  PEOPLE 


189 


FASHION 


1 

\ 


in  matting  from  the  Pantechnicon,  without  a 
scratch  upon  him,  French  polished  to  the  crown 
of  his  head. 

For,  in  the  Veneering  establishment,  from  the 
hall-chairs  with  the  new  coat  of  arms  to  the 
grand  pianoforte  with  the  new  action,  and  up- 
stairs again  to  the  new  fire-escape,  all  things 
were  in  a state  of  high  varnish  and  polish.  And 
what  was  observable  in  the  furniture  was  ob- 
servable in  the  Veneerings — the  surface  smelt  a 
little  too  much  of  the  workshop  and  was  a trifle 
sticky. 

There  was  an  innocent  piece  of  dinner-furni- 
ture that  went  upon  easy  castors  and  was  kept 
over  a livery  stable-yarcl  in  Duke  Street,  St. 
James’s,  when  not  in  use,  to  whom  the  Veneer- 
ings were  a source  of  blind  confusion.  The 
name  of  this  article  was  Twemlow.  Being  first 
cousin  to  Lord  Snigsworth,  he  was  in  frequent 
requisition,  and  at  many  houses  might  be  said 
to  represent  the  dining-table  in  its  normal  state. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Veneering,  for  example,  arranging 
a dinner,  habitually  started  with  Twemlow,  and 
then  put  leaves  in  him,  or  added  guests  to  him. 
Sometimes  the  table  consisted  of  Twemlow  and 
half  a dozen  leaves  ; sometimes,  of  Twemlow 
and  a dozen  leaves  ; sometimes,  Twemlow  was 
pulled  out  to  his  utmost  extent  of  twenty  leaves. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Veneering  on  occasions  of  cere- 
mony faced  each  other  in  the  centre  of  the 
board,  and  thus  the  parallel  still  held  ; for,  it 
always  happened  that  the  more  Twemlow  was 
pulled  out,  the  farther  he  found  himself  from 
the  centre,  and  the  nearer  to  the  sideboard  at 
one  end  of  the  room,  or  the  window-curtains  at 
the  other. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

FASHIONABLE  PEOPLE-How  they  are 
managed. 

There  is  this  remarkable  circumstance  to  be 
noted  in  everything  associated  with  my  Lady 
Dedlock  as  one  of  a class — as  one  of  the  leaders 
av\d  representatives  of  her  little  world — she 
suoposes  herself  to  be  an  inscrutable  Being, 
quite  out  of  the  reach  and  ken  of  ordinary  mor- 
tal:; ; seeing  herself  in  her  glass,  where  indeed 
she  looks  so.  Yet,  every  dim  little  star  revolv- 
ing about  her,  from  her  maid  to  the  manager  of 
the  Italian  Opera,  knows  her  weaknesses,  pre- 
judices, follies,  haughtinesses,  and  caprices  ; and 
lives  upon  as  accurate  a calculation  and  as  nice 
a measure  of  her  moral  nature,  as  her  dress- 
makei  takes  of  her  physical  proportions.  Is  a 
new  dress,  a new  custom,  a new  singer,  a new 
dancer,  a new  form  of  jewelry,  a new  dwarf  or 
giant,  a new  chapel,  a new  anything,  to  be  set 
up?  Tiiere  are  deferential  people,  in  a dozen 
callings,  whom  my  Lady  Dedlock  suspects  of 
nothing  out  prostration  before  her,  who  can  tell 
you  how  to  manage  her  as  if  she  were  a baby  ; 
who  do  nothing  but  nurse  her  all  their  lives; 
who,  humbly  affecting  to  follow  with  profound 
subservience,  lead  her  and  her  whole  troop  after 
them  ; who,  in  hooking  one,  hook  all  and  bear 
them  off,  as  Lemuel  Gulliver  bore  away  the 
stately  fleet  of  the  majestic  Lilliput.  “ If  you 
want  to  addiess  our  people,  sir,”  say  Blaze  and 
Sparkle,  the  jewellers — meaning  by  our  people, 
Lady  Dedlock  and  the  rest — “ you  must  remem- 
ber that  you  are  not  dealing  with  the  general 
public  ; you  must  hit  our  people  in  their  weak- 
est place,  and  their  weakest  place  is  such  a 


place.”  “To  make  this  article  go  down,  gen- 
tlemen,” say  Sheen  and  Gloss,  the  mercers,  to 
their  friends  the  manufacturers,  “you  must  come 
to  us,  because  we  know  where  to  have  the  fash- 
ionable people,  and  we  can  make  it  fashiona- 
ble.” “ If  you  want  to  get  this  print  upon  the 
tables  of  my  high  connection,  sir,”  says  Mr. 
Sladdery,  the  librarian,  “ or  if  you  want  to  get 
this  dwarf  or  giant  into  the  houses  of  my  high 
connection,  sir,  or  if  you  want  to  secure  to  this 
entertainment  the  patronage  of  my  high  con- 
nection, sir,  you  must  leave  it,  if  you  please,  to 
me ; for  I have  been  accustomed  to  study  the 
leaders  of  my  high  connection,  sir ; and  I may 
tell  you,  without  vanity,  that  I can  turn  them 
round  my  finger.” — in  which  Mr.  Sladdery,  who 
is  an  honest  man,  does  not  exaggerate  at  all. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  2. 

FASHION— In  England. 

Whatsoever  fashion  is  set  in  England  is  cer- 
tain to  descend.  This  is  the  text  for  a perpetual 
sermon  on  care  in  setting  fashions.  When  you 
find  a fashion  low  down,  look  back  for  the  time 
(it  will  never  be  far  off)  when  it  was  the  fashion 
high  up.  This  is  the  text  for  a perpetual  ser- 
mon on  social  justice.  From  imitations  of  Ethi- 
opian Serenaders,  to  imitations  of  Prince’s  coats 
and  waistcoats,  you  will  find  the  original  model 
in  St.  James’s  Parish.  When  the  Serenaders  be- 
come tiresome,  trace  them  beyond  the  Black 
Country  : when  the  coats  and  waistcoats  become 
insupportable,  refer  them  to  their  source  in  the 
Upper  Toady  Regions. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  23. 

FASHIONS— Like  human  beings. 

“ Fashions  are  like  human  beings.  They 
come  in,  nobody  knows  when,  why,  or  how  ; and 
they  go  out,  nobody  knows  when,  why,  or  how. 
Everything  is  like  life,  in  my  opinion,  if  you 
look  at  it  in  that  point  of  view.” 

David  Copperjield,  Chap.  9. 

FASHIONS— Second-hand  clothes. 

Probably  there  are  not  more  second-hand 
clothes  sold  in  London  than  in  Paris,  and  yet 
the  mass  of  the  London  population  have  a 
second-hand  look  which  is  not  to  be  detected 
on  the  mass  of  the  Parisian  population.  I 
think  this  is  mainly  because  a Parisian  work- 
man does  not  in  the  least  trouble  himself  about 
what  is  worn  by  a Parisian  idler,  but  dresses  in 
the  way  of  his  own  class  and  for  his  own  com- 
fort. In  London,  oh  the  contrary,  the  fashions 
descend  ; and  you  never  fully  know  how  incon- 
venient or  ridiculous  a fashion  is,  until  you  see 
it  in  its  last  descent. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  23. 

FASHION -The  world  of. 

Both  the  world  of  fashion  and  the  Court  of 
Chancery  are  things  of  precedent  and  usage  ; 
over-sleeping  Rip  Van  Winkles,  who  have  played 
at  strange  games  through  a deal  of  thundery 
weather  ; sleeping  beauties,  whom  the  Knight 
will  wake  one  day,  when  all  the  stopped  spits  in 
the  kitchen  shall  begin  to  turn  prodigiously  ! 

It  is  not  a large  world.  Relatively  even  to 
this  world  of  ours,  which  has  its  limits  too  (as 
your  Highness  shall  find  when  you  have  made 
the  tour  of  it,  and  are  come  to  the  brink  of  the 
void  beyond),  it  is  a very  little  speck.  There  is 


FASHION 


190 


FAT  BOY 


much  good  in  it ; there  are  many  good  and  true 
people  in  it  ; it  has  its  appointed  place.  But 
the  evil  of  it  is,  that  it  is  a world  wrapped  up  in 
too  much  jeweller’s  cotton  and  fine  wool,  and 
cannot  hear  the  rushing  of  the  larger  worlds, 
and  cannot  see  them  as  they  circle  round  the 
sun.  It  is  a deadened  world,  and  its  growth  is 
sometimes  unhealthy  for  want  of  air. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  2. 

FASHION— The  ennui  of. 

My  Lady  Dedlock  has  been  bored  to  death. 
Concert,  assembly,  opera,  theatre,  drive,  nothing 
is  new  to  my  Lady,  under  the  worn-out  heavens. 
Only  last  Sunday,  when  poor  wretches  were  gay 
— within  the  walls,  playing  with  children  among 
the  clipped  trees  and  the  statues  in  the  Palace 
Garden  ; walking,  a score  abreast,  in  the  Elysian 
Fields,  made  more  Elysian  by  performing  dogs 
and  wooden  horses  ; between  whiles  filtering 
(a  few)  through  the  gloomy  Cathedral  of  our 
Lady,  to  say  a word  or  two  at  the  base  of  a 
pillar,  within  flare  of  a rusty  little  gridiron-full 
of  gusty  little  tapers — without  the  walls,  encom- 
passing Paris  with  dancing,  love-making,  wine- 
drinking, tobacco-smoking,  tomb-visiting,  bil- 
liard, card,  and  domino  playing,  quack-doctoring, 
and  much  murderous  refuse,  animate  and  inani- 
mate— only  last  Sunday,  my  Lady,  in  the  deso- 
lation of  Boredom  and  the  clutch  of  Giant 
Despair,  almost  hated  her  own  maid  for  being  in 
spirits. 

She  cannot,  therefore,  go  too  fast  from  Paris. 
Weariness  of  soul  lies  before  her,  as  it  lies  be- 
hind— her  Ariel  has  put  a girdle  of  it  round  the 
whole  earth,  and  it  cannot  be  unclasped — but 
the  imperfect  remedy  is  always  to  fly  from  the 
last  place  where  it  has  been  experienced.  Fling 
Paris  back  into  the  distance,  then,  exchanging 
it  for  endless  avenues  and  cross-avenues  of 
wintry  trees  ! And,  when  next  beheld,  let  it  be 
some  leagues  away,  with  the  Gate  of  the  Star  a 
white  speck  glittering  in  the  sun,  and  the  city  a 
mere  mound  in  a plain  : two  dark  square  towers 
rising  out  of  it,  and  light  and  shadow  descend- 
ing on  it  aslant,  like  the  angels  in  Jacob’s 
dream  ! — Bleak  House , Chap.  12. 

FAT  BOY- Joe,  the. 

“Joe,  Joe  !”  said  the  stout  gentleman,  when 
the  citadel  was  taken,  and  the  besiegers  and  be- 
sieged sat  down  to  dinner.  “ Damn  that  boy, 
he’s  gone  to  sleep  again.  Be  good  enough  to 
pinch  him,  sir — in  the  leg,  if  you  please  ; nothing 
else  wakes  him — thank  you.  Undo  the  hamper, 
Joe.” 

The  fat  boy,  who  had  been  effectually  roused 
by  the  compression  of  a portion  of  his  leg  be- 
tween the  finger  and  thumb  of  Mr.  Winkle, 
rolled  off  the  box  once  again,  and  proceeded  to 
unpack  the  hamper,  with  more  expedition  than 
could  have  been  expected  from  his  previous  in- 
activity. 

* * * * * 

“ Plates,  Joe,  plates.”  A similar  process  em- 
ployed in  the  distribution  of  the  crockery. 

“Now,  Joe,  the  fowls.  Damn  that  boy,  lie’s 
gone  to  sleep  again.  Joe!  Joe!”  (Sundry  taps 
on  the  head  with  a stick,  and  the  fat  boy,  with 
some  difficulty,  reused  from  his  lethargy.) 
“ Come,  hand  in  the  eatables.  ’ 

There  was  something  in  the  sound  of  the  last 
word  whi.h  roused  the  unctuous  boy.  He 


jumped  up ; and  the  leaden  eyes  which  twinkled 
behind  his  mountainous  cheeks,  leered  horribly 
upon  the  food  as  he  unpacked  it  from  the  basket. 

***** 

Mr.  Wardle  unconsciously  changed  the  sub- 
ject, by  calling  emphatically  for  Joe. 

“ Damn  that  boy,”  said  the  old  gentleman, 
“lie’s  gone  to  sleep  again.” 

“Very  extraordinary  boy,  that,”  said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, “does  he  always  sleep  in  this  way?” 

“Sleep!”  said  the  old  gentleman,  “he’s  al- 
ways asleep.  Goes  on  errands  fast  asleep,  and 
snores  as  he  waits  at  table.” 

“ How  very  odd  !”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Ah!  odd  indeed,”  returned  the  old  gentle- 
man ; “ I’m  proud  of  that  boy — wouldn’t  part 
with  him  on  any  account — he’s  a natural  curi- 
osity ! Here,  Joe — Joe — take  these  things  away, 
and  open  another  bottle — d’ye  hear?” 

The  fat  boy  rose,  opened  his  eyes,  swallowed 
the  huge  piece  of  pie  he  had  been  in  the  act  of 
masticating  when  he  last  fell  asleep,  and  slowly 
obeyed  his  master’s  orders — gloating  languidly 
over  the  remains  of  the  feast,  as  he  removed  the 
plates  and  deposited  them  in  the  hamper. 

Bickwicky  Chap.  4. 

The  object  that  presented  itself  to  the  eyes 
of  the  astonished  clerk,  was  a boy — a wonder- 
fully fat  boy — habited  as  a serving  lad,  standing 
upright  on  the  mat,  with  his  eyes  closed  as  if  in 
sleep.  He  had  never  seen  such  a fat  boy  in  or 
out  of  a travelling  caravan  ; and  this,  coupled 
with  the  calmness  and  repose  of  his  appearance, 
so  very  different  from  what  was  reasonably  to 
have  been  expected  of  the  inflicter  of  such 
knocks,  smote  him  with  wonder. 

“What’s  the  matter?”  inquired  the  clerk. 

The  extraordinary  boy  replied  not  a word  ; 
but  he  nodded  once,  and  seemed,  to  the  clerk’s 
imagination,  to  snore  feebly. 

“Where  do  you  come  from?”  inquired  the 
clerk. 

The  boy  made  no  sign.  He  breathed  heavily, 
but  in  all  other  respects  was  motionless. 

The  clerk  repeated  the  question  thrice,  and 
receiving  no  answer,  prepared  to  shut  the  door, 
when  the  boy  suddenly  opened  his  eyes,  winked 
several  times,  sneezed  once,  and  raised  his  hand 
as  if  to  repeat  the  knocking.  Finding  the  door 
open,  he  stared  about  him  with  astonishment,  and 
at  length  fixed  his  eyes  on  Mr.  Lowten’s  face. 

“ What  the  devil  do  you  knock  in  that  way 
for?”  inquired  the  clerk,  angrily. 

“ Which  way  ! ” said  the  boy,  in  a slow  and 
sleepy  voice. 

“ Why,  like  forty  hackney-coachmen,”  replied 
the  clerk. 

“ Because  master  said  I wasn’t  to  leave  off 
knocking  till  they  opened  the  door,  for  fear  I 
should  go  to  sleep,”  said  the  boy. 

Pickwick , Chap.  54. 

FAT  BOY— Joe  as  a spy. 

“ Missus  !”  shouted  the  fat  boy. 

“Well,  Joe,”  said  the  trembling  old  lady. 

“ I’m  sure  I have  been  a good  mistress  to  you. 
You  have  invariably  been  treated  very  kindly. 
You  have  never  had  too  much  to  do;  and  you 
have  always  had  enough  to  eat.” 

This  last  was  an  appeal  to  the  fat  boy’s  most 
sensitive  feelings.  He  seemed  touched,  as  he 
replied,  emphatically — 


FAT  BOY 


191 


FEAR 


“ I knows  I has.” 

“ Then  what  can  you  want  to  do  now?”  said 
the  old  lady,  gaining  courage. 

“I  wants  to  make  your  flesh  creep,”  replied 
the  boy. 

This  sounded  like  a very  bloodthirsty  mode 
of  showing  one’s  gratitude  ; and  as  the  old  lady 
did  not  precisely  understand  the  process  by 
which  such  a result  was  to  be  attained,  all  her 
former  horrors  returned. 

“ What  do  you  think  I see  in  this  very  arbor 
last  night?”  inquired  the  boy. 

“ Bless  us  ! What  ? ” exclaimed  the  old  lady, 
alarmed  at  the  solemn  manner  of  the  corpulent 
youth. 

“ The  strange  gentleman — him  as  had  his  arm 
hurt — a kissin’  and  huggin’ — ” 

“ Who.  Joe?  None  of  the  servants,  I hope.” 

“Worser  than  that,”  roared  the  fat  boy,  in 
the  old  lady’s  ear. 

“ Not  one  of  my  grand-da’aters  ? ” 

“Worser  than  that.” 

“Worse  than  that,  Joe!”  said  the  old  lady, 
who  had  thought  this  the  extreme  limit  of  hu- 
man atrocity.  “ Who  was  it,  Joe?  I insist  upon 
knowing.” 

The  fat  boy  looked  cautiously  round,  and 
having  concluded  his  survey,  shouted  in  the  old 
lady’s  ear : 

“ Miss  Rachael.” 

“ What ! ” said  the  old  lady,  in  a shrill  tone. 
“ Speak  louder.” 

“ Miss  Rachael,”  roared  the  fat  boy. 

“ My  da’ater  ! ” 

The  train  of  nods  which  the  fat  boy  gave  by 
way  of  assent,  communicated  a blanc-mange- like 
motion  to  his  fat  cheeks. 

“ And  she  suffered  him  ! ” exclaimed  the  old 
lady. 

A grin  stole  over  the  fat  boy’s  features  as  he 
said  : 

“ I see  her  a kissin’  of  him  agin.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  8. 

FAT  BOY— Joe  in  love. 

“Will  you  have  some  of  this?”  said  the  fat 
boy,  plunging  into  the  pie  up  to  the  very  fer- 
ules of  the  knife  and  fork. 

“ A little,  if  you  please,”  replied  Mary. 

The  fat  boy  assisted  Mary  to  a little,  and 
himself  to  a great  deal,  and  was  just  going  to 
begin  eating,  when  he  suddenly  laid  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  leant  forward  in  his  chair,  and 
letting  his  hands,  with  the  knife  and  fork  in 
them,  fall  on  his  knees,  said,  very  slowly  : 

“ I say  ! how  nice  you  look  ! ” 

This  was  said  in  an  admiring  manner,  and 
was,  so  far,  gratifying;  but  still  there  was 
enough  of  the  cannibal  in  the  young  gentle- 
man’s eyes  to  render  the  compliment  a double 
one. 

“ Dear  me,  Joseph,”  said  Mary,  affecting  to 
blush,  “ what  do  you  mean  ? ” 

The  fat  boy,  gradually  recovering  his  former 
position,  replied  with  a heavy  sigh,  and  remain- 
ing thoughtful  for  a few  moments,  drank  a long 
draught  of  the  porter.  Having  achieved  this 
feat  he  sighed  again,  and  applied  himself  assid- 
uously to  the  pie. 

“ What  a nice  young  lady  Miss  Emily  is  ! ” 
said  Mary,  after  a long  silence. 

The  fat  boy  had  by  this  time  finished  the  pie. 


“ I knows  a nicerer.” 

“ Indeed  ! ’ said  Mary. 

“ Yes,  indeed  ! ” replied  the  fat  boy,  with  un- 
wonted vivacity. 

“ What’s  her  name  ? ” inquired  Mary. 

“ What  yours  ?” 

“ Mary.” 

“ So’s  her’s,”  said  the  fat  boy.  “ You’re  her.” 
The  boy  grinned  to  add  point  to  the  compli- 
ment, and  put  his  eyes  into  something  between 
a squint  and  a cast,  which  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve he  intended  for  an  ogle. 

“You  musn’t  talk  to  me  in  that  way,”  said 
Mary  ; “ you  don’t  mean  it.” 

“ Don’t  I though  ? ” replied  the  fat  boy  ; “ I 
say ! ” 

“ Well.” 

“ Are  you  going  to  come  here  regular?  ” 

“ No,”  rejoined  Mary,  shaking  her  head,  “ I’m 
going  away  again  to-night.  Why?” 

“Oh!”  said  the'' fat  boy  in  a tone  of  strong 
feeling;  “how  we  should  have  enjoyed  our- 
selves at  meals,  if  you  had  been  ! ” 

* * * * * 

“ Don’t  go  yet,”  urged  the  fat  boy. 

“ I must,”  replied  Mary.  “ Good-bye,  for 
the  present.” 

The  fat  boy,  with  elephantine  playfulness, 
stretched  out  his  arms  to  ravish  a kiss  ; but  as 
it  required  no  great  agility  to  elude  him,  his 
fair  enslaver  had  vanished  before  he  closed 
them  again  ; upon  which  the  apathetic  youth 
ate  a pound  or  so  of  steak  with  a sentimental 
countenance,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

Pickwick , Chap.  54. 

FATHER— Child’s  idea  of  a. 

The  child  glanced  keenly  at  the  blue  coat 
and  stiff  white  cravat,  which,  with  a pair  of 
creaking  boots  and  a very  loud-ticking  watch, 
embodied  her  idea  of  a father. — Dombey,  Ch.  1. 

FATHER— And  children. 

Then  they  would  climb  and  clamber  up  stairs 
with  him,  and  romp  about  him  on  the  sofa,  or 
group  themselves  at  his  knee,  a very  nosegay 
of  little  faces,  while  he  seemed  to  tell  them 
some  story. — Dombey  Son. 

FAVOR— The  pleasure  of  a. 

“Dear  Mr.  Toots,”  said  Florence,  “you  are 
so  friendly  to  me,  and  so  honest,  that  I am  sure 
I may  ask  a favor  of  you.” 

“Miss  Dombey,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  “if 
you’ll  only  name  one,  you’ll — you’ll  give  me 
an  appetite.  To  which,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  with 
some  sentiment,  “ I have  long  been  a stranger.” 

Dombey  Sf  Son , Chap.  61. 


“ I have  quite  come  into  my  property  now, 
you  know,  and — and  I don’t  know  what  to  do 
with  it.  If  I could  be  at  all  useful  in  a pecu- 
niary point  of  view,  I should  glide  into  the  si- 
lent tomb  with  ease  and  smoothness.” 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  50. 

FEAR— A means  of  obedience. 

“ Repression  .is  the  only  lasting  philosophy. 
The  dark  deference  of  fear  and  slavery,  my 
friend,”  observed  the  Marquis,  “ will  keep  the 
dogs  obedient  to  the  whip,  as  long  as  this  roof,” 
looking  up  to  it,  “ shuts  out  the  sky.” 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  9. 


FEATURE3 


192 


FEELINGS 


FEATURES  and  manners— An  excess  of. 

Veneering  here  pulls  up  his  oratorical  Pegasus 
extremely  short,  and  plumps  down,  clean  over 
his  head,  with  : “ Lammle,  God  bless  you  ! ” 

Then  Lammle.  Too  much  of  him  every 
way  ; pervadingly  too  much  nose  of  a coarse 
wrong  shape,  and  his  nose  in  his  mind  and  his 
manners  ; too  much  smile  to  be  real ; too  much 
frown  to  be  false  ; too  many  large  teeth  to  be 
visible  at  once  without  suggesting  a bite. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap . 16. 

FEATURES— And  personal  characteristics. 

The  lady  thus  specially  presented,  was  a long 
lean  figure,  wearing  such  a faded  air  that  she 
seemed  not  to  have  been  made  in  what  linen- 
drapers  call  “ fast  colors”  originally,  and  to  have, 
by  little  and  little,  washed  out.  But  for  this  she 
might  have  been  described  as  the  very  pink  of 
general  propitiation  and  politeness.  From  a long 
habit  of  listening  admirably  to  everything  that 
was  said  in  her  presence,  and  looking  at  the 
speakers  as  if  she  were  mentally  engaged  in  tak- 
ing off  impressions  of  their  images  upon  her 
soul,  never  to  part  with  the  same  but  with  life, 
her  head  had  quite  settled  on  one  side.  Her 
hands  had  contracted  a spasmodic  habit  of  rais- 
ing themselves  of  their  own  accord  as  in  in- 
voluntary admiration.  Her  eyes  were  liable  to 
a similar  affection.  She  had  the  softest  voice 
that  ever  was  heard  ; and  her  nose,  stupendously 
aquiline,  had  a little  knob  in  the  very  centre  or 
key-stone  of  the  bridge,  whence  it  tended  down- 
wards towai'ds  her  face,  as  in  an  invincible  deter- 
mination never  to  turn  up  at  anything. 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  i. 

He  was  a slow,  quiet-spoken,  thoughtful  old 
fellow,  with  eyes  as  red  as  if  they  had  been  small 
suns  looking  at  you  through  a fog  ; and  a newly- 
awakened  manner,  such  as  he  might  have  ac- 
quired by  having  stared  for  three  or  four  days 
successively  through  every  optical  instrument  in 
his  shop,  and  suddenly  came  back  to  the  world 
again,  to  find  it  green. 

Dombey  Son , Chap.  4. 


And  although  it  is  not  among  the  instincts, 
wild  or  domestic,  of  the  cat  tribe  to  play  at  cards, 
feline  from  sole  to  crown  was  Mr.  Carker  the 
Manager,  as  he  basked  in  the  strip  of  summer 
light  and  warmth  that  shone  upon  his  table  and 
the  ground  as  if  they  were  a crooked  dial-plate, 
and  himself  the  only  figure  on  it.  With  hair 
and  whiskers  deficient  in  color  at  all  times,  but 
feebler  than  common  in  the  rich  sunshine,  and 
more  like  the  coat  of  a sandy  tortoise-shell  cat  ; 
with  long  nails,  nicely  pared  and  sharpened  ; 
with  a natural  antipathy  to  any  speck  of  dirt, 
which  made  him  pause  sometimes  and  watch  the 
falling  motes  of  dust,  and  rub  them  olf  his 
smooth  white  hand  or  glossy  linen  : Mr.  Carker 
the  Manager,  sly  of  manner,  sharp  of  tooth,  soft 
of  foot,  watchful  of  eye,  oily  of  tongue,  cruel  of 
heart,  nice  of  habit,  sat  with  a dainty  steadfast- 
ness and  patience  at  his  work,  as  if  he  were 
waiting  at  a mouse’s  hole. 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  22. 


* * * A struggle  which  it  was  not  very 

difficult  to  parade,  his  whole  life  being  a strug- 
gle against  all  kinds  of  apopletic  symptoms. 

Dombey  Son , Chap.  20. 


She  was  a very  ugly  old  woman,  with  red  rims 
round  her  eyes,  and  a mouth  that  mumbled  and 
chattered  of  itself  when  she  was  not  speaking. 
She  was  miserably  dressed,  ami  carried  some 
skins  over  her  arm.  She  seemed  to  have  fol- 
lowed Florence  some  little  way  at  all  events,  for 
she  had  lost  her  breath  ; and  this  made  her  uglier 
still,  as  she  stood  trying  to  regain  it  ; working 
her  shrivelled  yellow  face  and  throat  into  all 
sorts  of  contortions. — Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  6. 

“ Let  me  tell  your  fortune,  my  pretty  lady,” 
said  the  old  woman,  munching  with  her  jaws,  as 
if  the  Death’s  Head  beneath  her  yellow  skin  were 
impatient  to  get  out. — Dombey  Son,  Chap.  10. 

FEELINGS— Of  public  men. 

Being  naturally  of  a tender  turn,  I had  dread- 
ful lonely  feelings  on  me  arter  this.  I con- 
quered ’em  at  selling  times,  having  a reputation 
to  keep  (not  to  mention  keeping  myself),  but 
they  got  me  down  in  private,  and  rolled  upon 
me.  That’s  often  the  way  with  us  public  char- 
acters. See  us  on  the  footboard,  and  you’d 
give  pretty  well  anything  you  possess  to  be  us. 
See  us  off  the  footboard,  and  you’d  add  a trifle 
to  be  off  your  bargain.  It  was  under  those 
circumstances  that  I come  acquainted  with  a 
giant.  I might  have  been  too  high  to  fall  into 
conversation  with  him,  had  it  not  been  for  my 
lonely  feelings.  For  the  general  rule  is,  going 
round  the  country,  to  draw  the  line  at  dressing 
up.  When  a man  can’t  trust  his  getting  a liv- 
ing to  his  undisguised  abilities,  you  consider 
him  below  your  sort.  And  this  giant  when  on 
view  figured  as  a Roman. 

He  was  a languid  young  man,  which  I at- 
tribute to  the  distance  betwixt  "his  extremities. 
He  had  a little  head  and  less  in  it,  he  had  weak 
eyes  and  weak  knees,  and  altogether  you 
couldn’t  look  at  him  without  feeling  that  there 
was  greatly  too  much  of  him  both  for  his  joints 
and  his  mind. — Dr.  Maiigold. 

FEELINGS-Sam  Weller  on  the. 

“ I have  considered  the  matter  well,  for  a 
long  time,  and  I feel  that  my  happiness  is  bound 
up  in  her.” 

“ That’s  wot  we  call  tying  it  up  in  a small 
parcel,  sir,”  interposed  Mr.  Weller,  with  an 
agreeable  smile. 

Mr.  Winkle  looked  somewhat  stern  at  this 
interruption,  and  Mx*.  Pickwick  angrily  re- 
quested his  attendant  not  to  jest  with  one  of 
the  best  feelings  of  our  nature  ; to  which  Sam 
implied,  “ That  he  wouldn’t,  if  he  was  aware  on 
it  ; but  there  were  so  many  on  ’em,  that  he 
hardly  know’d  which  was  the  best  ones  wen  he 
heerd  ’em  mentioned.” — Pickwick , Chap.  30. 

FEELINGS-Of  Mr.  Pecksniff. 

“ My  goodness  ! ” exclaimed  that  lady.  “ How 
low  you  are  in  your  spirits,  sir  ! ” 

“ I am  a man,  my  dear  madam,”  said  Mr 
Pecksniff,  shedding  tears,  and  speaking  with 
an  imperfect  articulation,  “ but  I am  also  a 
father.  I am  also  a widower.  My  feelings, 
Mrs.  Todgers,  will  not  consent  to  be  entirely 
smothered,  like  the  young  children  in  the  Tow- 
er. They  ai*e  grown  up,  and  the  mere  I pi'ess 
(the  bolster  on  them,  the  more  they  look  round 
the  corner  of  it.” — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  9 


PEELINGS 


193 


EIGHT 


FEELINGS-Of  Toots. 

“ I feel,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  an  impassioned 
tone,  “ as  if  I could  express  my  feelings,  at  the 
present  moment,  in  a most  remarkable  manner, 
if — if — I could  only  get  a start.” 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  56. 

FEVER- Its  hallucinations. 

That  I had  a fever  and  was  avoided,  that  I 
suffered  greatly,  that  I often  lost  my  reason, 
that  the  time  *seemed  interminable,  that  I con- 
founded impossible  existences  with  my  own 
identity  ; that  I was  a brick  in  the  house  wall, 
and  yet  entreating  to  be  released  from  the  gid- 
dy place  where  the  builders  had  set  me  ; that  I 
was  a steel  beam  of  a vast  engine  clashing  and 
whirling  over  a gulf,  and  yet  that  I implored  in 
my  own  person  to  have  the  engine  stopped,  and 
my  part  in  it  hammered  off ; that  I passed 
through  these  phases  of  disease,  I know  of  my 
own  remembrance,  and  did  in  some  sort  know 
at  the  time.  That  I sometimes  struggled  with 
real  people,  in  the  belief  that  they  were  mur- 
derers, and  that  I would  all  at  once  compre- 
hend that  they  meant  to  do  me  good,  and  would 
then  sink  exhausted  in  their  arms,  and  suffer 
them  to  lay  me  down,  I also  knew  at  the  time. 
But,  above  all,  I knew  that  there  was  a constant 
tendency  in  all  these  people — who,  when  I was 
very  ill,  would  present  all  kinds  of  extraordinary 
transformations  of  the  human  face,  and  w’ould  be 
much  dilated  in  size  — above  all,  I say,  I knew 
that  there  was  an  extraordinary  tendency  in  all 
these  people,  sooner  or  later  to  settle  down  into 
the  likeness  of  Joe. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  57. 

The  sun  rose  and  sunk,  and  rose  and  sunk 
again,  and  many  times  after  that ; and  still,  the 
boy  lay  stretched  on  his  uneasy  bed,  dwindling 
away  beneath  the  dry  and  wasting  heat  of  fever. 
The  worm  does  not  his  work  more  surely  on  the 
dead  body,  than  does  this  slow  creeping  fire 
upon  the  living  frame. 

Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  12. 

PICTION— Characters  in. 

It  is  remarkable  that  what  we  call  the  world, 
which  is  so  very  credulous  in  what  professes  to 
be  true,  is  most  incredulous  in  what  professes 
to  be  imaginary  ; and  that,  while,  every  day  in 
real  life,  it  will  allow  in  one  man  no  blemishes, 
and  in  another  no  virtues,  it  will  seldom  admit 
a very  strongly-marked  character,  either  good 
or  bad,  in  a fictitious  narrative,  to  be  within  the 
limits  of  probability. 

Preface  to  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

FIDELITY  AND  ORDER-Of  Mr.  Grew- 
gious. 

Many  accounts  and  account-books,  many  files 
of  correspondence,  and  several  strong  boxes, 
garnished  Mr.  Grewgious’s  room.  They  can 
scarcely  be  represented  as  having  lumbered  it, 
so  conscientious  and  precise  was  their  orderly 
arrangement.  The  apprehension  of  dying  sud- 
denly, and  leaving  one  fact  or  one  figure  with 
any  incompleteness  or  obscurity  attaching  to  it, 
would  have  stretched  Mr.  Grewgious  stone  dead 
any  day.  The  largest  fidelity  to  a trust  was  the 
life-blood  of  the  man.  There  are  sorts  of  life- 
blood that  course  more  quickly,  more  gayly, 


more  attractively ; but  there  is  no  better  sort  in 
circulation. — Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  11. 

FIGURE— Of  Mrs.  Kenwigs. 

“But  such  a woman  as  Mrs.  Kenwigs  was, 
afore  she  was  married  ! Good  gracious,  such  a 
woman  ! ” 

Mr.  Lumbey  shook  his  head  with  great  solem- 
nity, as  though  to  imply  that  he  supposed  she 
must  have  been  rather  a dazzler. 

“Talk  of  fairies!”  cried  Mr.  Kenwigs.  “/ 
never  see  anybody  so  light  to  be  alive,  never. 
.Such  manners  too  ; so  playful,  and  yet  so  se- 
werely  proper ! As  for  her  figure  ! It  isn’t 
generally  known,”  said  Mr.  Kenwigs,  dropping 
his  voice  ; “ but  her  figure  was  such,  at  that 
time,  that  the  sign  of  the  Britannia  over  in  the 
Holloway  road  was  painted  from  it.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  36. 

FIGHT— A school-boy’s. 

The  shade  of  a young  butcher  rises,  like  the 
apparition  of  an  armed  head  in  Macbeth.  Who 
is  this  young  butcher?  He  is  the  terror  of  the 
youth  of  Canterbury.  There  is  a vague  belief 
abroad,  that  the  beef  suet  with  which  he  anoints 
his  hair  gives  him  unnatural  strength,  and  that 
he  is  a match  for  a man.  He  is  a broad-faced, 
bull-necked  young  butcher,  with  rough  red 
cheeks,  an  ill-conditioned  mind,  and  an  inju- 
rious tongue.  His  main  use  of  this  tongue  is 
to  disparage  Dr.  Strong’s  young  gentlemen.  He 
says,  publicly,  that  if  they  want  anything  he’ll 
give  it  ’em.  He  names  individuals  among  them 
(myself  included),  whom  he  could  undertake  to 
settle  with  one  hand,  and  the  other  tied  behind 
him.  He  waylays  the  smaller  boys  to  punch 
their  unprotected  heads,  and  calls  challenges 
after  me  in  the  open  streets.  For  these  suffi- 
cient reasons  I resolve  to  fight  the  butcher. 

It  is  a summer  evening.  Down  in  a green  hol- 
low, at  the  corner  of  a wall,  I meet  the  butcher 
by  appointment.  I am  attended  by  a select 
body  of  our  boys ; the  butcher,  by  two  other 
butchers,  a young  publican,  and  a sweep.  The 
preliminaries  are  adjusted,  and  the  butcher  and 
myself  stand  face  to  face.  In  a moment  the 
butcher  lights  ten  thousand  candles  out  of  my 
left  eyebrow.  I11  another  moment,  I don’t 
know  where  the  wall  is,  or  where  I am,  or  where 
anybody  is.  I hardly  know  which  is  mysel'f  and 
which  the  butcher,  we  are  always  in  such  a tan- 
gle and  tussle,  knocking  about  the  trodden  grass. 
Sometimes  I see  the  butcher,  bloody  but  confi- 
dent ; sometimes  I see  nothing,  and  sit  gasping 
on  my  second’s  knee  ; sometimes  I go  in  at  the 
butcher  madly,  and  cut  my  knuckles  open  against 
his  face,  without  appearing  to  discompose  him  at 
all.  At  last  I awake,  very  queer  about  the  head, 
as  from  a giddy  sleep,  and  see  the  butcher  walk- 
ing off,  congratulated  by  the  two  other  butchers 
and  the  sweep  and  publican,  and  putting  on  his 
coat  as  he  goes  ; firom  which  I augur,  justly, 
that  the  victory  is  his. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  18. 

FIGHT— Between  Q,uilp  and  Dick  Swiveller. 

Daniel  Quilp  found  himself,  all  flushed  and 
dishevelled,  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  with 
Mr.  Richard  Swiveller  performing  a kind  of 
dance  round  him,  and  requiring  to  know 
“ whether  he  wanted  any  more  ? ” 


FIGHT 


194 


FIRE  AND  MOB 


“ There’s  plenty  more  of  it  at  the  same  shop,” 
said  Mr.  Swiveller,  by  turns  advancing  and  re- 
treating in  a threatening  attitude,  “a  large  and 
extensive  assortment  always  on  hand — country 
orders  executed  with  promptitude  and  despatch 
—will  you  have  a little  more,  sir  ? — don’t  say  no, 
if  you'd  rather  not.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  13. 

FIGHT-Pip’s. 

“ Come  and  fight,”  said  the  pale  young  gentle- 
man. 

What  could  I do  but  follow  him?  I have 
often  asked  myself  the  question  since  : but,  what 
else  could  I do?  His  manner  was  so  final  and 
I was  so  astonished,  that  I followed  where  he 
led,  as  if  I had  been  under  a spell. 

‘"Stop  a minute,  though,”  he  said,  wheeling 
round  before  we  had  got  many  paces.  “ I ought 
to  give  you  a reason  for  fighting,  too.  There  it 
is  ! ” In  a most  irritating  manner  he  instantly 
slapped  his  hands  against  one  another,  daintily 
flung  one  of  his  legs  up  behind  him,  pulled  my 
hair,  slapped  his  hands  again,  dipped  his  head, 
and  butted  it  into  my  stomach. 

The  bull-like  proceeding  last  mentioned,  be- 
sides that  it  was  unquestionably  to  be  regarded 
in  the  light  of  a liberty,  was  particularly  dis- 
agreeable just  after  bread  and  meat.  I there- 
fore hit  out  at  him  and  was  going  to  hit  out 
again,  when  he  said,  “ Aha  ! Would  you?  ” and 
began  dancing  backward  and  forward  in  a man- 
ner quite  unparalleled  within  my  limited  ex- 
perience. 

“ Laws  of  the  .game  ! ” said  he.  Here  he 
skipped  from  his  left  leg  on  to  his  right.  “ Re- 
gular rules  ! ” Here  he  skipped  from  his  right 
leg  on  to  his  left.  “ Come  to  the  ground,  and 
go  through  the  preliminaries  ! ” Here  he  dodg- 
ed backward  and  forward,  and  did  all  sorts  of 
things,  while  I looked  helplessly  at  him. 

I was  secretly  afraid  of  him  when  I saw  him 
so  dexterous  ; but  I felt  morally  and  physically 
convinced  that  his  light  head  of  hair  could  have 
had  no  business  in  the  pit  of  my  stomach,  and 
that  I had  a right  to  consider  it  irrelevant  when 
so  obtruded  on  my  attention.  Therefore,  I fol- 
lowed him  without  a word  to  a retired  nook  of 
the  garden,  formed  by  the  junction  of  two  walls 
and  screened  by  some  rubbish.  On  his  asking 
me  if  I was  satisfied  with  the  ground,  and  on 
my  replying  Yes,  he  begged  my  leave  to  absent 
himself  for  a moment,  and  quickly  returned 
with  a bottle  of  water  and  a sponge  dipped  in 
vinegar.  “ Available  for  both,  ’ he  said,  placing 
these  against  the  wall.  And  then  fell  to  pulling 
off,  not  only  his  jacket  and  waistcoat,  but  his 
shirt  too,  in  a manner  at  once  light-hearted, 
business-like,  and  blood-thirsty. 

Although  he  did  not  look  very  healthy — hav- 
ing pimples  on  his  face,  and  a breaking-out  at 
his  mouth — these  dreadful  preparations  quite  ap- 
palled me.  I judged  him  to  be  about  my  own 
age,  but  lie  was  much  taller,  and  he  had  a way 
of  spinning  himself  about  that  was  full  of  ap- 
pearance. For  the  rest,  he  was  a young  genile- 
man  in  a gray  suit  (w  hen  not  denuded  for  bat 
tie),  with  In  > elbow  , knee  , wri  t , and  heel  - 
considerably  in  advance  of  the  rest  of  him  as 
to  development.  * 

M y heart  failed  me  when  I aw  him  squaring 
;ii  ii,i-  \,  1 1 1 1 every  demonstration  of  mechanical 
nicety,  and  eying  my  anatomy  as  if  he  were 


minutely  choosing  his  bone.  I never  have  been 
so  surprised  in  my  life  as  I was  when  I let  out 
the  first  blow,  and  saw  him  lying  on  his  back, 
looking  up  at  me  with  a bloody  nose  and  his 
face  exceedingly  fore-shortened. 

But  he  was  on  his  feet  directly,  and  after 
sponging  himself  with  a great  show  of  dexterity 
began  squaring  again.  'The  second  greatest  sur- 
prise I have  ever  had  in  my  life  was  seeing  him 
on  his  back  again,  looking  up  at  me  out  of  a 
black  eye. 

His  spirit  inspired  me  with  great  respect.  He 
seemed  to  have  no  strength,  and  he  never  once 
hit  me  hard,  and  he  was  always  knocked  down  ; 
but  he  would  be  up  again  in  a moment,  spong- 
ing himself  or  drinking  out  of  the  water-bottle, 
with  the  greatest  satisfaction  in  seconding  him- 
self according  to  form,  and  then  came  at  me 
with  an  air  and  a show  that  made  me  believe  lie 
really  was  going  to  do  for  me  at  last.  He  g c\ 
heavily  bruised,  for  I am  sorry  to  record  that  the 
more  I hit  him,  the  harder  I hit  him  ; but  he 
came  up  again  and  again  and  again,  until  at  last 
he  got  a bad  fall  with  the  back  of  his  head 
against  the  wall.  Even  after  that  crisis  in  our 
affairs,  he  got  up  and  turned  round  and  round 
confusedly  a few  times,  not  knowing  wdiere  I 
was  ; but  finally  went  on  his  knees  to  his  sponge 
and  threw  it  up  : at  the  same  time  panting  out, 

“ That  means  you  have  won.” 

He  seemed  so  brave  and  innocent,  that  al- 
though I had  not  proposed  the  contest  I felt  but 
a gloomy  satisfaction  in  my  victory.  Indeed,  I 
go  so  far  as  to  hope  that  I regarded  myself,  while 
dressing,  as  a species  of  savage  young  wolf,  or 
other  wild  beast.  However,  I got  dressed J 
darkly  wiping  my  sanguinary  face  at  intervals; 
and  I said,  “Can  I help  you?”  and  he  said, 

“ No,  thankee,”  and  I said,  “ Good  afternoon,” 
and  he  said,  “ Same  to  you.” 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  II. 

FIRE. 

The  fire  bounded  up  as  if  each  sepa.ate  flame 
had  had  a tiger’s  life,  and  roared  as  though,  in 
every  one,  there  were  a hungry  voice. 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  65. 

FIRE  AND  MOB. 

It  was  not  an  easy  task  to  draw  off  such  a 
throng.  If  Bedlam  gates  had  been  flung  open 
wide,  there  would  not  have  issued  forth  such 
maniacs  as  the  frenzy  of  that  night  had  made. 
There  were  men  there  wdro  danced  and  trampled 
on  the  beds  of  flowers  as  though  they  trod  down 
human  enemies,  and  wrenched  them  from  the 
stalks,  like  savages  vdro  twisted  human  necks. 
There  were  men  vdro  cast  their  lighted  torches 
in  the  air,  and  suffered  them  to  fall  upon  their 
heads  and  faces,  blistering  the  skin  with  deep 
unseemly  burns.  There  were  men  who  rushed 
up  to  the  fire,  and  paddled  in  it  with  their 
hands  as  if  in  water;  and  others  who  were  re- 
strained by  force  from  plunging  in,  to  gratify 
their  deadly  longing.  On  the  skull  of  one 
drunken  lad— not  twenty,  by  his  looks— who 
lay  upon  the  ground  with  a bottle  to  his  mouth, 
the  lead  from  the  roof  came  streaming  down  In 
a shower  of  liquid  fire,  white  hot ; melting  his 
head  like  wax.  When  the  scattered  parties 
were  collected,  men— living  yet,  but  singed  as 
with  hot  irons — were  plucked  out  of  the  cellars, 
and  carried  off  upon  the  shoulders  of  others, 


FIRE  AND  MOB 


195 


FIRE  AND  BREEZE 


who  strove  to  wake  them  as  they  went  along, 
with  ribald  jokes,  and  left  them,  dead,  in  the 
passages  of  hospitals.  But  of  all  the  howling 
throng  not  one  learned  mercy  from,  or  sickened 
at,  these  sights  ; nor  was  the  fierce,  besotted, 
senseless  rage  of  one  man  glutted. 

Slowly,  and  in  small  clusters,  with  hoarse 
hurrahs  and  repetitions  of  their  usual  cry,  the 
assembly  dropped  away.  The  last  few  red-eyed 
stragglers  reeled  after  those  who  had  gone  be- 
fore ; the  distant  noise  of  men  calling  to  each 
other,  and  whistling  for  others  whom  they 
missed,  grew  fainter  and  fainter  ; at  length  even 
these  sounds  died  away,  and  silence  reigned 
alone. 

Silence  indeed  ! The  glare  of  the  flames  had 
sunk  into  a fitful  flashing  light ; and  the  gentle 
stars,  invisible  till  now,  looked  down  upon  the 
■ blackening  heap.  A dull  smoke  hung  upon  the 
ruin,  as  though  to  hide  it  from  those  eyes  of 
Heaven ; and  the  wind  forebore  to  move  it. 
Bare  walls,  roof  open  to  the  sky — chambers, 
where  the  beloved  dead  had,  many  and  many  a 
fair  day,  risen  to  new  life  and  energy;  where  so 
many  dear  ones  had  been  sad  and  merry  ; which 
were  connected  with  so  many  thoughts  and 
hopes,  .regrets  and  changes — all  gone.  Nothing 
left  but  a dull  and  dreary  blank — a smouldering 
heap  of  dust  and  ashes — the  silence  and  solitude 
of  utter  desolation. 

* * * * * 

The  more  the  fire  crackled  and  raged,  the 
wilder  and  more  cruel  the  men  grew  ; as  though 
moving  in  that  element  they  became  fiends,  and 
changed  their  earthly  nature  for  the  qualities 
that  give  delight  in  hell. 

The  burning  pile,  revealing  rooms  and  pas- 
sages red-hot,  through  gaps  made  in  the  crum- 
bling walls  ; the  tributary  fires  that  licked  the 
outer  bricks  and  stones,  with  their  long  forked 
tongues,  and  ran  up  to  meet  the  glowing  mass 
within  ; the  shining  of  the  flames  upon  the  vil- 
lains who  looked  on  and  fed  them  ; the  roaring 
of  the  angry  blaze,  so  bright  and  high  that  it 
seemed  in  its  rapacity  to  have  swallowed  up  the 
very  smoke  ; the  living  flakes  the  wind  bore 
rapidly  away  and  hurried  on  with,  like  a storm 
of  fiery  snow  ; the  noiseless  breaking  of  great 
beams  of  wood,  which  fell  like  feathers  on  the 
heap  of  ashes,  and  crumbled  in  the  very  act  to 
sparks  and  powder;  the  lurid  tinge  that  over- 
spread the  sky,  and  the  darkness,  very  deep  by 
contrast,  which  prevailed  around  ; the  exposure 
to  the  coarse,  common  gaze,  of  every  little  nook 
which  usages  of  home  had  made  a sacred  place, 
and  the  destruction  by  rude  hands  of  every  littfe 
household  favorite  which  old  associations  made 
a dear  and  precious  thing:  all  this  taking  place 
— not  among  pitying  looks  and  friendly  mur- 
murs of  compassion,  but  brutal  shouts  and  ex- 
ultations, which  seemed  to  make  the  very  rats 
who  stood  by  the  old  house  too  long,  creatures 
with  some  claim  upon  the  pity  and  regard  of 
those  its  roof  had  sheltered — combined  to  form 
a scene  never  to  be  forgotten  by  those  who  saw 
it  and  were  not  actors  in  the  work,  so  long  as 
life  endured. — Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  55. 

***** 


all  the  woodwork  round  the  prison-doors  they 
did  the  like,  leaving  not  a joist  or  beam  un- 
touched. This  infernal  christening  performed, 
they  fired  the  pile  with  lighted  matches  and  with 
blazing  tow,  and  then  stood  by,  awaiting  the 
result. 

The  furniture  being  very  dry,  and  rendered 
more  combustible  by  wax  and  oil,  besides  the 
arts  they  had  used,  took  fire  at  once.  The  flames 
roared  high  and  fiercely,  blackening  the  prison 
wall,  and  twining  up  its  lofty  front  like  burning 
serpents.  At  first,  they  crowded  round  the  blaze, 
and  vented  their  exultation  only  in  their  looks  ; 
but  when  it  grew  hotter  and  fiercer — when  it 
crackled,  leaped,  and  roared,  like  a great  furnace 
— when  it  shone  upon  the  opposite  houses,  and 
lighted  up  not  only  the  pale  and  wondering  faces 
at  the  windows,  but  the  inmost  corners  of  each 
habitation — when,  through  the  deep  red  heat 
and  glow,  the  fire  was  seen  sporting  and  toying 
with  the  door,  now  clinging  to  its  obdurate  sur- 
face, now  gliding  off  with  fierce  inconstancy  and 
soaring  high  into  the  sky,  anon  l-eturning  to  fold 
it  in  its  burning  grasp  and  lure  it  to  its  ruin — 
when  it  shone  and  gleamed  so  brightly  that  the 
church  clock  of  St.  Sepulchre’s,  so  often  point- 
ing to  the  hour  of  death,  was  legible  as  in  broad 
day,  and  the  vane  upon  its  steeple-top  glittered 
in  the  unwonted  light  like  something  richly 
jewelled — when  blackened  stone  and  sombre 
brick  grew  ruddy  in  the  deep  reflection,  and  win- 
dows shone  like  burnished  gold,  dotting  the 
longest  distance  in  the  fiery  vista  with  their 
specks  of  brightness — when  wall  and  tower,  and 
roof  and  chimney-stack,  seemed  drunk,  and  in 
the  flickering  glare  appeared  to  reel  and  stagger 
— when  scores  of  objects,  never  seen  before, 
burst  out  upon  the  view,  and  things  the  most 
familiar  put  on  some  new  aspect — then  the  mob 
began  to  join  the  whirl,  and  with  loud  yells,  and 
shouts,  and  clamor,  such  as  happily  is  seldom 
heard,  bestirred  themselves  to  feed  the  fire,  and 
keep  it  at  its  height. 

Although  the  heat  was  so  intense  that  the 
paint  on  the  houses  over  against  the  prison 
parched  and  crackled  up,  and  swelling  into  boils, 
as  it  were,  from  excess  of  torture,  broke  and 
crumbled  away  ; although  the  glass  fell  from  the 
winclow-sashes,  and  the  lead  and  iron  on  the 
roofs  blistered  the  incautious  hand  that  touched 
them  ; and  the  sparrows  in  the  eaves  took  wing, 
and,  rendered  giddy  by  the  smoke,  fell  fluttering 
down  upon  the  blazing  pile,  still  the  fire  was 
tended  unceasingly  by  busy  hands,  and  round  it, 
men  were  going  always.  They  never  slackened 
in  their  zeal,  or  kept  aloof,  but  pressed  upon  the 
flames  so  hard,  that  those  in  front  had  much  ado 
to  save  themselves  from  being  thrust  in  ; if  one 
man  swooned  or  dropped,  a dozen  struggled  for 
his  place,  and  that,  although  they  knew  the  pain, 
and  thirst,  and  pressure  to  be  unendurable. 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  64. 

FIRE— Its  red  eyes. 

The  fire,  which  had  left  off  roaring,  winked 
its  red  eyes  at  us — as  Richard  said — like  a 
drowsy  old  Chancery  lion. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  3. 


When  all  the  keeper’s  goods  were  flung  upon 
this  costly  pile,  to  the  last  fragment,  they  smear- 
ed it  with  the  pitch,  and  tar,  and  rosin  they  had 
brought,  and  sprinkled  it  with  turpentine.  To 


FIRE  AND  BREEZE. 

Now,  too,  the  fire  took  fresh  courage,  favored 
by  the  lively  wind  the  dance  awakened,  and 
burnt  clear  and  h igh.  It  was  the  Genius  of  the 


FIRE 


190 


FIRE-PLACE 


room,  and  present  everywhere.  It  shone  in  peo- 
ple’s eyes,  it  sparkled  in  the  jewels  on  the  snowy 
necks  of  girls,  it  twinkled  at  their  ears,  as  if  it 
whispered  to  them  slyly,  it  flashed  about  their 
waists,  it  flickered  on  the  ground  and  made  it 
rosy  for  their  feet,  it  bloomed  upon  the  ceiling 
that  its  glow  might  set  off  their  bright  faces,  and 
it  kindled  up  a general  illumination  in  Mrs. 
Craggs’s  little  belfry. 

Now,  too,  the  lively  air  that  fanned  it,  grew 
less  gentle  as  the  music  quickened  and  the  dance 
proceeded  with  new  spirit  ; and  a breeze  arose 
that  made  the  leaves  and  berries  dance  upon  the 
wall,  as  they  had  often  done  upon  the  trees  ; and 
the  breeze  rustled  in  the  room  as  if  an  invisible 
company  of  fairies,  treading  in  the  footsteps  of 
the  good  substantial  revellers,  were  whirling  after 
them.  Now,  too,  no  feature  of  the  Doctor’s  face 
could  be  distinguished  as  he  spun  and  spun  ; and 
now  there  seemed  a dozen  Birds  of  Paradise  in 
fitful  flight  ; and  now  there  were  a thousand  little 
bells  at  work  ; and  now  a fleet  of  flying  skirts 
was  ruffled  by  a little  tempest,  when  the  music 
gave  in,  and  the  dance  was  over. 

Battle  of  Life,  Chap . 2. 

FIRE— A brig-ht. 

The  music  struck  up,  and  the  dance  com- 
menced. The  bright  fire  crackled  and  sparkled, 
rose  and  fell,  as  though  it  joined  the  dance  itself, 
in  right  good  fellowship.  Sometimes  it  roared 
as  if  it  would  make  music  too.  .Sometimes  it 
•flashed  and  beamed  as  if  it  were  the  eye  of  the 
old  room  : it  winked,  too,  sometimes,  like  a 
knowing  Patriarch,  upon  the  youthful  whisperers 
in  corners.  Sometimes  it  sported  with  the 
holly-boughs  ; and,  shining  on  the  leaves  by  fits 
and  starts,  made  them  look  as  if  they  were  in 
the  cold  winter  night  again,  and  fluttering  in  the 
wind.  Sometimes  its  genial  humor  grew 
obstreperous,  and  passed  all  bounds  ; and  then 
it  cast  into  the  room,  among  the  twinkling  feet, 
with  a loud  burst,  a shower  of  harmless  little 
sparks,  and  in  its  exultation,  leaped  and  bounded 
like  a mad  thing,  up  the  broad  old  chimney. 

Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  2. 

FIRE— Little  Nell  at  the  forge. 

“ See  yonder  there — that’s  my  friend.” 

“The  fire?”  said  the  child. 

“ It  has  been  alive  as  long  as  I have,”  the 
man  made  answer.  “ We  talk  and  think  to- 
gether all  night  long.” 

The  child  glanced  quickly  at  him  in  her  sur- 
prise, but  he  had  turned  his  eyes  in  their  former 
direction  and  was  musing  as  before. 

“ It’s  like  a book  to  me,”  he  said  ; “the  only 
book  I ever  learned  to  read  ; and  many  an  old 
story  it  tells  me.  It’s  music,  for  I should  know 
its  voice  among  a thousand,  and  there  are  other 
voices  in  its  roar.  It  has  its  pictures  loo.  You 
don’t  know  how  many  strange  faces  and  differ- 
ent scenes  I trace  in  the  red-hot  coals.  It’s  my 
memory,  that  fire,  and  shows  me  all  my  life.” 

The  child,  bending  down  to  listen  to  his 
words,  could  not  help  remarking  with  what 
brightened  eyes  he  continued  to  speak  and 
muse. 

“Yes,”  he  Said,  with  a faint  smile,  “ it  was 
the  same  when  I was  quite  a baby,  and  crawled 
about  it,  (ill  I fell  asleep.  My  father  watched 
it  then.” 

“Ilad  you  no  mother?”  asked  the  child. 


“ No,  she  was  dead.  Women  work  hard  in 
these  parts.  She  worked  herself  to  death,  they 
told  me,  and,  as  they  said  so  then,  the  fire  has 
gone  on  saying  the  same  thing  ever  since.  I 
suppose  it  was  true.  I have  always  believed  it.” 

“ Were  you  brought  up  here,  then?”  said  the 
child. 

“ Summer  and  winter,”  he  replied.  “ Secretly 
at  first,  but  when  they  found  it  out,  they  let  him 
keep  me  here.  So  the  fire  nursed  me — the  same 
fire.  It  has  never  gone  out.” 

“ You  are  fond  of  it?”  said  the  child. 

“ Of  course  I am.  He  died  before  it.  I saw 
him  fall  down — just  there,  where  those  ashes 
are  burning  now — and  wondered,  I remember, 
why  it  didn’t  help  him.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  44. 

/ 

FIRE  Sykes,  the  murderer,  at  a. 

The  broad  sky  seemed  on  fire.  Rising  into 
the  air  with  showers  of  sparks,  and  rolling  one 
above  the  other,  were  sheets  of  flame,  lighting 
the  atmosphere  for  miles  round,  and  driving 
clouds  of  smoke  in  the  direction  where  he  stood. 
The  shouts  grew  louder  as  new  voices  swelled 
the  roar,  and  he  could  hear  the  cry  of  “ Fire  ! ” 
mingled  with  the  ringing  of  an  alarm-bell,  the 
fall  of  heavy  bodies,  and  the  crackling  of  flames 
as  they  twined  round  some  new  obstacle,  and 
shot  aloft  as  though  refreshed  by  food.  The 
noise  increased  as  he  looked.  There  were  peo- 
ple there — men  and  women — light,  bustle.  It 
was  like  new  life  to  him.  He  darted  onward — 
straight,  headlong — dashing  through  brier  and 
brake,  and  leaping  gate  and  fence  as  madly  as 
the  dog,  who  careered  with  loud  and  sounding 
bark  before  him. 

He  came  upon  the  spot.  There  were  half- 
dressed  figures  tearing  to  and  fro,  some  endeav- 
oring to  drag  the  frightened  horses  from  the 
stables,  others  driving  the  cattle  from  the  yard 
and  out-houses,  and  others  coming  laden  from 
the  burning  pile,  amidst  a shower  of  falling 
sparks,  and  the  tumbling  down  of  red-hot  beams. 
The  apertures,  where  doors  and  windows  stood 
an  hour  ago,  disclosed  a mass  of  raging  fire  ; 
walls  rocked  and  crumbled  into  the  burning 
well ; the  molten  lead  and  iron  poured  down, 
white  hot,  upon  the  ground.  Women  and  chil- 
dren shrieked,  and  men  encouraged  each  other 
with  noisy  shouts  and  cheers.  The  clanking 
of  the  engine-pumps,  and  the  spirting  and  hiss- 
ing of  the  water  as  it  fell  upon  the  blazing 
wood,  added  to  the  tremendous  roar.  He 
shouted,  too,  till  he  was  hoarse  ; and,  flying 
from  memory  and  himself,  plunged  into  the 
thickest  of  the  throng. 

Oliver  Twist,  Qhap.  48. 

FIRE  PLACE  An  ancient. 

The  fire-place  was  an  old  one,  built  by  some 
Dutch  merchant  long  ago,  and  paved  all  round 
with  quaint  Dutch  tiles,  designed  to  illustrate 
the  Scriptures.  There  were  Cains  and  Abels, 
Pharaoh’s  daughters,  Queens  of  Sheba,  Angelic 
messengers  descending  through  the  air  on 
clouds  like  feather-beds,  Abrahams,  Belshaz- 
zars, Apostles  putting  off  to  sea  in  butter-boats, 
hundreds  of  figures  to  attract  his  thoughts  ; and 
yet  that  face  of  Marley’s,  seven  years  dead, 
came  like  the  ancient  Prophet’s  rod,  and  swal- 
lowed up  the  whole.  If  each  smooth  tile  had 
been  a blank  at  first,  with  power  to  shape  some 


“FIXING” 


197 


FLUTE  MUSIC 


picture  on  its  surface  from  the  disjointed  frag- 
ments of  his  thoughts,  there  would  have  been  a 
copy  of  old  Marley’s  head  on  every  one. 

Christmas  Carol , Stave  i. 

“ FIXING  A provincialism  of  America. 

“Will  you  try,”  said  my  opposite  neighbor, 
handing  me  a dish  of  potatoes,  broken  up  in 
milk  and  butter, — “will  you  try  some  of  these 
fixings  ? ” 

There  are  few  words  which  perform  such  va- 
rious duties  as  this  word  “ fix.”  It  is  the  Caleb 
Quotem  of  the  American  vocabulary.  You  call 
upon  a gentleman  in  a country  town,  and  his 
help  informs  you  that  he  is  “ fixing  himself” 
just  now,  but  will  be  down  directly ; by 
which  you  are  to  understand  that  he  is  dress- 
ing. You  inquire  on  board  a steamboat,  of  a 
fellow-passenger,  whether  breakfast  will  be 
ready  soon,  and  he  tells  you  he  should  think  so, 
for  when  he  was  last  below  they  were  “ fixing 
the  tables,”  in  other  words,  laying  the  cloth. 
You  beg  a porter  to  collect  your  luggage,  and 
he  entreats  you  not  to  be  uneasy,  for  he’ll  “ fix 
it  presently  ; ” and  if  you  complain  of  indispo- 
sition, you  are  advised  to  have  recourse  to  Doc- 
tor so-and  so,  who  will  “ fix  you  ” in  no  time. 

One  night  I ordered  a bottle  of  mulled  wine 
at  a hotel  where  I was  staying,  and  waited  a 
long  lime  for  it  ; at  length  it  was  put  upon  the 
table  with  an  apology  from  the  landlord  that 
he  feared  it  wasn’t  “ fixed  properly.”  And  I 
recollect  once,  at  a stage-coach  dinner,  over- 
hearing a very  stern  gentleman  demand  of  a 
waiter  who  presented  him  with  a plate  of  under- 
done roast  beef,  “ whether  he  called  that  fixing 
God  A’mighty’s  vittles.” 

American  Notes , Chap.  10. 

FLAG— The  American. 

“ Tut ! ” said  Martin.  “ You’re  a gay  flag  in 
the  distance.  But  let  a man  be  near  enough  to 
get  the  light  upon  the  other  side,  and  see  through 
you,  and  you  are  but  sorry  fustian  !’’ 

Marlin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  21. 

FLATTERER. 

For,  although  a skillful  flatterer  is  a most  de- 
lightful companion  if  you  can  keep  him  all  to 
yourself,  his  taste  becomes  very  doubtful  when 
he  takes  to  complimenting  other  people. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  28. 

FLOWERS,  BIRDS,  AND  ANGELS-The 
vision  of  Jenny  Wren. 

1 “ I wonder  how  it  happens  that  when  I am 

work,  work,  working  here,  all  alone  in  the  sum- 
mer-time, I smell  flowers?” 

“Asa  commonplace  individual,  I should  say,” 
Eugene  suggested  languidly — for  he  was  grow- 
ing weary  of  the  person  of  the  house — “ that  you 
smell  flowers  because  you  do  smell  flowers.” 

E.  “ No  I don’t,”  said  the  little  creature,  resting 
one  arm  upon  the  elbow  of  her  chair,  resting  her 
chin  upon  that  hand,  and  looking  vacantly  be- 
fore her  ; “ this  is  not  a flowery  neighborhood. 
It’s  anything  but  that.  And  yet,  as  I sit  at  work, 
I smell  miles  of  flowers.  I smell  roses,  till  I 
think  I see  the  rose-leaves  lying  in  heaps,  bush- 
els, on  the  floor.  I smell  fallen  leaves,  till  I put 
down  my  hand — so — and  expect  to  make  them 
rustle.  1 smell  the  white  and  the  pink  May  in 


the  hedges,  and  all  sorts  of  flowers  that  I never 
was  among.  For  I have  seen  very  few  flowers 
indeed,  in  my  life.” 

“ Pleasant  fancies  to  have,  Jenny  dear  ! ” said 
her  friend  : with  a glance  towards  Eugene  as  if 
she  would  have  asked  him  whether  they  were 
given  the  child  in  compensation  for  her  losses. 

“ So  I think,  Lizzie,  when  they  come  to  me. 
And  the  birds  I hear ! Oh  ! ” cried  the  little 
creature,  holding  out  her  hand  and  looking  up- 
ward, “ how  they  sing  ! ” 

There  was  something  in  the  face  and  action 
for  the  moment  quite  inspired  and  beautiful. 
Then  the  chin  dropped  musingly  upon  the  hand 
again. 

“ I dare  say  my  birds  sing  better  than  other 
birds,  and  my  flowers  smell  better  than  other 
flowers.  For  when  I was  a little  child,”  in  a tone 
as  though  it  were  ages  ago,  “ the  children  that  I 
used  to  see  early  in  the  morning  were  very  dif- 
ferent from  any  others  that  I ever  saw.  They 
were  not  like  me  ; they  were  not  chilled,  anxious, 
ragged,  or  beaten  ; they  were  never  in  pain. 
They  were  not  like  the  children  of  the  neigh- 
bors ; they  never  made  me  tremble  all  over,  by 
setting  up  shrill  noises,  and  they  never  mocked 
me.  Such  numbers  of  them  too  ! All  in  white 
dresses,  and  with  something  shining  on  the  bor- 
ders, and  on  their  heads,  that  I have  never  been 
able  to  imitate  with  my  work,  though  I know  it 
so  well.  They  used  to  come  down  in  long, 
bright,  slanting  rows,  and  say  all  together, 
‘Who  is  this  in  pain  ! Who  is  this  in  pain  !’ 
When  I told  them  who  it  was,  they  answered, 
‘ Come  and  play  with  us  ! ’ When  I said  ‘ I 
never  play!  I can’t  play!’  they  swept  about 
me  and  took  me  up,  and  made  me  light.  Then 
it  was  all  delicious  ease  and  rest  till  they  laid 
me  down,  and  said,  all  together,  4 Have  patience, 
and  we  will  come  again.’  Whenever  they  came 
back,  I used  to  know  they  were  coming  before 
I saw  the  long  bright  rows,  by  hearing  them 
ask,  all  together,  a long  way  off,  4 Who  is  this  in 
pain  ! who  is  this  in  pain  ! ’ And  I used  to  cry 
out,  4 O my  blessed  children,  it’s  poor  me.  Have 
pity  on  me.  Take  me  up  and  make  me  light !’  ” 

By  degrees,  as  she  progressed  in  this  remem- 
brance, the  hand  was  raised,  the  last  ecstatic 
look  returned,  and  she  became  quite  beautiful. 
Having  so  paused  for  a moment,  silent,  with  a 
listening  smile  upon  her  face,  she  looked  round 
and  recalled  herself. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  II.,  Chap.  2. 

FLUTE-PLAYER— Mi\  Mell,  the. 

When  he  had  put  up  his  things  for  the  night, 
he  took  out  his  flute,  and  blew  at  it,  until  I al- 
most thought  he  would  gradually  blow  his  whole 
being  into  the  large  hole  at  the  top,  and  ooze 
away  at  the  keys. — David  Copperfald,  Chap.  5. 

FLUTE  MUSIC— Dick  Swiveller’s  solace  in 
love. 

Some  men  in  his  blighted  position  would  have 
taken  to  drinking;  but  as  Mr.  Swiveller  had 
taken  to  that  before,  he  only  took,  on  receiving 
the  news  that  Sophy  Wackles  was  lost  to  him 
forever,  to  playing  the  flute  ; thinking,  after  ma- 
ture consideration,  that  it  was  a good,  sound, 
dismal  occupation,  not  only  in  unison  with  his 
own  sad  thoughts,  but  calculated  to  awaken  a 
fellow-feeling  in  the  bosoms  of  his  neighbors. 
In  pursuance  of  this  resolution,  he  now  drew  a 


FOG 


198 


FORTUNE-HUNTERS 


little  table  to  his  bedside,  and  arranging  the 
light  and  a small  oblong  music-book  to  the  best 
advantage,  took  his  flute  from  its  box,  and  began 
to  play  most  mournfully. 

The  air  was  “Away  with  Melancholy” — a 
composition,  which,  when  it  is  played  very  slow- 
ly on  the  flute,  in  bed,  with  the  further  disadvan- 
tage of  being  performed  by  a gentleman  but  im- 
perfectly acquainted  with  the  instrument,  who 
repeats  one  note  a great  many  times  before  he 
can  find  the  next,  has  not  a lively  effect.  Yet, 
for  half  the  night,  or  more,  Mr.  Swiveller,  lying 
sometimes  on  his  back  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
ceiling,  and  sometimes  half  out  of  bed,  to  cor- 
rect himself  by  the  book,  played  this  unhappy 
tune  over  and  over  again  ; never  leaving  off, 
save  for  a minute  or  two  at  a time  to  take  breath 
and  soliloquize  about  the  Marchioness,  and  then 
beginning  again  with  renewed  vigor.  It  was 
not  until  he  had  quite  exhausted  his  several  sub- 
jects of  meditation,  and  had  breathed  into  the 
flute  the  whole  sentiment  of  the  purl  down  to  its 
very  dregs,  and  had  nearly  maddened  the  peo- 
ple of  the  house,  and  at  both  the  next  doors, 
and  over  the  way, — that  he  shut  up  the  music- 
book,  extinguished  the  candle,  and  finding  him- 
self greatly  lightened  and  relieved  in  his  mind, 
turned  round  and  fell  asleep. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap . 58. 

FOG— A sea  of. 

It  was  a foggy  day  in  London,  and  the  fog  was 
heavy  and  dark.  Animate  London,  with  smart- 
ing eyes  and  irritated  lungs,  was  blinking,  wheez- 
ing, and  choking  ; inanimate  London  was  a sooty 
spectre,  divided  in  purpose  between  being  visi- 
ble and  invisible,  and  so  being  wholly  neither. 
Gas-lights  flared  in  the  shops  with  a haggard  and 
unblest  air,  as  knowing  themselves  to  be  night- 
creatures  that  had  no  business  abroad  under  the 
sun  ; while  the  sun  itself,  when  it  was  for  a few 
moments  dimly  indicated  through  circling  eddies 
of  fog,  showed  as  if  it  had  gone  out  and  were 
collapsing  flat  and  cold.  Even  in  the  surround- 
ing country  it  w’as  a foggy  day,  but  there  the  fog 
was  grey,  whereas  in  London  it  was,  at  about 
the  boundary  line,  dark  yellow,  and  a little  with- 
in it  brown,  and  then  browner,  and  then  brown- 
er, until,  at  the  heart  of  the  City — which  call 
Saint  Mary  Axe — it  was  rusty  black.  From  any 
point  of  the  high  ridge  of  land  northward,  it 
might  have  been  discerned  that  the  loftiest  build- 
ings made  an  occasional  struggle  to  get  their 
heads  above  the  foggy  sea,  and  especially  that 
the  great  dome  of  Saint  Paul’s  seemed  to  die 
hard  ; but  this  was  not  perceivable  in  the  streets 
at  their  feet,  where  the  whole  metropolis  was  a 
heap  of  vapor  charged  with  muffled  sound  of 
wheels,  and  enfolding  a gigantic  catarrh. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  III.,  Chap.  1. 

The  mist,  though  sluggish  and  slow  to  move, 
was  of  a keenly  searching  kind.  No  muffling  up 
in  furs  and  broadcloth  kept  it  out.  It  seemed 
to  penetrate  into  the  very  bones  of  the  shrinking 
wayfarers,  and  to  rack  them  with  cold  and  pains. 
Everything  was  wet  and  clammy  to  the  touch. 
The  warm  blaze  alone  defied  it,  and  leaped  and 
sparkled  merrily.  It  was  a day  to  be  at  home, 

( rowding  about  the  fire,  telling  stories  of  travel- 
lers who  had  lost  their  way  in  such  weather  on 
heaths  and  moors  ; and  to  love  a warm  hearth 
more  than  ever. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  67. 


FORGIVENESS. 

“ One  always  begins  to  forgive  a place  as  soon 
as  it’s  left  behind  ; I dare  say  a prisoner  begins 
to  relent  towards  his  prison,  after  he  is  let  out.” 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  2 

FORGIVENESS-Pecksniffian. 

“You  will  shake  hands,  sir.” 

“ No,  John,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  with  a calm- 
ness quite  ethereal  ; “ no,  I will  not  shake  hands, 
John.  I have  forgiven  you.  I had  already  for- 
given you,  even  before  you  ceased  to  reproach 
and  taunt  me.  I have  embraced  you  in  the 
spirit,  John,  which  is  better  than  shaking  hands.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  2. 

FORMAL  PEOPLE. 

The  formal  couple  are  the  most  prim,  cold, 
immovable,  and  unsatisfactory  people  on  the  face 
of  the  earth.  Their  faces,  voices,  dress,  house, 
furniture,  walk,  and  manner  are  all  the  essenc 
of  formality,  unrelieved  by  one  redeeming  touch 
of  frankness,  heartiness,  or  nature. 

Everything  with  the  formal  couple  resolves 
itself  into  a matter  of  form.  They  don’t  call 
upon  you  on  your  account,  but  their  own  ; not 
to  see  how  you  are,  but  to  show  how  they  are : 
it  is  not  a ceremony  to  do  honor  to  you,  but  to 
themselves — not  due  to  your  position,  but  to 
theirs.  If  one  of  a friend’s  children  dies,  the 
formal  couple  are  as  sure  and  punctual  in  send- 
ing to  the  house  as  the  undertaker  ; if  a friend’s 
family  be  increased,  the  monthly  nurse  is  not 
more  attentive  than  they.  The  formal  couple, 
in  fact,  joyfully  seize  all  occasions  of  testifying 
their  good-breeding  and  precise  observance  of 
the  little  usages  of  society;  and  for  you,  who 
are  the  means  to  this  end,  they  care  as  much  as 
a man  does  for  the  tailor  who  has  enabled  him 
to  cut  a figure,  or  a woman  for  the  milliner  who 
has  assisted  her  to  a conquest. 

Having  an  extensive  connection  among  that 
kind  of  people  who  make  acquaintances  and 
eschew  friends,  the  formal  gentleman  attends, 
from  time  to  time,  a great  many  funerals,  to 
which  he  is  formally  invited,  and  to  which  he 
formally  goes,  as  returning  a call  for  the  last 
time.  Here  his  deportment  is  of  the  most  fault- 
less description  ; he  knows  the  exact  pitch  of 
voice  it  is  proper  to  assume,  the  sombre  look  he 
ought  to  wear,  the  melancholy  tread  which 
should  be  his  gait  for  the  day.  He  is  perfectly 
acquainted  with  all  the  dreary  courtesies  to  be 
observed  in  a mourning-coach  ; knows  when  to 
sigh,  and  when  to  hide  his  nose  in  the  white 
handkerchief;  and  looks  into  the  grave  and 
shakes  his  head  when  the  ceremony  is  concluded, 
with  the  sad  formality  of  a mute. 

The  Formal  Couple. 

FORTUNE-HUNTERS. 

“ A mere  fortune-hunter ! ” cried  the  son,  in- 
dignantly. 

“ What  in  the  devil’s  name,  Ned,  would  you 
be?”  returned  the  father.  “All  men  are  for- 
tune-hunters, are  they  not  ? The  law,  the  church, 
the  court,  the  camp — see  how  they  are  all  crowd- 
ed with  fortune-hunters,  jostling  each  other  in 
the  pursuit.  The  Stock-exchange,  the  pulpit, 
the  counting-house,  the  royal  drawing-room,  the 
Senate — what  but  fortune  hunters  are  they  filled 
with  ? A fortune-hunter  ' Yes.  You  arc  one  ; 
and  you  would  be  nothing  else,  my  dear  Ned, 


FOUNDRY 


199 


FRENCH  LANGUAGE 


if  you  were  the  greatest  courtier,  lawyer,  legisla- 
tor, prelate,  or  merchant,  in  existence.  If  you 
are  squeamish  and  moral,  Ned,  console  yourself 
with  the  reflection  that  at  the  worst  your  fortune- 
hunting can  make  but  one  person  miserable  or 
unhappy.  How  many  people  do  you  suppose 
these  other  kinds  of  huntsmen  crush  in  follow- 
ing their  sport?  Hundreds  at  a step — or  thou- 
sands?”— Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  15. 

FOUNDRY— Description  of  a. 

, “ This  is  the  place,”  he  said,  pausing  at  a 
door  to  put  Nell  down  and  take  her  hand. 
“ Don’t  be  afraid.  There’s  nobody  here  will 
harm  you.” 

It  needed  a strong  confidence  in  this  assurance 
to  induce  them  to  enter,  and  what  they  saw  in- 
side did  not  diminish  their  apprehension  and 
alarm.  In  a large  and  lofty  building,  supported 
t by  pillars  of  iron,  with  great  black  apertures  in 
,the  upper  walls,  open  to  the  external  air  ; echo- 
ing to  the  roof  with  the  beating  of  hammers  and 
roar  of  furnaces,  mingled  with  the  hissing  of  red- 
hot  metal  plunged  in  water,  and  a hundred 
strange,  unearthly  noises  never  heard  elsewhere  ; 
in  this  gloomy  place,  moving  like  demons  among 
the  flame  and  smoke,  dimly  and  fitfully  seen, 
flushed  and  tormented  by  the  burning  fires,  and 
wielding  great  weapons,  a faulty  blow  from  any 
one  of  which  must  have  crushed  some  work- 
man’s skull,  a number  of  men  labored  like 
giants.  Others,  reposing  upon  heaps  of  coals 
or  ashes,  with  their  faces  turned  to  the  black 
vault  above,  slept  or  rested  from  their  toil. 
Others  again,  opening  the  white-hot  furnace- 
doors,  cast  fuel  o.n  the  flames,  which  came  rush- 
ing and  roaring  forth  to  meet  it,  and  licked  it  up 
like  oii.  Others  drew  forth,  with  clashing  noise, 
upon  the  ground,  great  sheets  of  glowing  steel, 
emitting  an  insupportable  heat,  and  a dull  deep 
light  like  that  which  reddens  in  the  eyes  of  sav- 
age beasts. 

Through  these  bewildering  sights  and  deaf- 
ening sounds,  their  conductor  led  them  to 
where,  in  a dark  portion  of  the  building,  one 
furnace  burnt  by  night  and  day — so,  at  least, 
they  gathered  from  the  motion  of  his  lips,  for 
as  yet  they  could  only  see  him  speak — not  hear 
him.  The  man  who  had  been  watching  this 
fire,  and  whose  task  was  ended  for  the  present, 
gladly  withdrew,  and  left  them  with  their  friend, 
who,  spreading  Nell’s  little  cloak  upon  a heap  of 
ashes,  and  showing  her  where  she  could  hang 
her  outer-clothes  to  dry,  signed  to  her  and  the 
old  man  to  lie  down  and  sleep.  For  himself, 
he  took  his  station  on  a rugged  mat  before  the 
furnace-door,  and  resting  his  chin  upon  his 
hands,  watched  the  flame  as  it  shone  through 
the  iron  chinks,  and  the  white  ashes  as  they 
fell  into  their  bright,  hot  grave  below. 

Old  Curiosity  sShop,  Chap.  44. 

FOUNTAIN— The  waters  of  the. 

Merrily  the  fountain  leaped  and  danced,  and 
merrily  the  smiling  dimples  twinkled  and  ex- 
panded more  and  more,  until  they  broke  into  a 
laugh  against  the  basin’s  rim,  and  vanished. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  45. 

FOWLS— Their  peculiarities. 

* * * Ai§  aged  personage,  afflicted  with  a 

paucity  of  feather  and  visibility  of  quill,  that 
gives  her  the  appearance  of  a bundle  of  office- 


pens.  When  a railway  goods-van  that  would 
crush  an  elephant  comes  round  the  corner,  tear- 
ing over  these  fowls,  they  emerge  unharmed 
from  under  the  horses,  perfectly  satisfied  that 
the  whole  rush  was  a passing  property  in  the 
air,  which  may  have  left  something  to  eat  be- 
hind it.  They  look  upon  old  shoes,  wrecks  of 
kettles  and  saucepans,  and  fragments  of  bon- 
nets, as  a kind  of  meteoric  discharge  for  fowls 
to  peck  at.  Peg-tops  and  hoops  they  account, 
I think,  as  a sort  of  hail ; shuttlecocks,  as  rain 
or  dew.  Gaslight  comes  quite  as  natural  to 
them  as  any  other  light ; and  I have  more  than 
a suspicion  that,  in  the  minds  of  the  two  lords, 
the  early  public-house  at  the  corner  has  super- 
seded the  sun.  I have  established  it  as  a cer- 
tain fact,  that  they  always  begin  to  crow  when 
the  public-house  shutters  begin  to  be  taken 
down,  and  that  they  salute  the  pot-boy,  the  in- 
stant he  appears  to  perform  that  duty,  as  if  he 
were  Phoebus  in  person. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  10. 

FRANCE— Scenes  in  Flemish. 

Wonderful  poultry  of  the  French-Flemish 
country,  why  take  the  trouble  to  be  poultry  ? 
Why  not  stop  short  at  eggs  in  the  rising  genera- 
tion, and  die  out,  and  have  done  with  it  ? Pa- 
rents of  chickens  have  I seen  this  day,  followed 
by  their  wretched  young  families,  scratching 
nothing  out  of  the  mud  with  an  air — tottering 
about  on  legs  so  scraggy  and  weak  that  the  valiant 
word  “ drumsticks  ” becomes  a mockery  when 
applied  to  them,  and  the  crow  of  the  lord  and 
master  has  Teen  a mere  dejected  case  of  croup. 
Carts  have  I seen,  and  other  agricultural  instru- 
ments, unwieldy,  dislocated,  monstrous.  Pop- 
lar-trees by  the  thousand  fringe  the  fields,  and 
fringe  the  end  of  the  flat  landscape,  so  that  I 
feel,  looking  straight  on  before  me,  as  if,  when 
I pass  the  extremest  fringe  on  the  low  horizon, 
I shall  tumble  over  into  space.  Little  white- 
washed black  holes  of  chapels,  with  barred 
doors  and  Flemish  inscriptions,  abound  at  road- 
side corners,  and  often  they  are  garnished 
with  a sheaf  of  wooden  crosses,  like  children’s 
swords  ; or,  in  their  default,  some  hollow  old 
tree  with  a saint  roosting  in  it,  is  similarly  deco- 
rated, or  a pole  with  a very  diminutive  saint  en- 
shrined aloft  in  a sort  of  sacred  pigeon  house. 
Not  that  we  are  deficient  in  such  decoration  in 
the  town  here,  for,  over  at  the  church  yonder, 
outside  the  building,  is  a scenic  representation 
of  the  Crucifixion,  built  up  with  old  bricks  and 
stones,  and  made  out  with  painted  canvas  and 
wooden  figures  ; the  whole  surmounting  the 
dusty  skull  of  some  holy  personage  (perhaps), 
shut  up  behind  a little  ashy  iron  grate,  as  if  it 
were  originally  put  there  to  be  cooked,  and  the 
fire  had  long  gone  out.  A windmilly  country 
this,,  though  the  windmills  are  so  damp  and 
rickety  that  they  nearly  knock  themselves  off 
their  legs  at  every  turn  of  their  sails,  and  creak 
in  loud  complaint. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  25. 

FRENCH  LANGUAGE-The. 

“ What  sort  of  language  do  you  consider 
French,  sir?” 

“ How  do  you  mean?”  asked  Nicholas. 

“ Do  you  consider  it  a good  language,  sir  ? ” 
said  the  collector  ; “ a pretty  language,  a sensi- 
ble language  ? ” 


FRIENDS 


200 


FRIENDLY  SERVICE 


“ A pretty  language,  certainly,”  replied  Nich- 
olas ; “ancl  as  it  has  a name  for  everything,  and 
admits  of  elegant  conversation  about  everything, 
I presume  it  is  a sensible  one.” 

“I  don’t  know,”  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  doubt- 
fully. “ Do  you  call  it  a cheerful  language, 
now  ? ” 

“Yes,”  replied  Nicholas,  “I  should  say  it 
was,  certainly.” 

“ It’s  very  much  changed  since  my  time, 
then,”  said  the  collector,  “ very  much.” 

“Was  it  a dismal  one  in  your  time?”  asked 
Nicholas,  scarcely  able  to  repress  a smile. 

“Very,”  replied  Mr.  Lillyvick,  with  some  ve- 
hemence of* manner.  “ It’s  the  war  time  that  I 
speak  of ; the  last  war.  It  may  be  a cheerful 
language.  I should  be  sorry  to  contradict  any- 
body ; but  I can  only  say  that  I’ve  heard  the 
French  prisoners,  who  were  natives,  and  ought 
to  know  how  to  speak  it,  talking  in  such  a dis- 
mal manner,  that  it  made  one  miserable  to  hear 
them.  Ay,  that  I have,  fifty  times,  sir — fifty 
times  !” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  16. 

FRIENDS— The  escort  of  a crowd. 

“ Of  the  two,  and  after  experience  of  both,  I 
think  I’d  rather  be  taken  out  of  my  house  by  a 
crowd  of  enemies,  than  escorted  home  by  a mob 
of  friends  ! ” — Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  79. 

FRIENDS -Not  too  many. 

“ I have  not  so  many  friends  that  I shall  grow 
confused  among  the  number,  and  forget  my  best 
one.” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  22. 

FRIENDSHIP— Lowten’s  opinion  of. 

“ Friendship’s  a very  good  thing  in  its  way  ; 
we  are  all  very  friendly  and  comfortable  at  the 
Stump,  for  instance,  over  our  grog,  where  every 
man  pays  for  himself ; but  damn  hurting  your- 
self for  anybody  else,  you  know  ! No  man 
should  have  more  than  two  attachments — the 
first,  to  number  one,  and  the  second  to  the 
ladies.” — Pickwick , Chap.  53. 

FRIENDSHIP— Between  opposite  charac- 
ters. 

It  may  be  observed  of  this  friendship,  such  as 
it  was,  that  it  had  within  it  more  likely  materials 
of  endurance  than  many  a sworn  brotherhood 
that  has  been  rich  in  promise  ; for  so  long  as  the 
one  party  found  a pleasure  in  patronising,  and 
the  other  in  being  patronised  (which  was  in  the 
very  essence  of  their  respective  characters),  it 
was  of  all  possible  events  among  the  least  pro- 
bable, that  the  twin  demons,  Envy  and  Pride, 
would  ever  arise  between  them.  So,  in  very 
many  cases  of  friendship,  or  what  passes  for  it, 
the  old  axiom  is  reversed,  and  like  clings  to  un- 
like more  than  to  like. 

Martin  Chuzzfewit , Chap.  7. 

FRIENDSHIP  A Pecksniffian. 

“ Did  you  hear  him  say  that  he  could  have 
shed  his  blood  for  me?” 

“ Do  you  want  any  blood  shed  for  you?”  re- 
turned liis  friend,  with  considerable  irritation. 
“ Does  he  shed  anything  for  you  that  you  do 
want?  Does  he  shed  employment  for  you,  in- 
struction for  you,  pocket-money  for  you  ? Does 
he  shed  even  legs  of  mutton  for  you  in  any  de- 
cent proportion  to  potatoes  and  garden  stub?” 

Alar  tin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  2. 


FRIENDSHIP  The  Damons  and  Pythiases 
of  modern  life. 

Damon  and  Pythias  were  undoubtedly  very 
good  fellows  in  their  way  : the  former  for  his  ex- 
treme readiness  to  put  in  special  bail  for  a 
friend  : and  the  latter  for  a certain  trump-like 
punctuality  in  turning  up  just  in  the  very  nick 
of  time,  scarcely  less  remarkable.  Many  points 
in  their  character  have,  however,  grown  obsolete. 
Damons  are  rather  hard  to  find,  in  these  days 
of  imprisonment  for  debt  (except  the  sham  ones, 
and  they  cost  half-a-crown) ; and,  as  to  the 
Pythiases,  the  few  that  have  existed  in  these 
degenerate  times,  have  had  an  unfortunate  knack 
of  making  themselves  scarce  at  the  very  moment 
when  their  appearance  would  have  been  strictly 
classical.  If  the  actions  of  these  heroes,  how- 
ever, can  find  no  parallel  in  modern  times,  their 
friendship  can.  We  have  Damon  and  Pythias 
on  the  one  hand.  We  have  Potter  and  Smithers 
on  the  other. — Characters  ( Sketches J,  Chap.  11. 

FRIENDLY  SERVICE-Wemmick’s  opin- 
ion of  a. 

“ Mr.  Wemmick,”  said  I,  “ I want  to  ask  your 
opinion.  I am  very  desirous  to  serve  a friend.” 

Wemmick  tightened  his  post-office  and  shook 
his  head,  as  if  his  opinion  were  dead  against  any 
fatal  weakness  of  that  sort. 

“ This  friend,”  I pursued,  “ is  trying  to  get  on 
in  commercial  life,  but  has  no  money,  and  finds 
it  difficult  and  disheartening  to  make  a begin- 
ning. Now,  I want  somehow  to  help  him  to  a 
beginning.” 

“With  money  down?”  said  Wemmick,  in  a 
tone  drier  than  any  sawdust.  . 

“With  some  money  down,”  I replied,  for  an 
uneasy  remembrance  shot  across  me  of  that  sym- 
metrical bundle  of  papers  at  home  ; “ with  some 
money  down,  and  perhaps  some  anticipation  of 
my  expectations.” 

“ Mr.  Pip,”  said  Wemmick,  “ I should  like 
just  to  run  over  with  you  on  my  fingers,  if  you 
please,  the  names  of  the  various  bridges  up  as 
high  as  Chelsea  Reach.  Let’s  see  : there’s  Lon- 
don, one  ; Southwark,  two  ; Blackfriars,  three  ; 
Waterloo,  four;  Westminster,  five;  Vauxhall, 
six.”  He  had  checked  off  each  bridge  in  its 
turn,  with  the  handle  of  his  safe-key  on  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  “ There’s  as  many  as  six,  you  see, 
to  choose  from.” 

“I  don’t  understand  you,”  said  I. 

“ Choose  your  bridge,  Mr.  Pip,”  returned 
Wemmick,  “ and  take  a walk  upon  your  bridge, 
and  pitch  your  money  into  the  Thames  over  the 
centre  arch  of  your  bridge,  and  you  know  the 
end  of  it.  Serve  a friend  with  it,  and  you  may 
know  the  end  of  it  too — but  it’s  a less  pleasant 
and  profitable  end.” 

I could  have  posted  a newspaper  in  his  mouth, 
he  made  it  so  wide  after  saying  this. 

“ This  is  very  discouraging,”  said  I. 

“ Meant  to  be  so,”  said  Wemmick. 

“ Then  is  it  your  opinion,”  I inquired,  with 
some  little  indignation,  “ that  a man  should 
never — ” 

“ — Invest  portable  property  in  a friend?” 
said  Wemmick.  “Certainly  he  should  not. 
Unless  he  wants  to  get  rid  of  the  friend — and 
then  it  becomes  a question  how  much  portable 
property  it  may  be  worth  to  get#id  of  him.” 

“ And  that,”  said  I,  “ is  your  deliberate  opin- 
ion, Mr.  Wemmick?” 


FRIENDLESS  MEN 


201 


FUNERAL 


“ That,”  he  returned,  “ is  my  deliberate  opin- 
ion in  this  office.” — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  36. 

FRIENDLESS  MEN. 

It  is  strange  with  how  little  notice,  good,  bad, 
or  indifferent,  a man  may  live  and  die  in  Lon- 
don. He  awakens  no  sympathy  in  the  breast  of 
an}?  single  person  ; his  existence  is  a matter  of 
interest  to  no  one  save  himself ; he  cannot 
be  said  to  be  forgotten  when  he  dies,  for 
no  one  remembered  him  when  he  was  alive. 
There  is  a numerous  class  of  people  in  this  great 
metropolis  who  seem  not  to  possess  a single  friend, 
and  whom  nobody  appears  to  care  for.  Urged 
by  imperative  necessity  in  the  first  instance,  they 
have  resorted  to  London  in  search  of  employ- 
ment, and  the  means  of  subsistence.  It  is  hard, 
we  know,  to  break  the  ties  which  bind  us  to  our 
homes  and  friends,  and  harder  still  to  efface  the 
thousand  recollections  of  happy  days  and  old 
times,  which  have  been  slumbering  in  our  bosoms 
for  years,  and  only  rush  upon  the  mind,  to  bring 
before  it  associations  connected  with  the  friends 
we  have  left,  the  scenes  we  have  beheld  too 
probably  for  the  last  time,  and  the  hopes  we 
once  cherished,  but  may  entertain  no  more. 
These  men,  however,  happily  for  themselves, 
have  long  forgotten  such  thoughts.  Old  country 
friends  have  died  or  emigrated  ; former  cor- 
respondents have  become  lost,  like  themselves, 
in  the  crowd  and  turmoil  of  some  busy  city  ; and 
they  have  gradually  settled  down  into  mere  pas- 
sive creatures  of  habit  and  endurance. 

Sketches  ( Characters J,  Chap.  1. 

FROGS— The  music  of. 

The  croaking  of  the  frogs  (whose  noise  in 
these  parts  is  almost  incredible)  sounded  as 
though  a million  of  fairy  teams  with  bells  were 
travelling  through  the  air,  and  keeping  pace 
with  us. — American  Notes , Chap.  10. 

FROST— The. 

The  frost  was  binding  up  the  earth  in  its  iron 
fetters,  and  weaving  its  beautiful  net-work  upon 
the  trees  and  hedges. — Pickwick , Chap.  28. 

FUNERAL— The  request  of  Charles  Dick- 
ens. 

“ I emphatically  direct  that  I be  buried  in  an 
inexpensive,  unostentatious,  and  strictly  private 
manner,  that  no  public  announcement  be  made 
of  the  time  or  place  of  my  burial,  that,  at  the 
utmost,  not  more  than  three  plain  mourning- 
coaches  be  employed,  and  that  those  who  attend 
my  funeral  wear  no  scarf,  cloak,  black,  bow, 
long  hat-band,  or  other  such  revolting  absurdity. 
1 direct  that  my  name  be  inscribed  in  plain 
English  letters  on  my  tomb,  without  the  addi- 
tion of  ‘ Mi*.’  or  ‘ Esquire.’  I conjure  my  friends 
on  no  account  to  make  me  the  subject  of  any 
monument,  memorial,  or  testimonial  whatever. 
I rest  my  claims  to  the  remembrance  of  my 
country  upon  my  published  works,  and  to  the 
remembrance  of  my  friends  upon  their  expe- 
rience of  me  ; in  addition  thereto  I commit  my 
soul  to  the  mercy  of  God,  through  our  Lord  and 
Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  and  I 'exhort  my  dear  chil- 
dren humbly  to  try  to  guide  themselves  by  the 
teachings  of  the  New  Testament  in  its  broad 
spirit,  and  to  put  no  faith  in  any  man’s  narrow 
construction  of  its  letter  here  or  there.  In  wit- 
ness whereof,  I,  the  said  Charles  Dickens,  the 


testator,  have  to  this  my  last  will  and  testament 
set  my  hand  this  twelfth  day  of  May,  in  the  year 
of  our  Lord  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
sixty-nine.  Charles  Dickens.” 

Will  of  Charles  Dickens. 

FUNERAL— Mr.  Mould’s  philosophy  of  a. 

At  length  the  day  of  the  funeral,  pious  and 
truthful  ceremony  that  it  was,  arrived.  Mr. 
Mould,  with  a glass  of  generous  port  between 
his  eye  and  the  light,  leaned  against  the  desk  in 
the  little  glass  office,  with  his  gold  watch  in  his 
unoccupied  hand,  and  conversed  with  Mrs. 
Gamp  ; two  mutes  were  at  the  house-door,  look- 
ing as  mournful  as  could  be  reasonably  expected 
of  men  with  such  a thriving  job  in  hand  ; the 
whole  of  Mr.  Mould’s  establishment  were  on 
duty  within  the  house  or  without  ; feathers 
waved,  horses  snorted,  silks  and  velvets  flut- 
tered ; in  a word,  as  Mr.  Mould  emphatically 
said,  “ everything  that  money  could  do  was  done.” 

“And  what  can  do  more,  Mrs.  Gamp?”  ex- 
claimed the  undertaker,  as  he  emptied  his  glass, 
and  smacked  his  lips. 

“ Nothing  in  the  world,  sir.” 

“ Nothing  in  the  world,”  repeated  Mr.  Mould. 
“You  are  right,  Mrs.  Gamp.  Why  do  people 
spend  more  money:”  here  he  filled  his  glass 
again  : “upon  a death,  Mrs.  Gamp,  than  upon  a 
birth  ? Come,  that’s  in  your  way  ; you  ought  to 
know.  How  do  you  account  for  that  now?” 

“ Perhaps  it  is  because  an  undertaker’s  charges 
comes  dearer  than  a nurse’s  charges,  sir,”  said 
Mrs.  Gamp,  tittering,  and  smoothing  down  her 
new  black  dress  with  her  hands. 

“ Ha,  ha  ! ” laughed  Mr.  Mould.  “You  have 
been  breakfasting  at  somebody’s  expense  this 
morning,  Mrs.  Gamp.”  But  seeing,  by  the  aid 
of  a little  shaving-glass  which  hung  opposite, 
that  he  looked  merry,  he  composed  his  features 
and  became  sorrowful. 

“ Many’s  the  time  that  I’ve  not  breakfasted  at 
my  own  expense  along  of  your  kind  recommend- 
ing, sir : and  many’s  the  time  I hope  to  do  the 
same  in  time  to  come,”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  with  an 
apologetic  curtsey. 

“So  be  it,”  replied  Mr.  Mould,  “ please  Pro- 
vidence. No,  Mrs.  Gamp  ; I’ll  tell  you  why  it 
is.  It's  because  the  laying  out  of  money  with  a 
well-conducted  establishment,  where  the  thing 
is  performed  upon  the  very  best  scale,  binds  the 
broken  heart,  and  sheds  balm  upon  the  wounded 
spirit.  Hearts  want  binding  and  spirits  want 
balming  when  people  die — not  when  people  are 
born.  Look  at  this  gentleman  to-day  ; look  at 
him.” 

“An  open-handed  gentleman?”  cried  Mrs. 
Gamp,  with  enthusiasm. 

“ No,  no,”  said  the  undertaker  ; “not  an  open- 
handed  gentleman  in  general,  by  any  means. 
There  you  mistake  him  : but  an  afflicted  gen- 
tleman, an  affectionate  gentleman,  who  knows 
what  it  is  in  the  power  of  money  to  do,  in  giving 
him  relief,  and  in  testifying  his  love  and  ven- 
eration for  the  departed.  It  can  give  him,”  said 
Mr.  Mould,  waving  his  watch-chain  slowly  round 
and  round,  so  that  he  described  one  circle  after 
every  item  ; “ it  can  give  him  four  horses  to  each 
vehicle  ; it  can  give  him  velvet  trappings  ; it 
can  give  him  drivers  in  cloth  cloaks  and  top- 
boots  ; it  can  give  him  the  plumage  of  the  os- 
trich, dyed  black  ; it  can  give  him  any  number 
of  walking  attendants,  dressed  in  the  first  style 


FUNERAL 


202 


FUNERAL 


of  funeral  fashion,  and  carrying  batons  tipped 
with  brass  ; it  can  give  him  a handsome  tomb  ; 
it  can  give  him  a place  in  Westminster  Abbey 
itself,  il  lie  choose  to  invest  it  in  such  a pur- 
chase. Oh  ! do  not  let  us  say  that  gold  is  dross, 
when  it  can  buy  such  things  as  these,  Mrs.  Gamp.” 

‘‘Ilui  what  a blessing,  sir,”  said  Airs.  Gamp, 
“ that  there  are  such  as  you,  to  sell  or  let  ’em  out 
on  hire  ! ” 

‘‘Ay,  Mrs.  Gamp,  you  are  right,”  rejoined  the 
undertaker.  “We  should  be  an  honored  call- 
ing. We  do  good  by  stealth,  and  blush  to  have 
it  mentioned  in  our  little  bills.  How  much 
consolation  may  I,  even  I,”  cried  Mr.  Mould, 
“have  diffused  among  my  fellow-creatures  by 
means  of  my  four  long-tailed  prancers,  never 
harnessed  under  ten  pound  ten.” 

Mrs.  Gamp  had  begun  to  make  a suitable  re- 
ply, when  she  was  interrupted  by  the  appear- 
ance of  one  of  Mr.  Mould’s  assistants — his  chief 
mourner,  in  fact — an  obese  person,  with  his 
waistcoat  in  closer  connection  with  his  legs 
than  is  quite  reconcilable  with  the.  established 
ideas  of  grace  ; with  that  cast  of  feature  which 
is  figuratively  called  a bottle-nose  ; and  with  a 
face  covered  all  over  with  pimples.  He  had 
been  a tender  plant  once  upon  a time,  but  from 
constant  blowing  in  the  fat  atmosphere  of  funer- 
als, had  run  to  seed. 

“Well,  Tacker,”  said  Mr.  Mould,  “is  all 
ready  below  ? ” 

“A  beautiful  show,  sir,”  rejoined  Tacker. 
“ The  horses  are  prouder  and  fresher  than  ever 
I see  ’em  ; and  toss  their  heads,  they  do,  as  if 
they  knowed  how  much  their  plumes  cost.!’ 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  19. 

FUNERAL- Of  Anthony  Chuzzlewit. 

Mr.  Mould  and  his  men  had  not  exaggerated 
the  grandeur  of  the  arrangements.  They  were 
splendid.  The  four  hearse-horses,  especially, 
reared  and  pranced,  and  showed  their  highest 
action,  as  if  they  knew  a man  was  dead,  and 
triumphed  in  it.  “ They  break  us,  drive  us,  ride 
us  ; ill-treat,  abuse,  and  maim  us  for  their  pleas- 
ure— But  they  die  ; Hurrah,  they  die  ! v 

So  through  the  narrow  streets  -and  winding 
city  ways,  went  Anthony  Chuzzlewit’s  funeral : 
Mr.  Jonas  glancing  stealthily  out  of  the  coach- 
windows  now  and  then,  to  observe  its  effect 
upon  the  crowd ; Mr.  Mould,  as  he  walked 
along,  listening  with  a sober  pride  to  the  ex- 
clamations of  the  bystanders  ; the  doctor  whis- 
pering his  story  to  Mr.  Pecksniff,  without  ap- 
pearing to  come  any  nearer  the  end  of  it ; and 
poor  old  Chuffey  sobbing  unregarded  in  a corner. 
But  he  had  greatly  scandalised  Mr.  Mould  at  an 
early  stage  of  the  ceremony  by  carrying  his 
handkerchief  in  his  hat  in  a perfectly  informal 
manner,  and  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  knuckles. 
And  as  Mr.  Mould  himself  had  said  already,  his 
behavior  was  indecent,  and  quite  unworthy  of 
such  an  occasion  ; and  he  never  ought  to  have 
been  there. 

There  he  was,  however  ; and  in  the  church- 
yard there  he  was,  also,  conducting  himself  in  a 
no  less  unbecoming  manner,  and  leaning  for 
support  on  Tacker,  who  plainly  told  him  that 
Ik;  was  fit  for  nothing  belter  than  a walking 
funeral.  But  Gluiffey,  Heaven  help  him  ! heard 
no  sound  but  (lie  echoes,  lingering  in  his  own 
heart,  of  a voice  forever  silent. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  19. 


FUNERAL  — The  pretentious  solemnities 
of  a. 

Other  funerals  have  I seen  with  grown-up 
eyes,  since  that  day,  of  which  the  burden  has 
been  the  same  childish  burden — making  game. 
Real  affliction,  real  grief  and  solemnity,  have 
been  outraged,  and  the  funeral  has  been  “per- 
formed." The  waste  for  which  the  funeral  cus- 
toms of  many  tribes  of  savages  are  conspicuous 
has  attended  these  civilized  obsequies ; and 
once,  and  twice,  have  I wished  in  my  soul  that, 
if  the  waste  must  be,  they  would  let  the  under- 
taker bury  the  money,  and  let  me  bury  the  friend. 

In  France,  upon  the  whole,  these  ceremonies 
are  more  sensibly  regulated,  because  they  are 
upon  the  whole  less  expensively  regulated.  I 
cannot  say  that  I have  ever  been  much  edified 
by  the  custom  of  tying  a bib  and  apron  on  the 
front  of  the  house  of  mourning,  or  that  I w'ould 
myself  particularly  care  to  be  driven  to  my 
grave  in  a nodding  and  bobbing  car,  like  an  in- 
firm four-post  bedstead,  by  an  inky  fellow-crea- 
ture in  a cocked  hat.  But  it  may  be  that  I am 
constitutionally  insensible  to  the  virtues  of  a 
cocked  hat.  In  provincial  France  the  solemni- 
ties are  sufficiently  hideous,  but  are  few  and 
cheap.  The  friends  and  townsmen  of  the  de- 
parted, in  their  own  dresses,  and  not  masquerad- 
ing under  the  auspices  of  the  African  Conjuror, 
surround  the  hand-bier,  and  often  carry  it.  It 
is  not  considered  indispensable  to  stifle  the 
bearers,  or  even  to  elevate  the  burden  on  their 
shoulders  ; consequently  it  is  easily  taken  up, 
and  easily  set  down,  and  is  carried  through  the 
streets  without  the  distressing  floundering  and 
shuffling  that  we  see  at  home. 

rjC 

Once  I lost  a friend  by  death,  who  had  been 
troubled  in  his  time  by  the  Medicine-Man  and 
the  Conjuror,  and  upon  whose  limited  resources 
there  w'ere  abundant  claims.  The  Conjuror  as- 
sured me  that  I must  positively  “ follow,”  and 
both  he  and  the  Medicine-Man  entertained  no 
doubt  that  I must  go  in  a black  carriage,  and 
must  wear  “ fittings.”  I objected  to  fittings  as 
having  nothing  to  do  with  my  friendship,  and  I 
objected  to  the  black  carriage  as  being  in  more 
senses  than  one  a job.  So  it  came  into  my 
mind  to  try  what  would  happen  if  1 quietly 
walked  in  my  own  way  from  my  own  house  to 
my  friend’s  burial-place,  and  stood  beside  his 
open  grave  in  my  own  dress  and  person,  rever- 
ently listening  to  the  best  of  Services.  It  satis- 
fied my  mind,  I found,  quite  as  "well  as  if  I had 
been  disguised  in  a hired  hatband  and  scarf, 
both  trailing  to  my  very  heels,  and  as  if  I had 
cost  the  orphan  children,  in  their  greatest  need, 
ten  guineas. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  26. 

FUNERAL- After  the. 

The  pageant  of  a few  short  hours  ago  was 
written  nowdiere  half  so  legibly  as  in  the  under- 
taker’s books. 

Not  in  the  churchyard?  Not  even  there. 
The  gates  were  closed  ; the  night  was  dark  and 
wet ; the  rain  fell  silently  among  the  stagnant 
weeds  and  nettles.  One  new  mound  was  there 
which  had  not  been  there  last  night.  Time, 
burrowing  like  a mole  below  the  ground,  had 
marked  his  track  by  throwing  up  another  heap 
of  earth.  And  that  was  all. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  19. 


FUNERAL 


203 


FUNERAL 


FUNERAL— A fashionable. 

A great  crowd  assembles  in  Lincoln’s  Inn 
Fields  on  the  day  of  the  funeral.  Sir  Leicester 
Deblock  attends  the  ceremony  in  person  ; strict- 
ly speaking,  there  are  only  three  other  human 
followers,  that  is  to  say,  Lord  Doodle,  William 
Buffy,  and  the  debilitated  cousin  (thrown  in  as  a 
make-weight),  but  the  amount  of  inconsolable 
carriages  is  immense.  The  Peerage  contributes 
more  four-wheeled  affliction  than  has  ever  been 
seen  in  that  neighborhood.  Such  is  the  assem- 
blage of  armorial  bearings  on  coach  panels,  that 
the  Herald’s  College  might  be  supposed  to  have 
lost  its  father  and  mother  at  a blow.  The  Duke 
of  Foodie  sends  a splendid  pile  of  dust  and 
ashes,  with  silver  wheel-boxes,  patent  axles,  all 
the  last  improvements,  and  three  bereaved 
worms,  six  feet  high,  holding  on  behind,  in  a 
bunch  of  woe.  All  the  state  coachmen  in  Lon- 
don seem  plunged  into  mourning  ; and  if  that 
dead  old  man  of  the  rusty  garb  be  not  beyond 
a taste  in  horseflesh  (which  appears  impossible), 
it  must  be  highly  gratified  this  day. 

Quiet  among  the  undertakers,  and  the  equipa- 
ges, and  the  calves  of  so  many  legs  all  steeped 
in  grief,  Mr.  Bucket  sits  concealed  in  one  of 
the  inconsolable  carriages,  and  at  his  ease  sur- 
veys the  crowd  through  the  lattice  blinds. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  53. 

FUNERAL— An  unostentatious. 

The  simple  arrangements  were  of  her  own 
making,  and  were  stated  to  Riah  thus : 

“ I mean  to  go  alone,  godmother,  in  my  usual 
carriage,  and  you’ll  be  so  kind  as  keep  house 
while  I am  gone.  It’s  not  far  off.  And  when 
I return,  we’ll  have  a cup  of  tea,  and  a chat  over 
future  arrangements.  It’s  a very  plain  last 
house  that  I have  been  able  to  give  my  poor 
unfortunate  boy  ; but  he’ll  accept  the  will  for 
the  deed,  if  he  knows  anything  about  it  ; and 
if  he  doesn’t  know  anything  about  it,”  with  a 
sob,  and  wiping  her  eyes,  “ why,  it  won’t  mat- 
ter to  him.  I see  the  service  in  the  Prayer- 
book  says,  that  we  brought  nothing  into  this 
world,  and  it  is  certain  we  can  take  nothing  out. 
It  comforts  me  for  not  being  able  to  hire  a lot 
of  stupid  undertaker’s  things  for  my  poor  child, 
and  seeming  as  if  I was  trying  to  smuggle  ’em 
out  of  this  world  with  him,  when  of  course  I 
must  break  down  in  the  attempt,  and  bring  ’em 
all  back  again.  As  it  is,  there’ll  be  nothing  to 
bring  back  but  me,  and  that’s  quite  consistent, 
for  / shan’t  be  brought  back  some  day  ! ” 

After  that  previous  carrying  of  him  in  the 
streets,  the  wretched  old  fellow  seemed  to  be 
twice  buried.  He  was  taken  on  the  shoulders 
of  half  a dozen  blossom-faced  men,  who  shuf- 
fled with  him  to  the  churchyard,  and  who  were 
preceded  by  another  blossom-faced  man,  affect- 
ing a stately  stalk,  as  if  he  were  a Policeman  of 
the  D(eath)  Division,  and  ceremoniously  pre- 
tending not  to  know  his  intimate  acquaintances, 
as  he  led  the  pageant.  Yet,  the  spectacle  of  only 
one  little  mourner  hobbling  after,  caused  many 
people  to  turn  their  heads  with  a look  of  interest. 

At  last  the  troublesome  deceased  was  got  into 
the  ground,  to  be  buried  no  more,  and  the  stately 
stalker  stalked  back  before  the  solitai-y  dress- 
maker, as  if  she  were  bound  in  honor  to  have 
no  notion  of  the  way  home.  Those  furies,  the 
conventionalities,  being  thus  appeased,  he  left 
her. — Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  IV.,  Chap.  9. 


FUNERAL — Of  Mrs.  Joe  Gargrery. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  a grave  had  opened 
in  my  road  of  life,  and  the  gap  it  made  in  the 
smooth  ground  was  wonderful.  The  figure  of 
my  sister,  in  her  chair  by  the  kitchen  fire, 
haunted  me  night  and  day.  That  the  place 
could  possibly  be,  without  her,  was  something 
my  mind  seemed  unable  to  compass  ; and  where- 
as she  had  seldom  or  never  been  in  my  thoughts 
of  late,  I had  now  the  strangest  ideas  that  she 
was  coming  toward  me  in  the  street,  or  that  she 
would  presently  knock  at  the  door.  In  my 
rooms  too,  with  which  she  had  never  been  at  all 
associated,  there  was  at  once  the  blankness  of 
death  and  a perpetual  suggestion  of  the  sound 
of  her  voice  or  the  turn  of  her  face  or  figure,  as 
if  she  were  still  alive  and  had  been  often  there. 

Whatever  my  fortunes  might  have  been,  I 
could  scarcely  have  recalled  my  sister  with  much 
tenderness.  But  I suppose  there  is  a shock  of 
regret  which  may  exist  without  much  tenderness. 

^ "H"  ijs 

It  was  fine  summer  weather  again,  and,  as  I 
walked  along,  the  times  when  I was  a little  help- 
less creature,  and  my  sister  did  not  spare  me, 
vividly  returned.  But  they  returned  with  a gen- 
tle tone  upon  them  that  softened  even  the  edge 
of  Tickler.  For  now  the  very  breath  of  the 
beans  and  clover  whispered  to  my  heart  that  the 
day  must  come  when  it  would  be  well  for  my 
memory  that  others,  walking  in  the  sunshine, 
should  be  softened  as  they  thought  of  me. 

At  last  I came  within  sight  of  the  house,  and 
saw  that  Trabb  and  Co.  had  put  in  a funereal 
execution  and  taken  possession.  Two  dismally 
absurd  persons,  each  ostentatiously  exhibiting  a 
crutch  done  up  in  a black  bandage — as  if  that 
instrument  could  possibly  communicate  any 
comfort  to  anybody — were  posted  at  the  front 
door  ; and  in  one  of  them  I recognised  a post- 
boy discharged  from  the  Boar  for  turning  a young 
couple  into  a saw-pit  on  their  bridal  morning,  in 
consequence  of  intoxication  rendering  it  neces- 
sary for  him  to  ride  his  horse  clasped  round  the 
neck  with  both  arms. 

Another  sable  warder  (a  carpenter,  who  had 
once  eaten  two  geese  for  a wager)  opened  the 
door,  and  showed  me  into  the  best  parlor.  Here, 
Mr.  Trabb  had  taken  unto  himself  the  best 
table,  and  had  got  all  the  leaves  up,  and  was 
holding  a kind  of  black  Bazaar,  with  the  aid  of 
a quantity  of  black  pins.  At  the  moment  of  my 
arrival,  he  had  just  finished  putting  somebody’s 
hat  into  black  long-clothes,  like  an  African  baby  ; 
so  he  held  out  his  hand  for  mine.  But  I,  misled 
by  the  action,  and  confused  by  the  occasion, 
shook  hands  with  him  with  every  testimony  of 
warm  affection. 

* tj:  ^ % 

Poor,  dear  Joe,  entangled  in  a little  black 
cloak  tied  in  a large  bow  under  his  chin,  was 
seated  apart  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room  ; 
where,  as  chief  mourner,  he  had  evidently  been 
stationed  by  Trabb.  When  I bent  down  and 
said  to  him,  “ Dear  Joe,  how  are  you  ? ” he  said, 
“ Pip,  old  chap,  you  knowed  her  when  she  were 
a fine  figure  of  a — ” and  clasped  my  hand  and 
said  no  muie. 

% ■$£  # *H* 

Standing  at  this  table,  I became  conscious  of 
the  servile  Pumblechook,  in  a black  cloak  and 
several  yards  of  hat- band,  who  was  alternately 


FUNERAL 


204 


FURNITURE 


stuffing  himself,  and  making  obsequious  move- 
ments to  catch  my  attention.  The  moment  he 
succeeded  he  came  over  to  me  (breathing  sherry 
and  crumbs),  and  said  in  a subdued  voice,  “ May 
I,  dear  sir?”  and  did.  I then  descried  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hubble  ; the  last-named  in  a decent  speech- 
less paroxysm  in  a corner.  We  were  all  going 
to  “ follow,”  and  were  all  in  course  of  being  tied 
up  separately  (byTrabb)  into  ridiculous  bundles. 

“Which  I meantersay,  Pip,”  Joe  whispered 
me,  as  we  were  being  what  Mr.  Trabb  called 
“ formed  ” in  the  parlor,  two  and  two — and  it 
was  dreadfully  like  a preparation  for  some  grim 
kind  of  dance  ; “which  I meantersay,  sir,  as  I 
would  in  preference  have  carried  her  to  the 
church  myself,  along  with  three  or  four  friendly 
ones  wot  come  to  it  with  willing  harts  and  arms, 
but  it  were  considered  wot  the  neighbors  would 
look  down  on  such  and  would  be  of  opinions  as 
it  were  wanting  in  respect.” 

“Pocket-handkerchiefs  out,  all'”  cried  Mr. 
Trabb  at  this  point,  in  a depressed  business-like 
voice.  “ Pocket-handkerchiefs  out ! We  are 
ready  ! ” 

So  we  all  put  our  pocket-handkerchiefs  to  our 
faces,  as  if  our  noses  were  bleeding,  and  filed 
out  two  and  two  ; Joe  and  I.;  Biddy  and  Pumble- 
chook  ; Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hubble.  The  remains  of 
my  poor  sister  had  been  brought  round  by  the 
kitchen  door,  and,  it  being  a point  of  undertak- 
ing ceremony  that  the  six  bearers  must  be  stifled 
and  blinded  under  a horrible  black  velvet  hous- 
ing with  a white  border,  the  whole  looked  like 
a blind  monster  with  twelve  human  legs,  shuf- 
fling and  blundering  along,  under  the  guidance  ol 
tw'o  keepers — the  postboy  and  his  comrade. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  35. 

FUNERAL-Of  Little  Nell. 

[.Mr.  R.  H.  Horne  pointed  out  twenty-five 
years  ago,  that  a great  portion  of  the  scenes  de- 
scribing the  death  of  Little  Nell  in  the  “ Old 
Curiosity  Shop,”  wall  be  found  to  be  written — 
whether  by  design  or  harmonious  accident,  of 
which  the  author  was  not  even  subsequently 
fully  conscious — in  blank  verse,  of  irregular 
metre  and  rhythms,  which  Southey,  Shelley,  and 
some  other  poets  have  occasionally  adopted. 
The  following  passage,  properly  divided  into 
lines,  will  stand  thus  :] 

nelly’s  funeral. 

“And  now  the  be!  1 — the  hell 

She  had  so  often  heard  by  night  and  day, 

And  listen'd  to  with  solemn  pleasure, 

Almost  as  a living  voice — 

Rung  its  remorseless  toll  for  her, 

So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good. 

“ Decrepit  age.  and  vigorous  life. 

And  blooming  youth,  and  helpless  infancy, 

Pour’o  forth— on  crutches,  in  the  pride  of  strength 
And  health,  in  the  full  blush 
Of  promise,  the  mere  dawn  of  life — 

To  gather  round  her  tomb,  old  men  were  there, 
Whose  eyes  wore  dim 
And  senses  failing  - 

Grai'dmnes.  who  might  have  died  ten  years  ago, 

And  still  been  old-  the  deaf,  the  blind',  the  lame, 
Tlie  palsied. 

The  living  (lend  in  many  shapes  and  forma, 

To  Hi  t:  the  closing  of  that  early  grave. 

What  \v;ih  tin-  death  it  would  abut  in 
To  lint  which  still 
Could  crawl  and  creep  above  it? 

“Along  the  cow-mid  path  they  boro  her  now; 

Pure  us  the  new  fall’ll  snow 


That  cover’d  it;  whose  day  on  earth 
Had  been  as  fleeting. 

Under  that  porch,  where  she  hud  sat  when  Heaven 
In  mercy  brought,  her  to  that  peaceful  spot, 

She  pass’d  again,  and  the  old  church 
Received  her  in  its  quiet  shade.” 

Old  Cutiosity  Shop , Chap.  72. 

FURNITURE— Old-fashioned. 

It  came  on  darker  and  darker.  The  old-fash- 
ioned furniture  of  the  chamber,  which  was  a 
kind  of  hospital  for  all  the  invalided  movables 
in  the  house,  grew  indistinct  and  shadowy  in  its 
many  shapes  ; chairs  and  tables,  which  by  day 
were  as  honest  cripples  as  need  be,  assumed  a 
doubtful  and  mysterious  character  ; and  one  old 
leprous  screen  of  faded  India  leather  and  gold 
binding,  which  had  kept  out  many  a cold  breath 
of  air  in  days  of  yore  and  shut  in  many  a jolly 
face,  frowned  on  him  with  a spectral  aspect,  and 
stood  at  full  height  in  its  allotted  corner,  like 
some  gaunt  ghost  who  waited  to  be  questioned. 
A portrait  opposite  the  window — a queer,  old 
gray-eyed  general,  in  an  oval  frame — seemed  to 
wink  and  doze  as  the  light  decayed,  and  at 
length,  when  the  last  faint  glimmering  speck  of 
day  went  out,  to  shut  its  eyes  in  good  earnest, 
and  fall  sound  asleep.  There  was  such  a hush 
and  mystery  about  everything,  that  Joe  could 
not  help  following  its  example  ; and  so  went  off 
into  a slumber  likewise,  and  dreamed  of  Dolly, 
till  the  clock  of  Chigwell  church  struck  two. 

Barnaby  Rndge,  Chap.  31. 

FURNITURE-Covered. 

Within  a few  hours  the  cottage  furniture  be- 
gan to  be  wrapped  up  for  preservation  in  the 
family  absence — or,  as  Mr.  Meagles  expressed 
it,  the  house  began  to  put  its  hair  in  papers. 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  II.,  Chap.  9. 

FURNITURE— The  home  of  a usurer. 

In  an  old  house,  dismal,  dark,  and  dusty,  which 
seemed  to  have  withered,  like  himself,  and  to 
have  grown  yellow  and  shrivelled  in  hoarding 
him  from  the  light  of  day,  as  he  had  in  hoarding 
his  money,  lived  Arthur  Gride.  Meagre  old 
chairs  and  tables,  of  spare  and  bony  make,  and 
hard  and  cold  as  misers’  hearts,  were  ranged  in 
grim  array  against  the  gloomy  walls  ; attenuated 
presses,  grown  lank  and  lantern-jawed  in  guard- 
ing the  treasures  they  inclosed,  and  tottering,  as 
though  from  constant  fear  and  dread  of  thieves, 
shrunk  up  in  dark  corners,  whence  they  cast  no 
shadows  on  the  ground,  and  seemed  to  hide  and 
cower  from  observation.  A tall  grim  clock  upon 
the  stairs,  with  long  lean  hands  and  famished 
face,  ticked  in  cautious  whispers  ; and  when  it 
struck  the  time,  in  thin  and  piping  sounds  like 
an  old  man’s  voice,  it  rattled,  as  if  it  were 
pinched  with  hunger. 

No  fireside  couch  was  there,  to  invite  repose 
and  comfort.  Elbow-chairs  there  were,  but 
they  looked  uneasy  in  their  minds,  cocked  their 
arms  suspiciously  and  timidly,  and  kept  on  their 
guard.  Others  were  fantastically  grim  and 
gaunt,  as  having  drawn  themselves  up  to  their 
utmost  height,  and  put  on  their  fiercest  looks  to 
stare  all  comers  out  of  countenance.  Others, 
again,  knocked  up  against  their  neighbors,  or 
leaned  for  support  against  the  wall — somewhat 
ostentatiously,  as  if  to  call  all  men  to  witness 
that  they  were  not  worth  the  taking.  The  dark, 
squat e,  lumbering  bedsteads  seemed  built  for 


FUTURE 


205 


GARDENS 


restless  dreams.  The  musty  hangings  seemed 
to  creep  in  scanty  folds  together,  whispering 
among  themselves,  when  rustled  by  the  wind, 
their  trembling  knowledge  of  the  tempting 
wares  that  lurked  within  the  dark  and  tight- 
locked  closets. — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  51. 

FUTURE— The  river  a type  of. 

He  dipped  his  hand  in  the  water  over  the 
boat’s  gunwale,  and  said,  smiling  with  that  soft- 
ened air  upon  him  which  was  not.  new  to  me  : 

“ Ay,  I suppose  I think  so,  dear  boy.  We’d 
be  puzzled  to  be  more  quiet  and  easy-going  than 
we  are  at  present.  But — it’s  a flowing  so  soft 
and  pleasant  through  the  water,  p’raps,  as  makes 
me  think  it — I was  a thinking  through  my  smoke 
just  then,  that  we  can  no  more  see  the  bottom 
of  the  next  few  hours,  than  we  can  see  to  the 
bottom  of  this  river,  what  I catches  hold  of. 
Nor  yet  we  can’t  no  more  hold  their  tide  than 
I can  hold  this.  And  it’s  run  through  my  fin- 
gers and  gone,  you  see  ! ” holding  up  his  drip- 
ping hand. 

“ But  for  your  face,  I should  think  you  were 
a little  despondent,”  said  I. 

“Not  a bit  on  it,  dear  boy  ! It  comes  of  flow- 
ing on  so  quiet,  and  of  that  there,  rippling  at  the 
boat’s  head  making  a sort  of  a Sunday  tune. 
Maybe  I’m  growing  a trifle  old,  besides.” 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  54. 


Gr 

GAYETY-Forced. 

When  the  morning — the  morning — came,  and 
we  met  at  breakfast,  it  was  curious  to  see  how 
eager  we  all  were  to  prevent  a moment’s  pause 
in  the  conversation,  and  how  astoundingly  gay 
everybody  was,  the  forced  spirits  of  each  mem- 
ber of  the  little  party  having  as  much  likeness 
to  his  natural  mirth  as  hot-house  peas  at  five 
guineas  the  quart  resemble  in  flavor  the  growth 
of  the  dews  and  air  and  rain  of  Heaven. 

American  Notes , Chap.  1. 

GALLANTRY-Pecksniffian. 

They  were  now  so  near  it  that  he  stopped, 
and  holding  up  her  little  finger,  said  in  playful 
accents,  as  a parting  fancy  : 

“ Shall  I bite  it  ? ” 

Receiving  1I0  reply  he  kissed  it  instead  ; and 
then,  stooping  down,  inclined  his  flabby  face  to 
hers  (he  had  a flabby  face,  although  he  was  a 
good  man),  and  with  a blessing,  which  from 
such  a source  was  quite  enough  to  set  her  up  in 
life,  and  prosper  her  from  that  time  forth,  per- 
mitted her  to  leave  him. 

Gallantry  in  its  true  sense  is  supposed  to 
ennoble  and  dignify  a man  ; and  love  has  shed 
refinements  on  innumerable  Cy moils.  But  Mr. 
Pecksniff — perhaps  because  to  one  of  his  exalted 
nature  these  were  mere  grossnesses — certainly 
did  not  appear  to  any  unusual  advantage,  now 
that  he  was  left  alone.  On  the  contrary,  he 
seemed  to  be  shrunk  and  reduced  ; to  be  trying 
to  hide  himself  within  himself ; and  to  be 
wretched  at  not  having  the  power  to  do  it.  His 


shoes  looked  too  large  ; his  sleeve  looked  too 
long ; his  hair  looked  too  limp  ; his  features 
looked  too  mean  ; his  exposed  throat  looked  as 
if  a halter  would  have  done  it  good.  For  a 
minute  or  two,  in  fact,  he  was  hot,  and  pale, 
and  mean,  and  shy,  and  slinking,  and  conse- 
quently not  at  all  Pecksniffian.  But  after  that, 
he  recovered  himself,  and  went  home  with  as 
beneficent  an  air  as  if  he  had  been  the  High 
Priest  of  the  summer  weather. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  30. 

GAMBLERS-The  frenzied. 

The  excitement  of  play,  hot  rooms,  and  glar- 
ing lights,  was  not  calculated  to  allay  the  fever 
of  the  time.  In  that  giddy  whirl  of  noise  and 
confusion,  the  men  were  delirious.  Who  thought 
of  money,  ruin,  or  the  morrow,  in  the'  savage 
intoxication  of  the  moment?  More  wine  was 
called  for,  glass  after  glass  was  drained,  their 
parched  and  scalding  mouths  were  cracked  with 
thirst.  Down  poured  the  wine  like  oil  on  blaz- 
ing fire.  Amd  still  the  riot  went  on.  The  de- 
bauchery gained  its  height  ; glasses  were  dashed 
upon  the  floor  by  hands  that  could  not  carry 
them  to  lips  ; oaths  were  shouted  out  by  lips 
which  could  scarcely  form  the  words  to  vent 
them  in  ; drunken  losers  cursed  and  roared  ; 
some  mounted  on  the  tables,  waving  bottles 
above  their  heads,  and  bidding  defiance  to  the 
rest ; some  danced,  some  sang,  some  tore  the 
cards  and  raved.  Tumult  and  frenzy  reigned 
supreme  ; when  a noise  arose  that  drowned  all 
others,  and  two  men,  seizing  each  other  by  the 
throat,  struggled  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  50. 

GARDEN. 

A little  slip  of  front  garden  abutting  on  the 
thirsty  high  road,  where  a few  of  the  dustiest  of 
leaves  hung  their  dismal  heads  and  led  a life  of 
choking. — Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  25. 

GARDEN- An  old. 

It  was  quite  a wilderness,  and  there  were  old 
melon-frames  and  cucumber-frames  in  it,  which 
seemed  in  their  decline  to  have  produced  a 
spontaneous  growth  of  weak  attempts  at  pieces 
of  old  hats  and  boots,  with  now  and  then  a 
weedy  offshoot  into  the  likeness  of  a battered 
saucepan. — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  II. 

GARDENS— In  London. 

Some  London  houses  have  a melancholy  little 
plot  of  ground  behind  them — usually  fenced  in 
by  four  high  whitewashed  walls,  and  frowned 
upon  by  stacks  of  chimneys — in  which  there 
withers  on,  from  year  to  year,  a crippled  tree, 
that  makes  a show  of  putting  forth  a few  leaves 
late  in  autumn  when  other  trees  shed  theirs, 
and,  drooping  in  the  effort,  lingers  on,  all 
crackled  and  smoke-dried,  till  the  following 
season,  when  it  repeats  the  same  process  ; and 
perhaps,  if  the  weather  be  particularly  genial, 
even  tempts  some  rheumatic  sparrow  to  chirrup 
in  its  branches.  People  sometimes  call  these 
dark  yards  “ gardens  it  is  not  supposed  that 
they  were  ever  planted,  but  rather  that  they  are 
pieces  of  unreclaimed  land,  with  the  withered 
vegetation  of  the  original  brick-field.  No  man 
thinks  of  walking  in  this  desolate  place,  or  of 
turning  it  to  any  account.  A few  hampers,  half 
a- dozen  broken  bottles,  and  such-like  rubbish, 


GENIUS 


200 


GENOA 


may  be  thrown  there,  when  the  tenant  first 
moves  in,  but  nothing  more  ; and  there  they 
remain  until  he  goes  away  again  : the  damp 
straw  taking  just  as  long  to  moulder  as  it  thinks 
proper:  and  mingling  with  the  scanty  box,  and 
stunted  everbrowns,  and  broken  flower-pots, 
that  are  scattered  mournfully  about — a prey  to 
“ blacks”  and  dirt. — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  2. 

GENIUS— In  debt. 

“ Then  I tell  you  what  it  is,  gents  both. 
There  is  at  this  present  moment  in  this  very 
place,  a perfect  constellation  of  talent  and  ge- 
nius, who  is  involved,  through  what  I cannot  but 
designate  as  the  culpable  negligence  of  my  friend 
Pecksniff,  in  a situation  as  tremendous,  perhaps, 
as  the  social  intercourse  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury will  readily  admit  of.  There  is  actually  at 
this  instant,  at  the  Blue  Dragon  in  this  village — 
an  ale-house,  observe  : a common,  paltry,  low- 
minded,  clodhopping,  pipe  smoking  ale-house — 
an  individual,  of  whom  it  may  be  said,  in  the 
language  of  the  Poet,  that  nobody  but  himself 
can  in  any  way  come  up  to  him  ; who  is  detained 
there  for  his  bill.  Ha!  ha!  For  his  bill.  I 
repeat  it.  For  his  bill.  Now,”  said  Mr.  Tigg, 
“we  have  heard  of  Fox’s  Book  of  Martyrs,  I 
believe,  and  we  have  heard  of  the  Court  of.  Re- 
quests, and  the  Star  Chamber  ; but  I fear  the 
contradiction  of  no  man  alive  or  dead,  when  I 
assert  that  my  friend  Chevy  Slyme  being  held 
in  pawn  for  a bill,  beats  any  amount  of  cock- 
fighting  with  which  I am  acquainted.” 

* * * * * 

“ Don’t  mistake  me,  gents  both,”  he  said, 
stretching  forth  his  right  hand.  “ If  it  had  been 
for  anything  but  a bill,  I could  have  borne  it, 
and  could  still  have  looked  upon  mankind  with 
some  feeling  of  inspect : but  when  such  a man 
as  my  friend  Slyme  is  detained  for  a score — a 
thing  in  itself  essentially  mean  ; a low  perform- 
ance on  a slate,  or  possibly  chalked  upon  the 
back  of  a door— I do  feel  that  there  is  a screw 
of  such  magnitude  loose  somewhere,  that  the 
whole  framework  of  society  is  shaken,  and  the 
very  first  principles  of  things  can  no  longer  be 
trusted.  In  short,  gents  both,”  said  Mr.  Tigg, 
with  a passionate  flourish  of  his  hands  and  head, 
“ when  a man  like  Slyme  is  detained  for  such  a 
thing  as  a bill,  I reject  the  superstitions  of  ages, 
and  believe  nothing.  I don’t  even  believe  that 
I don't  believe,  curse  me  if  I do  ! ” 

;jc 

“ I swear,”  cried  Mr.  Slyme,  giving  the  table 
an  imbecile  blow  with  his  fist,  and  then  feebly 
leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  while  some 
drunken  drops  oozed  from  his  eyes,  “ that  I am 
the  wietchedest  creature  on  record.  Society  is 
in  a conspiracy  against  me,  I’m  the  most  lit- 
erary man  alive.  I’m  full  of  scholarship  ; I’m 
full  of  genius  ; I’m  full  of  information  ; I’m  full 
of  novel  views  on  every  subject ; yet  look  at  my 
condition  ! I’m  at  this  moment  obliged  to  two 
strangers  for  a tavern  bill ! ” 

Martin  Chnzzlewit , Chap.  7. 

GENIUS  -The  weaknesses  of. 

All  men  whom  mighty  genius  has  raised,  to  a 
proud  eminence  in  the  world,  have  usually  some 
little  weakness  which  appears  the  more  con- 
spicuous from  the  contrast  it  presents  to  their 
general  character.  If  Mr.  Pott  had  a weakness, 
\t  was,  perhaps,  that  he  was  rather  t< 


sive  to  the  somewhat  contemptuous  control  and 
sway  of  his  wife. — Pickwick , Chap.  13. 

GENOA. 

The  endless  details  of  these  rich  Palace^  : the 
walls  of  some  of  them,  within,  alive  with  master- 
pieces by  Vandyke ! The  great,  heavy,  stone 
balconies,  one  above  another,  and  tier  over  tier: 
w ith  here  and  there  one  larger  than  the  rest, 
towering  high  up — a huge  marble  platform — the 
doorless  vestibules,  massively  barred  lower  win- 
dow's, immense  public  staircases,  thick  marble 
pillars,  strong  dungeon-like  arches,  and  dreary, 
dreaming,  echoing,  vaulted  chambers  ; among 
which  the  eye  wanders  again,  and  again,  and 
again,  as  every  palace  is  succeeded  by  another — 
the  terrace  gardens  between  house  and  house, 
with  green  arches  of  the  vine,  and  groves  of 
orange-trees,  and  blushing  oleander  in  full  bloom, 
twenty,  thirty,  forty  feet  above  the  street — the 
painted  halls,  mouldering,  and  blotting,  and  rot- 
ting in  the  damp  corners,  and  still  shining  out 
in  beautiful  colors  and  voluptuous  designs,  where 
the  walls  are  dry — the  faded  figures  on  the  out- 
sides of  the  houses,  holding  wreaths  and  crowns, 
and  flying  upward,  and  downward,  and  standing 
in  niches,  and  here  and  there  looking  fainterand 
more  feeble  than  elsewhere,  by  contrasts  with 
some  fresh  little  Cupids,  who,  on  a more  recently 
decorated  portion  of  the  front,  are  stretching  out 
what  seems  to  be  the  semblance  of  a blanket,  but 
is,  indeed,  a sun-dial — the  steep,  steep,  up-hill 
streets  of  small  palaces  (but  very  large  palaces  for 
all  that),  with  marble  terraces  looking  down  into 
close  by-ways — the  magnificent  and  innumerable 
Churches  ; and  the  rapid  passage  from  a street 
of  stately  edifices  into  a maze  of  the  vilest  squa- 
lor, steaming  with  unwholesome  stenches,  and 
swarming  with  half-naked  children  and  whole 
worlds  of  dirty  people — make  up,  altogether,  such 
a scene  of  wonder  ; so  lively,  and  yet  so  dead  ; 
so  noisy,  and  yet  so  quiet  ; so  obtrusive,  and  yet 
so  shy  and  lowering  ; so  wide  awake,  and  yet  so 
fast  asleep  ; that  it  is  a sort  of  intoxication  to  a 
stranger  to  walk  on,  and  on,  and  on,  and  look 
about  him.  A bewildering  phantasmagoria,  with 
all  the  inconsistency  of  a dream,  and  all  the  pain 
and  all  the  pleasure  of  an  extravagant  reality  ! 

It  is  a place  that  “ grows  upon  you”  every  day. 
There  seems  to  be  always  something  to  find  out 
in  it.  There  are  the  most  extraordinary  alleys 
and  by-ways  to  walk  about  in.  You  can  lose 
your  way  (what  a comfort  that  is,  when  you  are 
idle  !)  twenty  times  a day,  if  you  like  ; and  turn 
up  again,  under  the  most  unexpected  and  sur- 
prising difficulties.  It  abounds  in  the  strangest 
contrasts;  things  that  are  picturesque,  ugly, 
mean,  magnificent,  delightful,  and  offensive, 
break  upon  the  view  at  every  turn. 

In  the  streets  of  shops,  the  houses  are  much 
smaller,  but  of  great  size  notwithstanding,  and 
extremely  high.  They  are  very  dirty : quite  un- 
drained, if  my  nose  be  at  all  reliable  ; and  emit 
a peculiar  fragrance,  like  the  smell  of  very  bad 
cheese,  kept  in  very  hot  blankets.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  height  of  the  houses,  there  would  seem 
to  have  been  a lack  of  room  in  the  city,  for  new 
houses  are  thrust  in  everywhere.  Wherever  it 
has  been  possible  to  cram 


tumble-down  tene- 
ment into  a crack  or  corner,  in  it  has  gone,  if 
, there  be  a nook  or  angle  in  the  wall  of  a church, 


GENTILITY 


207 


GENTLEMAN 


or  a crevice  in  any  other  dead  wall,  of  any  sort, 
there  you  are  sure  to  find  some  kind  of  habita- 
tion— looking  as  if  it  had  grown  there,  like  a 
fungus.  Against  the  Government  house,  against 
the  old  Senate  house,  round  about  any  large 
building,  little  shops  stick  close,  like  parasite 
vermin  to  the  great  carcass.  And  for  all  this, 
look  where  you  may — up  steps,  down  steps,  any- 
where, everywhere , there  are  irregular  houses, 
receding,  starting  forward,  tumbling  down,  lean- 
ing against  their  neighbors,  crippling  themselves 
or  their  friends  by  some  means  or  other,  until 
one,  more  irregular  than  the  i*est,- chokes  up  the 
way,  and  you  can’t  see  any  further. 

Pictures  from  Italy. 

GENTILITY— The  distinctions  of. 

“ I don’t  know  why  it  should  be  a crack 
thing  to  be  a brewer  ; but  it  is  indisputable  that 
while  you  cannot  possibly  be  genteel  and  bake, 
you  may  be  as  genteel  as  never  was  and  brew. 
You  see  it  every  day.” 

“Yet  a gentleman  may  not  keep  a public- 
house  ; may  he  ? ” said  I. 

“ Not  on  any  account,”  returned  Herbert  ; 
“ but  a public-house  may  keep  a gentleman.” 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  22. 

GENTILITY— Shabby. 

There  are  certain  descriptions  of  people  who, 
oddly  enough,  appear  to  appertain  exclusively 
to  the  metropolis.  You  meet  them,  every  day, 
in  the  streets  of  London,  but  no  one  ever  en- 
counters them  elsewhere  ; they  seem  indigenous 
to  the  soil,  and  to  belong  as  exclusively  to  Lon- 
don as  its  own  smoke,  or  the  dingy  bricks  and 
mortar.  We  could  illustrate  the  remark  by  a 
variety  of  examples,  but,  in  our  present  sketch, 
we  will  only  advert  to  one  class  as  a specimen — 
that  class  which  is  so  aptly  and  expressively 
designated  as  “ shabby-genteel.” 

Now,  shabby  people,  God  knows,  may  be 
found  anywhere,  and  genteel  people  are  not 
articles  of  greater  scarcity  out  of  London  than 
in  it  ; but  this  compound  of  the  two — this  shab- 
by-gentility — is  as  purely  local  as  the  statue 
at  Charing  Cross,  or  the  pump  at  Aldgate.  It  is 
worthy  of  remark,  too,  that  only  men  are  shab- 
by-genteel ; a woman  is  always  either  dirty  and 
slovenly  in  the  extreme,  or  neat  and  respectable, 
however  poverty-stricken  in  appearance.  A 
very  poor  man  “ who  has  seen  better  days,”  as 
the  phrase  goes,  is  a strange  compound  of  dirty 
slovenliness  and  wretched  attempts  at  faded 
smartness. 

We  will  endeavor  to  explain  our  conception 
of  the  term  which  forms  the  title  of  this  paper. 
If  you  meet  a man,  lounging  up  Drury  Lane,  or 
leaning  with  his  back  against  a post  in  Long 
Acre,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  a pair  of 
drab  trousers  plentifully  besprinkled  with 
grease  spots  ; the  trousers  made  very  full  over 
the  boots,  and  ornamented  with  two  cords  down 
the  outside  of  each  leg — wearing,  also,  what  has 
been  a brown  coat  with  bright  buttons,  and  a 
hat  very  much  pinched  up  at  the  sides,  cocked 
over  his  right  eye — don’t  pity  him.  He  is  not 
shabby-genteel.  The  “harmonic  meetings”  at 
some  fourth-rate  public-house,  or  the  purlieus 
of  a private  theatre,  are  his  chosen  haunts  ; he 
entertains  a rooted  antipathy  to  any  kind  of 
work,  and  is  on  familiar  terms  with  several 
pantomime  men  at  the  large  houses.  But,  if 


you  see  hurrying  along  a by-street,  keeping  as 
close  as  he  can  to  the  area  railings,  a man  of 
about  forty  or  fifty,  clad  in  an  old  rusty  suit  of 
threadbare  black  cloth,  which  shines  with  con- 
stant wear  as  if  it  had  been  bees-waxed — the 
trousers  tightly  strapped  down,  partly  for  the 
look  of  the  thing  and  partly  to  keep  his  old 
shoes  from  slipping  off  at  the  heels — if  you 
observe,  too,  that  his  yellowish-white  neck- 
erchief is  carefully  pinned  up,  to  conceal  the 
tattered  garment  underneath,  and  that  his 
hands  are  encased  in  the  remains  of  an  old 
pair  of  beaver  gloves,  you  may  set  him  down  as 
a shabby-genteel  man.  A glance  at  that  de- 
pressed face,  and  timorous  air  of  conscious  pov- 
erty, will  make  your  heart  ache — always  sup- 
posing that  you  are  neither  a philosopher  nor  a 
political  economist. 

Characters  {Sketches),  Chap.  io. 

GENTLEMAN— “ A wery  good  imitation  o’ 

one  ” (Sam  Weller). 

“ Person’s  a waitin’,”  said  Sam,  epigrammati- 
cally. 

“ Does  the  person  want  me,  Sam?”  inquired 
Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ He  wants  you  particklar  ; and  no  one  else’ll 
do,  as  the  Devil’s  private  secretary  said  ven  he 
fetched  away  Doctor  Faustus,”  replied  Mr. 
Weller. 

“ He.  Is  it  a gentleman  ? ” said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. 

“ A wery  good  imitation  o’  one,  if  it  ain’t,” 
replied  Mr.  Weller. — Pickwick , Chap.  15. 

GENTLEMAN— An  English  (Sir  Leicester 

Dedlock). 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  is  only  a baronet,  but 
there  is  no  mightier  baronet  than  he.  His  fam- 
ily is  as  old  as  the  hills,  and  infinitely  more  re- 
spectable. He  has  a general  opinion  that  the 
world  might  get  on  without  hills,  but  would  be 
done  up  without  Dedlocks.  He  would,  on  the 
whole,  admit  Nature  to  be  a good  idea  (a  little 
low,  perhaps,  when  not  enclosed  with  a park- 
fence),  but  an  idea  dependent  for  its  execution 
on  your  great  county  families.  He  is  a gentle- 
man of  strict  conscience,  disdainful  of  all  little- 
ness and  meanness,  and  ready,  on  the  shortest 
notice,  to  die  any  death  you  may  please  to 
mention,  rather  than  give  occasion  for  the  least 
impeachment  of  his  integrity.  Pie  is  an  honor- 
able, obstinate,  truthful,  high-spirited,  intensely- 
prejudiced,  perfectly  unreasonable  man. 

Sir  Leicester  is  twenty  years,  full  measure, 
older  than  my  Lady.  He  will  never  see  sixty- 
five  again,  nor  perhaps  sixty-six,  nor  yet  sixty- 
seven.  He  has  a twist  of  the  gout  now  and 
then,  and  walks  a little  stiffly.  He  is  of  a 
worthy  presence,  with  his  light  gray  hair  and 
whiskers,  his  fine  shirt-frill,  his  pure  white 
waistcoat,  and  his  blue  coat  with  bright  but- 
tons, always  buttoned.  He  is  ceremonious, 
stately,  most  polite  on  every  occasion  to  my 
Lady,  and  holds  her  personal  attractions  in  the 
highest  estimation.  His  gallantry  to  my  Lady, 
which  has  never  changed  since  he  courted  her, 
is  the  one  little  touch  of  romantic  fancy  in  him. 

Indeed,  he  married  her  for  love.  A whisper 
still  goes  about,  that  she  had  not  even  family  ; 
howbeit,  Sir  Leicester  had  so  much  family  that 
perhaps  he  had  enough,  and  could  dispense 
with  any  more.  But  she  had  beauty,  pride,  am- 


GENTLEMAN 


208 


GHOST 


bition,  insolent  resolve,  and  sense  enough  to 
portion  out  a legion  of  fine  ladies.  Wealth  and 
station,  added  to  these,  soon  floated  her  up- 
ward ; and  for  years,  now,  my  Lady  Dedlock 
has  been  at  the  centre  of  the  fashionable  in- 
telligence, and  at  the  top  of  the  fashionable 
tree. — Bleak  House , Chap.  2. 

GENTLEMAN-A  French. 

Monsieur  Mutuel — a gentleman  in  every 
thread  of  his  cloudy  linen,  under  whose  wrinkled 
hand  every  grain  in  the  quarter  of  an  ounce  of 
poor  snuff  in  his  poor  little  tin  box  became  a 
gentleman’s  property — Monsieur  Mutuel  passed 
on,  with  his  cap  in  his  hand. 

Somebody' s Luggage , Chap.  2. 

GENTLEMAN-The  grace  of  a true. 

He  went  into  Mr.  Barkis's  room  like  light 
and  air,  brightening  and  refreshing  it  as  if  he 
were  healthy  weather.  There  was  no  noise,  no 
effort,  no  consciousness,  in  anything  he  did  ; but 
in  everything  an  indescribable  lightness,  a seem- 
ing impossibility  of  doing  anything  else,  or  do- 
ing anything  better,  which  was  so  graceful,  so 
natural,  and  agreeable,  that  it  overcomes  me, 
even  now,  in  the  remembrance. 

David  Copper  field , Chap.  21. 

GENTLEMAN  -The  true. 

But  that  he  was  not  to  be,  without  ignorance 
or  prejudice,  mistaken  for  a gentleman,  my  fa- 
ther most  strongly  asseverates  ; because  it  is  a 
principle  of  his  that  no  man  who  was  not  a true 
gentleman  at  heart,  ever  was,  since  the  world 
began,  a true  gentleman  in  manner.  He  says, 
no  varnish  can  hide  the  grain  of  the  wood  ; and 
that  the  more  varnish  you  put  on,  the  more  the 
grain  will  express  itself. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  22. 

GHOSTS— And  the  senses. 

“You  don’t  believe  in  me,”  observed  the 
Ghost. 

“ I don’t,”  said  Scrooge. 

“ What  evidence  would  you  have  of  my  real- 
ity beyond  that  of  your  own  senses?” 

“ I don’t  know,”  said  Scrooge. 

“ Why  do  you  doubt  your  senses  ? ” 

“ Because,”  said  Scrooge,  “ a little  thing  affects 
them.  A slight  disorder  of  the  stomach  makes 
them  cheats.  You  may  be  an  undigested  bit  of 
beef,  a blot  of  mustard,  a crumb  of  cheese,  a 
fragment  of  an  underdone  potato.  There’s  more 
of  gravy  than  of  grave  about  you,’  whatever  you 
are ! ” 

Scrooge  was  not  much  in  the  habit  of  crack- 
ing jokes,  nor  did  he  feel  in  his  heart,  by  any 
means  waggish  then.  The  truth  is,  that  he  tried 
to  be  smart,  as  a means  of  distracting  his  own 
attention,  and  keeping  down  his  terror;  for  the 
spectre’s  voice  disturbed  the  very  marrow  in  his 
bones. — Christmas  Carol , Stave  1. 

GHOST  An  argument  with  a. 

“ ‘ This  apartment  is  mine : leave  it  to  me.’ 

* T f you  insist  upon  making  your  appearance 
here,’  said  the  tenant,  who  had  had  time  to  col- 
lect hi*-,  presence  of  mind  during  this  prosy  state- 
ment of  the  ghost’s,  ‘ I shall  give  up  possession 
with  the  greatest  pleasure  ; but  I should  like  to 
ask  you  one  question,  if  you  will  allow  me.’ 
‘Say  on,’  said  the  apparition,  sternly.  ‘Well,’ 


said  the  tenant,  ‘ I don’t  apply  the  observation 
personally  to  you,  because  it  is  equally  ap- 
plicable to  most  of  the  ghosts  I ever  heard  of ; 
but  it  does  appear  to  me  somewhat  inconsistent, 
that  when  you  have  an  opportunity  of  visiting 
the  fairest  spots  of  earth — for  I suppose  space  is 
nothing  to  you — you  should  always  return  ex- 
actly to  the  very  places  where  you  have  been 
most  miserable.’  ‘ Egad,  that’s  very  true  ; I 
never  thought  of  that  before,’  said  the  ghost. 
‘You  see,  sir,’  pursued  the  tenant,  * this  is  a very 
uncomfortable  room.  From  the  appearance  of 
that  press,  I should  be  disposed  to  say  that  it  is 
not  wholly  free  from  bugs  ; and  I really  think 
you  might  find  much  more  comfortable  quarters  ; 
to  say  nothing  of  the  climate  of  London,  which 
is  extremely  disagreeable.’  ‘ You  are  very  right, 
sir,’  said  the  ghost,  politely,  ‘ it  never  struck  me 
till  now  ; I’ll  try  change  of  air  directly.’  In 
fact,  he  began  to  vanish  as  he  spoke  ; his  legs, 
indeed,  had  quite  disappeared.  ‘And  if,  sir,’ 
said  the  tenant,  calling  after  him,  * if  you  7 uould 
have  the  goodness  to  suggest  to  the  other  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  are  now  engaged  in  haunt- 
ing old  empty  houses,  that  they  might  be  much 
more  comfortable  elsewhere,  you  will  confer  a 
great  benefit  on  society.’  ‘ I will,’  replied  the 
ghost  ; ‘ we  must  be  dull  fellows,  very  dull 
fellows,  indeed  ; I can’t  imagine  how  we  can 
have  been  so  stupid.’  With  these  words  the 
spirit  disappeared  ; and  what  is  rather  remark- 
able,” added  the  old  man,  with  a shrewd  look 
round  the  table,  “he  never  came  back  again.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  21. 

GHOSTS-Of  clothes. 

“ Look  down  there,”  he  said  softly ; “ do  you 
mark  how  they  whisper  in  each  other’s  ears  ; then 
dance  and  leap,  to  make  believe  they  are  in  sport  ? 
Do  you  see  how  they  stop  for  a moment,  when 
they  think  there  is  no  one  looking,  and  mutter 
among  themselves  again  ; and  then  how  they  roll 
and  gambol,  delighted  with  the  mischief  they’ve 
been  plotting  ? Look  at  ’em  now.  See  how  they 
whirl  and  plunge.  And  now  they  stop  again, 
and  whisper  cautiously  together — little  thinking, 
mind,  how  often  I have  lain  upon  the  grass  and 
watched  them.  I say — what  is  it  that  they  plot 
and  hatch  ? — Do  you  know?” 

“ They  are  only  clothes,”  returned  the  guest, 
“ such  as  we  wear  ; hanging  on  those  lines  to  dry, 
and  fluttering  in  the  wind.” 

“ Clothes  ! ” echoed  Barnaby,  looking  close  into 
his  face,  and  falling  quickly  back.  “Ha  ha! 
Why,  how  much  better  to  be  silly,  than  as  wise 
as  you  ! You  don’t  see  shadowy  people  there, 
like  those  that  live  in  sleep — not  you.  Nor  eyes 
in  the  knotted  panes  of  glass,  nor  swift  ghosts 
when  it  blows  hard,  nor  do  you  hear  voices  in 
the  air,  nor  see  men  stalking  in  the  sky — not 
you  ! I lead  a merrier  life  than  you,  with  all 
your  cleverness.  You’re  the  dull  men.  WVre 
the  bright  ones.  Ha  ! ha  ! I’ll  not  change  with 
you,  clever  as  you  are— not  I ! ” 

With  that,  he  waved  his  hat  above  his  head, 
and  darted  off. — Barnaby  Pudge , Chap.  10. 

GIIOST-Of  Marley. 

His  body  was  transparent ; so  that  Scrooge, 
observing  him,  and  looking  through  his  waist- 
coat, could  see  the  two  buttons  on  his  coat  be- 
hind. 

Scrooge  had  often  heard  it  said  that  Marley 


GHOSTS 


209 


GOOD-NIGHT 


had  no  bowels,  but  he  had  never  believed  it  until 
now. 

No,  nor  did  he  believe  it  even  now.  Though 
he  looked  the  phantom  through  and  through, 
and  saw  it  standing  before  him  ; though  he  felt 
the  chilling  influence  of  its  death-cold  eyes  ; and 
marked  the  very  texture  of  the  folded  kerchief 
bound  about  its  head  and  chin,  which  wrapper 
he  had  not  observed  before  ; he  was  still  incred- 
ulous, and  fought  against  his  senses. 

“ How  now  ! ” said  Scrooge,  caustic  and  cold 
as  ever.  “ What  do  you  want  with  me  ? ” 

“ Much  ! ” — Marley’s  voice,  no  doubt  about  it. 

“ Who  are  you  ? ” 

“ Ask  me  who  I was!' 

“ Who  were  you  then  ? ” said  Scrooge,  raising 
his  voice.  “ You’re  particular,  for  a shade.” 
He  was  going  to  say  “ to  a shade,”  but  substitut- 
ed this,  as  more  appropriate. 

“ In  life  I was  your  partner,  Jacob  Marley.” 

“ Can  you — can  you  sit  down  ? ” asked  Scrooge, 
looking  doubtfully  at  him. 

“ I can.” 

“ Do  it  then.” 

Scrooge  asked  the  question,  because  he  didn’t 
know  whether  a ghost  so  transparent  might  find 
himself  in  a condition  to  take  a chair  ; and  felt 
that  in  the  event  of  its  being  impossible,  it  might 
involve  the  necessity  of  an  embarrassing  expla- 
nation. But  the  ghost  sat  down  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  fireplace,  as  if  he  were  quite  used  to 
it. — Christmas  Carol , Stave  I. 

GHOSTS— A privilege  of  the  upper  classes. 

“Sir  Morbury  Dedlock  was  the  owner  of 
Chesney  Wold.  Whether  there  was  any  ac- 
count of  a ghost  in  the  family  before  those  days, 
I can’t  say.  I should  think  it  very  likely,  in- 
deed.” 

Mrs.  Rouncewell  holds  this  opinion,  because 
she  considers  that  a family  of  such  antiquity  and 
importance  has  a right  to  a ghost.  She  regards 
a ghost  as  one  of  the  privileges  of  the  upper 
classes  ; a genteel  distinction  to  which  the  com- 
mon people  have  no  claim. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  7. 

GHOSTS— Their  anniversaries. 

“ I have  heard  it  said  that  as  we  keep  our 
birthdays  when  we  are  alive,  so  the  ghosts  of 
dead  people,  who  are  not  easy  in  their  graves, 
keep  the  day  they  died  upon.” 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  33. 

GIANTS— Used  up. 

“ Once  get  a giant  shaky  on  his  legs,  and  the 
public  care  no  more  about  him  than  they  do  for 
a dead  cabbage-stalk.” 

“What  becomes  of  the  old  giants?”  said 
Short,  turning  to  him  again  after  a little  reflec- 
tion. 

“ They’re  usually  kept  in  carawans  to  wait 
upon  the  dwarfs,”  said  Mr.  Vuffin. 

“ The  maintaining  of  ’em  must  come  expen- 
sive, when  they  can’t  be  shown,  eh  ? ” remarked 
Short,  eyeing  him  doubtfully. 

“ It’s  better  that,  than  letting  ’em  go  upon  the 
parish  or  about  the  streets,”  said  Mr.  Vuffin. 
“ Once  make  a giant  common,  and  giants  will 
never  draw  again.  Look  at  wooden  legs.  If 
there  was  only  one  man  with  a wooden  leg 
what  a property  he’d  be  ! ” 


“ So  he  would  ! ” observed  the  landlord  and 
Short  both  together.  “ That’s  very  true.” 

“ Instead  of  which,”  pursued  Mr.  Vuffin,  “if 
you  was  to  advertise  Shakspeare  played  entirely 
by  wooden  legs,  it’s  my  belief  you  wouldn’t  draw 
a sixpence.” 

“ I don’t  suppose  you  would,”  said  Short. 
And  the  landlord  said  so  too. 

“ This  shows,  you  see,”,  said  Mr.  Vuffin,  wav- 
ing his  pipe  with  an  argumentative  air,  “ this 
shows  the  policy  of  keeping  the  used-up  giants 
still  in  the  carawans,  where  they  get  food  and 
lodging  for  nothing,  all  their  lives,  and  in  gen- 
eral very  glad  they  are  to  stop  there.” 

“ What  about  the  dwarfs  when  they  get  old  ? ” 
inquired  the  landlord. 

“ The  older  a dwarf  is,  the  better  worth  he 
is,”  returned  Mr.  Vuffin  : “ a grey-headed  dwarf, 
well  wrinkled,  is  beyond  all  suspicion.  But  a 
giant  weak  in  the  legs  and  not  standing  up- 
right ! — keep  him  in  the  carawan,  but  never 
show  him,  never  show  him,  for  any  persuasion 
that  can  be  offered.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap , 19. 

GIRLS— Traddles’  idea  of. 

“ The  society  of  girls  is  a very  delightful 
thing,  Copperfield.  It’s  not  professional,  but  it’s 
very  delightful.” — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  59. 

GIRLHOOD-Of  Florence. 

There  had  been  a girl  some  six  years  before, 
and  the  child,  who  had  stolen  into  the  chambev 
unobserved,  .was  now  crouching  timidly,  in  a 
corner  whence  she  could  see  her  mother’s  face. 
But  what  was  a girl  to  Dombey  and  Son  ! In 
the  capital  of  the  House’s  name  and  dignity, 
such  a child  was  merely  a piece  of  a base  coin 
that  couldn’t  be  invested — a bad  Boy— -nothing 
more. — Dombey  <5^  Son , Ckap.  1. 


Thus  living,  in  a dream  wherein  the  overflow- 
ing love  of  her  young  heart  expended  itself  on 
airy  forms,  and  in  a real  world'  where  she  had 
experienced  little  but  the  rolling  back  of  that 
strong  tide  upon  itself,  Florence  grew  to  bd 
seventeen.  Timid  and  retiring  as  her  solitary 
life  had  made  her,  it  had  not  embittered  her 
sweet  temper,  or  her  earnest  nature.  A child 
in  innocent  simplicity  ; a woman  in  her  modest 
self-reliance,  and  her  deep  intensity  of  feeling  ; 
both  child  and  woman  seemed  at  once  expressed 
in  her  fair  face  and  fragile  delicacy  of  shape,  and 
gracefully  to  mingle  there  ; — -as  if  the  spring 
should  be  unwilling  to  depart  when  summer 
came,  and  sought  to  blend  the  earlier  beauties 
of  the  flowers  with  their  bloom.  But  in  her 
thrilling  voice,  in  her  calm  eyes,  sometimes  in 
a strange  ethereal  light  that  seemed  to  rest  upon 
her  head,  and  always  in  a certain  pensive  air 
upon  her  beauty,  there  was  an  expression,  such 
as  had  been  seen  in  the  dead  boy ; and  the 
council  in  the  Servants’  Hall  whispered  so 
among  themselves,  and  shook  their  heads,  and 
ate  and  drank  the  more,  in  a closer  bond  of 
goodfellowship. — Dombey  Of  Son,  Chap.  57. 

GOOD-NIGHT— An  interrupted  blessing:. 

“ Good-night — a — a — God  bless  you.” 

The  blessing  seemed  to  stick  in  Mr.  Ralph 
Nickleby’s  throat,  as  if  it  were  not  used  to  the 
thoroughfare,  and  didn’t  know  the  way  oyt. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  19. 


GOLD 


210 


GOURMAND 


GOLD— The  influence  of  riches. 

Gold  conjures  up  a mist  about  a man,  more 
destructive  of  all  his  old  senses  and  lulling  to 
his  feelings  than  the  fumes  of  charcoal. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  I. 

GOOD  AND  EVIL -In  men. 

It  appeared,  before  the  breakfast  was  over, 
that  everybody  whom  this  Gowan  knew  was 
either  more  or  less  of  an  ass,  or  more  or  less  of 
a knave  ; but  was,  notwithstanding,  the  most 
lovable,  the  most  engaging,  the  simplest,  tru- 
est, kindest,  dearest,  best  fellow  that  ever  lived. 

The  process  by  which  this  unvarying  result 
was  attained,  whatever  the  premises,  might 
have  been  stated  by  Mr.  Henry  Gowan  thus  : 
“ I claim  to  be  always  bookkeeping,  with  a pe- 
culiar nicety,  in  every  man’s  case,  and  posting 
up  a careful  little  account  of  Good  and  Evil 
with  him.  I do  this  so  conscientiously,  that  I 
am  happy  to  tell  you  I find  the  most  worthless 
of  men  to  be  the  dearest  old  fellow  too  ; and 
am  in  a condition  to  make  the  gratifying  re- 
port, that  there  is  much  less  difference  than  you 
are  inclined  to  suppose  between  an  honest  man 
and  a scoundrel.”  The  effect  of  this  cheering 
discovery  happened  to  be,  that  while  he  seemed 
to  be  scrupulously  finding  good  in  most  men, 
he  did  in  reality  lower  it  where  it  was,  and  set 
it  up  where  it  was  not ; but  that  was  its  only 
disagreeable  or  dangerous  feature. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  17. 

GOOD  PURPOSES-Perverted. 

“ All  good  things  perverted  to  evil  purposes, 
are  worse  than  those  which  are  naturally  bad. 
A thoroughly  wicked  woman  is  wicked  indeed. 
When  religion  goes  wrong,  she  is  very  wrong, 
for  the  same  reason.” 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  51. 

GOODNESS— Its  propagation. 

Any  propagation  of  goodness  and  benevo- 
lence is  no  small  addition  to  the  aristocracy  of 
nature,  and  no  small ’subject  of  rejoicing  for 
mankind  at  large. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  73. 

GOSSIP. 

It  concentrated  itself  on  the  acknowledged 
Beauty  of  the  party,  every  stitch  in  whose  dress 
was  verbally  unripped  by  the  old  ladies  then 
and  there,  and  whose  “ goings  on  ” with  another 
and  a thinner  personage  in  a white  hat  might 
have  suffused  the  pump  (where  they  were  prin- 
cipally discussed)  with  blushes  for  months  af- 
terwards.— Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  27. 

GOUT-  A patrician  disorder. 

Sir  Leicester  receives  the  gout  as  a trouble- 
some demon,  but  still  a demon  of  the  patrician 
order.  All  the  Dedlocks,  in  the  direct  male 
line,  through  a course  of  time  during  and  be- 
yond which  the  memory  of  man  goeth  not  to 
the  contrary,  have  had  the  gout.  It  can  be 
proved,  sir.  Other  men’s  fathers  may  have  died 
of  the  rheumatism,  or  may  have  taken  base  con- 
tagion from  the  tainted  blood  of  the  sick  vul- 
gar, but  the  Dedlock  family  have  communicated 
something  exclusive,  even  to  the  levelling  pro- 
cess of  dying,  by  dying  of  their  own  family  gout. 
It  has  come  down,  through  the  illustrious  line, 
like  the  plate,  or  the  pictures,  or  the  place  in 
Lincolnshire.  It  is  among  their  dignities.  Sir 


Leicester  is,  perhaps,  not  wholly  without  an  im- 
pression, though  he  has  never  resolved  it  into 
words,  that  the  angel  of  death,  in  the  discharge 
of  his  necessary  duties,  may  observe  to  the  shades 
of  the  aristocracy,  “ My  lords  and  gentlemen, 

I have  the  honor  to  present  to  you  another  Ded 
lock,  certified  to  have  arrived  per  the  family 
gout.” 

Hence,  Sir  Leicester  yields  up  his  family  legs 
to  the  family  disorder,  as  if  he  held  his  name 
and  fortune  on  that  feudal  tenure.  He  feels, 
that  for  a Dedlock  to  be  laid  upon  his  back,  and 
spasmodically  twitched  and  stabbed  in  his  ex- 
tremities, is  a liberty  taken  somewhere  ; but, 
he  thinks,  “We  have  all  yielded  to  this;  it 
belongs  to  us  ; it  has,  for  some  hundreds  of  years, 
been  understood  that  we  are  not  to  make  the 
vaults  in  the  park  interesting  on  more  ignoble 
terms  ; and  I submit  myself  to  the  compromise.” 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  16. 

GOUT— Mr.  Weller’s  remedy  for. 

“ Take  care,  old  fellow,  or  you’ll  have  a touch 
of  your  old  complaint,  the  gout.” 

“ I’ve  found  a sov'rin  cure  for  that,  Sammy,” 
said  Mr.  Weller,  setting  down  the  glass. 

“A  sovereign  cure  for  the  gout,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick,  hastily  producing  his  note-book ; 

“ what  is  it  ? ” 

“ The  gout,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  “ the 
gout  is  a complaint  as  arises  from  too  much 
ease  and  comfort.  If  ever  you’re  attacked  with 
the  gout,  sir,  jist  you  marry  a widder  as  has  got  a 
good  loud  woice,  with  a decent  notion  of  usin’  it, 
and  you’ll  never  have  the  gout  agin.  It’s  a cap- 
ital prescription,  sir.  I takes  it  reg’lar,  and  I 
can  warrant  it  to  drive  away  any  illness  as  is 
caused  by  too  much  jollity.”  Having  imparted 
this  valuable  secret,  Mr.  Weller  drained  his 
glass  once  more,  produced  a labored  wink, 
sighed  deeply,  and  slowly  retired. 

“ Well,  what  do  you  think  of  what  your  father 
says,  Sam?”  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  a 
smile. 

“Think,  sir!”  replied  Mr.  Weller;  “why,  I 
think  he’s  the  wictim  o’  connubiality,  as  Blue 
Beard’s  domestic  chaplain  said,  with  a tear  of 
pity,  ven  he  buried  him.” — Pickwick , Chap.  20. 

GOUT— An  aristocratic  privilege. 

“ The  door  will  be  opened  immediately,”  he 
said.  “ There  is  nobody  but  a very  dilapidated 
female  to  perform  such  offices.  You  will  excuse 
her  infirmities?  If  she  were  in  a more  elevated 
station  in  society,  she  would  be  gouty.  Being 
but  a hewer  of  wood  and  drawer  of  water,  she 
is  rheumatic.  My  dear  Haredale,  these  are  nat- 
ural class  distinctions,  depend  upon  it.” 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  26. 

GOURMAND— A. 

If  he  really  be  eating  his  supper  now,  at  j 
what  hour  can  he  possibly  have  dined  ! A sec- 
ond solid  mass  of  rump  steak  has  disappear- 
ed, and  he  ate  the  first  in  four  minutes  and 
three-quarters,  by  the  clock  over  the  window. 
Was  there  ever  such  a personification  of  Fal- 
staff ! Mark  the  air  with  which  he  gloats  over 
that  Stilton  as  he  removes  the  napkin  which  has 
been  placed  beneath  his  chin  to  catch  the  super- 
fluous gravy  of  the  steak,  and  with  what  gusto 
he  imbibes  the  porter  which  has  been  fetched, 
expressly  for  him,  in  the  pewter  pot.  Listen  to 


GHIA.CE 


211 


GRAVE 


the  hoarse  sound  of  that  voice,  kept  down  as  it 
is  by  layers  of  solids,  and  deep  draughts  of  rich 
wine,  and  tell  us  if  you  ever  saw  such  a perfect 
picture  of  a regular  gourmand ; and  whether  he 
is  not  exactly  the  man  whom  you  would  pitch 
upon  as  having  been  the  partner  of  Sheridan’s 
parliamentary  carouses,  the  volunteer  driver  of 
the  hackney  coach  that  took  him  home,  and  the 
involuntary  upsetter  of  the  whole  party. 

What  an  amusing  contrast  between  his  voice 
and  appearance,  and  that  of  the  spare,  squeak- 
ing old  man,  who  sits  at  the  same  table,  and 
who,  elevating  a little,  cracked,  bantam  sort  of 
voice  to  its  highest  pitch,  invokes  damnation 
upon  his  own  eyes  or  somebody  else’s  at  the 
commencement  of  every  sentence  he  utters. 
“ The  Captain,”  as  they  call  him,  is  a very  old 
frequenter  of  Bellamy’s ; much  addicted  to 
stopping  “ after  the  House  is  up  ” (an  inexpiable 
crime  in  Jane’s  eyes,  and  a complete  walking 
reservoir  of  spirits  and  water. 

Scenes , Chap.  18. 

GRACE— Before  meat. 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  temper  was  not  at  all  im- 
proved when  he  came  to  his  breakfast.  He 
resented  Mrs.  Cruncher’s  saying  Grace  with 
particular  animosity. 

“ Now,  Aggerawayter  ! What  are  you  up  to? 
At  it  agin  ? ” 

H is  wife  explained  that  she  had  merely  “ asked 
a blessing.” 

“ Don’t  do  it ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking 
about,  as  if  he  rather  expected  to  see  the  loaf 
disappear  under  the  efficacy  of  his  wife’s  peti- 
tions. “ I ain’t  a going  to  be  blest  out  of  house 
and  home.  I won’t  have  my  wittles  blest  off  my 
table.  Keep  still ! ” 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  II.,  Chap.  I. 

GRAMMAR-For  the  laity. 

“ Mr.  Jasper  was  that,  Tope?  ” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Dean.” 

“ He  has  stayed  late.” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Dean.  I have  stayed  for  him, 
your  Reverence.  He  has  been  took  a little 
poorly.” 

“Say  ‘taken,’  Tope — to  the  Dean,”  the 
younger  rook  interposes  in  a low  tone  with 
this  touch  of  correction,  as  who  should  say, 
“You  may  offer  bad  grammar  to  the  laity,  or 
the  humbler  clergy,  not  to  the  Dean.” 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  2. 

GRAMMAR-Of  Mrs.  Merdle. 

In  the  grammar  of  Mrs.  Merdle’s  verbs  on 
this  momentous  subject,  there  was  only  one 
Mood,  the  Imperative ; and  that  Mood  had 
only  one  tense,  the  Present.  Mrs.  Merdle’s 
verbs  were  so  pressingly  presented  to  Mr.  Mer- 
dle to  conjugate,  that  his  sluggish  blood  and 
long  coat-cuffs  became  quite  agitated. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  II.,  Chap.  12. 

GRANDFATHER-The. 

Buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira 
did,  in  its  time ; and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken 
on  the  bottles. 

Autumn  days  are  shining,  and  on  the  sea- 
beach  there  are  often  a young  lady,  an$  a white- 
haired  gentleman.  With  them,  or  near  them, 
are  two  children  : boy  and  girl.  And  an  old 
dog  is  generally  in  their  company. 


The  white-haired  gentleman  walks  with  the 
little  boy,  talks  with  him,  helps  him  in  his  play, 
attends  upon  him,  watches  him,  as  if  he  were 
the  object  of  his  life.  If  he  be  thoughtful,  the 
white-haired  gentleman  is  thoughtful  too;  and 
sometimes,  when  the  child  is  sitting  by  his  side, 
and  looks  up  in  his  face,  asking  him  questions, 
he  takes  the  tiny  hand  in  his,  and  holding  it, 
forgets  to  answer.  Then  the  child  says : 

“ What,  grandpapa  ! Am  I so  like  my  poor 
little  uncle  again  !” 

“Yes,  Paul.  But  he  was  weak,  and  you  are 
very  strong.” 

“ Oh  yes,  I am  very  strong.” 

“ And  he  lay  on  a little  bed  beside  the  sea, 
and  you  can  run  about.” 

And  so  they  range  away  again,  busily,  for  the 
white-haired  gentleman  likes  best  to  see  the 
child  free  and  stirring  ; ^nd  as  they  go  about 
together,  the  story  of  t)ie  bond  between  them 
goes  about,  and  follows  them. 

But  no  one,  except  Florence,  knows  the  meas- 
ure of  the  white  haired  gentleman’s  affection  for 
the  girl.  That  story  never  goes  about.  The 
child  herself  alnfost  wonders  at  a certain  secrecy 
he  keeps  in  it.  He  hoards  her  in  his  heart. 
Pie  cannot  bear  to  see  a cloud  upon  her  face. 
He  cannot  bear  to  see  her  sit  apart.  He  fancies 
that  she  feels  a slight,  when  there  is  none.  He 
steals  away  to  look  at  her,  in  her  sleep.  It 
pleases  him  to  have  her  come,  and  wake  him  in 
the  morning.  He  is  fondest  of  her  and  most 
loving  to  her,  when  there  is  no  creature  by. 
The  child  says  then,  sometimes : 

“ Dear  grandpapa,  why  do  you  cry  when  you 
kiss  me  ? ” 

He  only  answers  “ Little  Florence  ! Little 
Florence  ! ” and  smooths  away  the  curls  that 
shade  her  earnest  eyes. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.-  42. 

GRATITUDE— A mother’s. 

Polly,  who  had  passed  Pleaven  knows  how 
many  sleepless  nights  on  account  of  this  her 
■dissipated  firstborn,  and  had  not  seen  him  for 
weeks  and  weeks,  could  have  almost  kneeled  to 
Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  as  to  a Good  Spirit — 
in  spite  of  his  teeth.  But  Mr.  Carker  rising  to 
depart,  she  only  thanked  him.  with  her  mother’s 
prayers  and  blessings : thanks  so  rich  when 
paid  out  of  the  heart’s  mint,  especially  for  any 
service  Mr.  Carker  had  rendered,  that  he  might 
have  given  back  a large  amount  of  change,  and 
yet  been  overpaid. — Dombey  Son,  Chap.  22. 

GRAVE-The. 

Brave  lodgings  for  one,  brave  lodgings  for  one, 

A few  feet  of  cold  earth,  wh.-n  life  is  done  ; 

A stone  at  the  head,  a stone  at  the  feet, 

A rich,  juicy  meal  for  the  worms  to  eat. 

Rank  grass  over  head,  and  damp  clay  around, 
Brave  lodgings  for  one,  these,  in  holy  ground. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  29. 

GRAVE— Of  the  dead  pauper. 

Then  the  active  and  intelligent,  who  has  got 
into  the  morning  papers  as  such,  comes  with  his 
pauper  company  to  Mr.  Krook’s,  and  bears  off 
the  body  of  our  dear  brother  here  departed,  to  a 
hemmed-in  churchyard,  pestiferous  and  obscene, 
whence  malignant  diseases  are  communicated  to 
the  bodies  of  our  dear  brothers  and  sisters  who 
have  not  departed  ; while  our  dear  brothers  and 
sisters  who.  hang  about  official  back-stairs — 


GRAVE 


212 


GRAVE-DIGGER 


would  to  Heaven  they  had  departed  ! — are  very 
complacent  and  agreeable.  Into  a beastly  scrap 
of  ground  which  a Turk  would  reject  as  a savage 
abomination,  and  a Caffre  would  shudder  at, 
they  bring  our  dear  brother  here  departed,  to 
receive  Christian  burial. 

With  houses  looking  on,  on  every  side,  save 
where  a reeking  little  tunnel  of  a court  gives 
access  to  the  iron  gate — with  every  villainy  of 
life  in  action  close  on  death,  and  every  poison- 
ous element  of  death  in  action  close  on  life — 
here,  they  lower  our  dear  brother  down  a foot 
or  two ; here,  sow  him  in  corruption,  to  be 
raised  in  corruption : an  avenging  ghost  at 
many  a sick-bedside:  a shameful  testimony  to 
future  ages,  how  civilization  and  barbarism 
walked  this  boastful  island  together. 

Come  night,  come  darkness,  for  you  cannot 
come  loo  soon,  or  stay  too  long,  by  such  a place 
as  this ! Come,  straggling  lights,  into  the  win- 
dows of  the  ugly  houses  ; and  you  who  do  ini- 
quity therein,  do  it  at  least  with  this  dread  scene 
shut  out ! Come,  flame  of  gas,  burning  so  sul- 
lenly above  the  iron  gate,  on  which  the  poisoned 
air  deposits  its  witch-ointment,  slimy  to  the 
touch  ! Tt  is  well  that  you  should  call  to  every 
passeT-by,  “ Look  here  ! ” 

With  the  night,  comes  a slouching  figure 
through  the  tunnel-court,  to  the  outside  of  the 
iron  gate.  It  holds  the  gate  with  its  hands,  and 
looks  in  between  the  bars  ; stands  looking  in, 
for  a little  while. 

It  then,  with  an  old  broom  it  carries,  softly 
sweeps  the  step,  and  makes  the  archway  clean. 
It  does  so,  very  busily  and  trimly ; looks  in 
again,  a little  while  ; and  so  departs. 

Jo,  is  it  thou?  Well,  well!  Though  a re- 
jected witness,  who  “can’t  exactly  say”  what 
will  be  done  to  him  in  greater  hands  than  men’s, 
thou  art  not  quite  in  outer  darkness.  There  is 
something  like  a distant  ray  of  light  in  thy  mut- 
tered reason  for  this  ; 

“He  wos  wery  good  to  me,  he  wos  ! ” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  n. 

GRAVE— A child’s. 

Some  young  childi-en  sported  among  the 
tombs,  and  hid  from  each  other,  with  laughing 
faces.  They  had  -an  infant  with  them,  and  had 
laid  it  down  asleep  upon  a child’s  grave,  in  a 
little  bed  of  leaves.  It  was  a new  grave — the 
resting-place,  perhaps,  of  some  little  creature, 
who,  meek  and  patient  in  its  illness,  had  often 
sat  and  watched  them,  and  now  seemed,  to  their 
minds,  scarcely  changed. 

She  drew  near  and  asked  one  of  them  whose 
grave  it  was.  The  child  answered  that  that  was 
not  its  name  ; it  was  a garden — his  brother’s. 
It  was  greener,  he  said,  than  all  the  other  gar- 
dens, and  the  birds  loved  it  better  because  he 
had  been  used  to  feed  them.  When  he  had 
done  speaking,  he  looked  at  her  with  a smile, 
and  kneeling  down  and  nestling  for  a moment 
with  his  cheek  against  the  turf,  bounded  merrily 
away. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  53. 

GRAVE  Of  the  erring-. 

Within  the  altar  of  the  old  village  church 
there  stands  a white  marble  tablet,  which  bears 
as  yet  but  one  word — “ Agnes  ! ” There  is  no 
coffin  in  that  tomb  ; and  may  it  be  many,  many 
years,  before  another  name  is  placed  above  it ! 
Hut  if  the  spirits  of  the  Dead  ever  come  back  to 


earth,  to  visit  spots  hallowed  by  the  love — the 
love  beyond  the  grave — of  those  whom  they 
knew  in  life,  1 believe  that  the  shade  of  Agnes 
sometimes  hovers  round  that  solemn  nook.  I 
believe  it  none  the  less  because  that  nook  is  in 
a church,  and  she  was  weak  and  erring. 

Oliver  Twisty  Chap.  53. 

GRAVE-Of  Smike. 

The  grass  was  green  above  the  dead  boy's 
grave,  and  trodden  by  feet  so  small  and  light, 
that  not  a daisy  drooped  its  head  beneath  theii 
pressure.  Through  all  the  spring  and  summer- 
time, garlands  of  fresh  flowers,  wreathed  by  in- 
fant hands,  rested  on  the  stone  ; and  when  the 
children  came  here  to  change  them  lest  they 
should  wither  and  be  pleasant  to  him  no  longer, 
their  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  they  spoke  low 
and  softly  of  their  poor  dead  cousin. 

Aric /tolas  Nickleby , Chap.  65. 

GR  AVE-DIGGER-The. 

“ That’s  the  sexton’s  spade,  and  it’s  a well- 
used  one,  as  you  see.  We’re  healthy  people 
here,  but  it  has  done  a power  of  work.  If  it 
could  speak  now,  that  spade,  it  would  tell  you 
of  many  an  unexpected  job  that  it  and  I have 
done  together  ; but  I forget  ’em,  for  my  memory's 
a poor  one. — That’s  nothing  new,”  he  added 
hastily.  “ It  always  was.” 

“ There  are  flowers  and  shrubs  to  speak  to 
your  other  work,”  said  the  child. 

“ Oh  yes.  And  tall  trees.  But  they  are  not 
so  separate  from  the  sexton’s  labors  as  you 
think.” 

“ No  ! ” 

“ Not  in  my  mind  and  recollection — such  as 
it  is,”  said  the  old  man.  “ Indeed,  they  often  help 
it.  For  say  that  I planted  such  a tree  for  such 
a man.  There  it  stands,  to  remind  me  that  he 
died.  When  I look  at  its  broad  shadow,  and 
remember  what  it  was  in  his  time,  it  helps  me  tc 
the  age  of  my  other  work,  and  I can  tell  you 
pretty  nearly  when  I made  his  grave.” 

“ But  it  may  remind  you  of  one  who  is  still 
alive,”  said  the  child. 

“ Of  twenty  that  are  dead,  in  connection  with 
that  one  who  lives,  then,”  rejoined  the  old  man  ; 
“wife,  husband,  parents,  brothers,  sisters,  chil- 
dren, friends — a score  at  least.  So  it  happens 
that  the  sexton’s  spade  gets  worn  and  battered. 
I shall  need  a new  one — next  summer.” 

The  child  looked  quickly  towards  him,  think- 
ing that  he  jested  with  his  age  and  infirmity  ; but 
the  unconscious  sexton  was  quite  in  earnest. 

“ Ah  !”  he  said,  after  a brief  silence.  “ Peo- 
ple never  learn.  They  never  learn.  It’s  only 
we  who  turn  up  the  ground,  where  nothing  grow* 
and  everything  decays,  who  think  of  such  things 
as  these — who  think  of  them  properly,  I mean. 
You  have  been  into  the  church  ? ” 

“ I am  going  there  now,”  the  child  replied. 

“ There’s  an  old  well  there,”  said  the  sexton, 
“ right  underneath  the  belfry  ; a deep,  dark,  echo- 
ing well.  Forty  year  ago,  you  had  only  to  let 
down  the  bucket  till  the  first  knot  in  the  rope 
was  free  of  the  windlass,  and  you  heard  it  splash- 
ing in  the  cold  dull  water.  By  little  and  little 
the  water  fell  away,  so  that  in  ten  year  after  that 
a second  Jcnot  was  made,  and  you  must  unwind 
so  much  rope,  or  the  bucket  swung  tight  and 
empty  at  the  end.  In  ten  years’  time,  the  water 
fell  again,  and  a third  knot  was  made.  In  ten 


GRAVESTONES 


213 


GRIDIRON 


years  more,  the  well  dried  up ; and  now,  if  you 
lower  the  bucket  till  your  arms  are  tired,  and  let 
out  nearly  all  the  cord,  you’ll  hear  it,  of  a sud- 
den, clanking  and  rattling  on  the  ground  below  ; 
with  a sound  of  being  so  deep  and  so  far  down, 
that  your  heart  leaps  into  your  mouth,  and  you 
start  away  as  if  you  were  falling  in.” 

“ A dreadful  place  to  come  on  in  the  dark ! ” 
exclaimed  the  child,  who  had  followed  the  old 
man’s  looks  and  words  until  she  seemed  to  stand 
upon  its  brink. 

“ What  is  it  but  a grave  ! ” said  the  sexton. 
“ What  else  ! And  which  of  our  old  folks,  know- 
ing all  this,  thought,  as  the  spring  subsided,  of 
their  own  failing  strength,  and  lessening  life  ? 
Not  one  ! ” — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  53. 

GRAVESTONES-Pip’s  reading  of  the. 

At  the  time  when  I stood  in  the  churchyard, 
reading  the  family  tombstones,  I had  just  enough 
learning  to  be  able  to  spell  them  out.  My  con- 
struction even  of  their  simple  meaning  was  not 
very  correct,  for  I read  “ wife  of  the  above  ” as 
a complimentary  reference  to  my  father’s  exalta- 
tion to  a better  world  ; and  if  any  one  of  my  de- 
ceased relations  had  been  referred  to  as  “ below,” 
I have  no  doubt  I should  have  formed  the  worst 
opinions  of  that  member  of  the  family. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  7. 

GRAVESTONES-Pip’s  family. 

My  father’s  family  name  being  Pirrip,  and 
my  Christian  name  Philip,  my  infant  tongue 
could  make  of  both  names  nothing  longer  or 
more  explicit  than  Pip.  So,  I called  myself 
Pip,  and  came  to  be  called  Pip. 

I give  Pirrip  as  my  father’s  family  name,  on 
the  authority  of  his  tombstone  and  my  sister — 
Mrs.  Joe  Gargery,  who  married  the  blacksmith. 
As  I never  saw  my  father  or  my  mother,  and 
never  saw  any  likeness  of  either  of  them  (for 
their  days  were  long  before  the  days  of  photo- 
graphs), my  first  fancies  regarding  what  they 
were  like,  were  unreasonably  derived  from  their 
tombstones.  The  shape  of  the  letters  on  my 
father’s,  gave  me  an  odd  idea  that  he  was  a 
square,  stout,  dark  man,  with  curly  black  hair. 
From  the  character  and  turn  of  the  inscription, 
“ Also  Georgiana , Wife  of  the  Above,"  I drew  a 
childish  conclusion  that  my  mother  was  freckled 
and  sickly.  To  five  little  stone  lozenges,  each 
about  a foot  and  a half  long,  which  were  ar- 
ranged in  a neat  row  beside  their  graves,  and 
were  sacred  to  the  memory  of  five  little  brothers 
of  mine — who  gave  up  trying  to  get  a living 
exceedingly  eaidy  in  that  universal  struggle — I 
am  indebted  for  a belief  I religiously  entertained 
that  they  had  all  been  born  on  their  backs  with 
their  hands  in  their  trousers-pockets,  and  had 
never  taken  them  out  in  this  state  of  existence. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  1. 

GRAVE-YARD. 

A poor,  mean  burial-ground — a dismal  place, 
raised  a few  feet  above  the  level  of  the  street, 
and  parted  from  it  by  a low  parapet-wall  and 
an  iron  railing  ; a rank,  unwholesome,  rotten 
spot,  where  the  very  grass  and  weeds  seemed,  in 
their  frowsy  growth,  to  tell  that  they  had  sprung 
from  paupers’  bodies,  and  had  struck  their  roots 
in  the  graves  of  men,  sodden,  while  alive,  in 
steaming  courts  and  drunken  hungry  dens. 
And  here,  in  truth,  they  lay,  parted  from  the 


livi-ng  by  a little  earth  and  a board  or  two — lay 
thick  and  close — corrupting  in  body  as  they  had 
in  mind — a dense  and  squalid  crowd.  Here  they 
lay,  cheek  by  jowl  with  life : no  deeper  down 
than  the  feet  of  the  throng  that  passed  there 
every  day,  and  piled  high  as  their  throats.  Here 
they  lay,  a grisly  family,  all  these  dear  departed 
brothers  and  sisters  of  the  niddy  clergyman  who 
did  his  task  so  speedily  when  they  were  hidden 
in  the  ground  ! — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  62. 

GRAVE-YARD-A  City. 

“ He  was  put  there,”  says  Jo,  holding  to  the 
bars  and  looking  in. 

“ Where  ? O,  what  a scene  of  horror  ! ” 

“ There  ! ” says  Jo,  pointing.  “ Over  yinder. 
Among  them  piles  of  bones,  and  close  to  that 
there  kitchin  winder  ! They  put  him  wery  nigh 
the  top.  They  was  obliged  to  stamp  upon  it  to 
get  it  in.  I could  unk^ver  it  for  you  with  my 
broom,  if  the  gate  was  open.  That’s  why  they 
locks  it,  I s’pose,”  giving  it  a shake.  “ It’s  al- 
ways locked  : Look  at  the  rat ! ” cries  Jo,  excited. 
“Hi!  look!  There  he  goes!  Ho!  into  the 
ground  ! ” 

The  servant  shrinks  into  a corner — into  a 
corner  of  that  hideous  archway,  with  its  deadly 
stains  contaminating  her  dress  ; and  putting  out 
her  two  hands,  and  passionately  telling  him  to 
keep  away  from  her,  for  he  is  loathsome  to  her,  so 
remains  for  some  moments.  Jo  stands  staring, 
and  is  still  staring  when  she  recovers  herself. 

“ Is  this  place  of  abomination  consecrated 
ground  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know  nothink  of  consequential 
ground,”  says  Jo,  still  staring. 

■“  Is  it  blessed  ? ” 

“Which?”  says  Jo,  in  the  last  degree 
amazed. 

“ Is  it  blessed? ” 

“ I’m  blest  if  I know,”  says  Jo,  staring  more 
than  ever ; “ but  I shouldn’t  think  it  warn’t. 
Blest?”  repeats  Jo,  something  troubled  in  his 
mind.  “ It  ain’t  done  it  much  good  if  it  is. 
Blest?  I'should  think  it  was  t’othered  myself. 
But  I dont  know  nothink  ! ” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  16. 

GRAVY— The  human  passion  for. 

“ Presiding  over  an  establishment  like  this, 
makes  sad  havoc  with  the  features,  my  dear  Miss 
Pecksniffs,”  said  Mrs.  Todgers.  “ The  gravy 
alone  is  enough  to  add  twenty  years  to  one’s 
age,  I do  assure  you.” 

“ Lor  ! ” cried  the  two  Miss  Pecksniffs. 

“The  anxiety  of  that  one  item,  my  dears,” 
said  Mrs.  Todgers,  “keeps  the  mind  continually 
upon  the  stretch.  There  is  no  such  passion  in 
human  nature,  as  the  passion  for  gravy  among 
commercial  gentlemen.  It’s  nothing  to  say  a 
joint  won’t  yield — a whole  animal  wouldn’t  yield 
— the  amount  of  gravy  they  expect  each  day  at 
dinner.  And  what  I have  undergone  in  conse- 
quence,” cried  Mrs.  Todgers,  raising  her  eyes, 
and  shaking  her  head,  “ no  one  would  believe  ! ” 
Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  9. 

GRIDIRON— A Gridiron  is  a. 

“ The  oncommonest  workman  can’t  show  him- 
self oncommon  in  a gridiron — for  a gridiron  is 
a gridiron,”  said  Joe,  steadfastly  impressing  it 
upon  me,  as  if  he  were  endeavoring  to  rouse 
me  from  a fixed  delusion,  “and  you  may  hai.n 


GRIEF 


214 


GUILLOTINE 


at  what  you  like,  but  a gridiron  it  will  come  cfut, 
either  by  your  leave,  or  again  your  leave,  and 
you  can’t  help  yourself — ” 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  15. 

GRIEF— A burden. 

As  a man  upon  a field  of  battle  will  receive 
a mortal  hurt,  and  scarcely  know  that  he  is 
struck,  so  I,  when  I was  left  alone  with  my  un- 
disciplined heart,  had  no  conception  of  the 
wound  with  which  it  had  to  strive. 

* * * * * 

It  is  not  in  my  power  to  retrace,  one  by  one, 
all  the  weary  phases  of  distress  of  mind  through 
which  I passed.  There  are  some  dreams  that 
can  only  be  imperfectly  and  vaguely  described  ; 
and  when  I oblige  myself  to  look  back  on  this 
time  of  my  life,  I seem  to  be  recalling  such  a 
dream.  I see  myself  passing  on  among  the 
novelties  of  foreign  towns,  palaces,  cathedrals, 
temples,  pictures,  castles,  tombs,  fantastic  streets 
— the  old  abiding  places  of  History  and  Fancy 
— as  a dreamer  might ; bearing  my  painful  load 
through  all,  and  hardly  conscious  of  the  objects 
as  they  fade  before  me.  Listlessness  to  everything 
but  brooding  sorrow,  was  the  night  that  fell 
on  my  undisciplined  heart.  Let  me  look  up 
from  it — as  at  last  I did,  thank  Heaven  ! — and 
from  its  long,  sad,  wretched  dream,  to  dawn. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  58. 

GUILLOTINE. 

The  sharp  female  newly-born  and  called  La 
Guillotine. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  III.,  Chap.  1. 

GUILLOTINE— Execution  by  the. 

Along  the  Paris  streets,  the  death-carts  rum- 
ble, hollow  and  harsh.  Six  tumbrils  carry  the 
day’s  wine  to  La  Guillotine.  All  the  devouring 
and  insatiate  Monsters  imagined  since  imagina- 
tion could  record  itself,  are  fused  in  the  one  reali- 
zation, Guillotine.  And  yet  there  is  not  in 
France,  with  its  rich  variety  of  soil  and  climate, 
a blade,  a leaf,  a root,  a sprig,  a peppercorn, 
which  will  grow  to  maturity  under  conditions 
more  certain  than  those  that  have  produced  this 
horror.  Crush  humanity  out  of  shape  once 
more,  under  similar  hammers,  and  it  will  twist 
itself  into  the  same  tortured  forms.  Sow  the 
same  seed  of  rapacious  license  and  oppression 
ever  again,  and  it  will  surely  yield  the  same 
fruit  according  to  its  kind. 

Six  tumbrils  roll  along  the  streets.  Change 
these  back  again  to  what  they  were,  thou  power- 
ful enchanter,  Time,  and  they  shall  be  seen  to 
be  the  carriages  of  absolute  monarchs,  the  equi- 
pages of  feudal  nobles,  the  toilettes  of  flaring 
Jezebels,  churches  that  are  not  My  Father’s  house 
but  dens  of  thieves,  the  huts  of  millions  of 
starving  peasants  ! No  ; the  great  magician  who 
majestically  works  out  the  appointed  order  of 
the  Creator,  never  reverses  his  transformations. 
“ If  thou  be  changed  into  this  shape  by  the  will 
of  God,”  say  the  seers  to  the  enchanted,  in  the 
wise  Arabian  stories,  “ then  remain  so  ! But,  if 
thou  wear  this  form  through  mere  passing  con- 
juration, then  resume  thy  former  aspect ! ” 
Changeless  and  hopeless,  the  tumbrils  roll  along. 

As  the  sombre  wheels  of  the  six  carts  go 
round,  they  seem  to  plough  up  a long  crooked 
furrow  among  the  populace  in  the  streets.  Ridges 
of  faces  are  thrown  to  this  side  and  to  that,  and 


the  ploughs  go  steadily  onward.  So  used  are 
the  regular  inhabitants  of  the  houses  to  the 
spectacle,  that  in  many  windows  there  are  no 
people,  and  in  some  the  occupation  of  the  hands 
is  not  so  much  as  suspended,  while  the  eyes  sur- 
vey the  faces  in  the  tumbrils.  Here  and  there, 
the  inmate  has  visitors  to  see  the  sight ; then  he 
points  his  finger,  with  something  of  the  compla- 
cency of  a curator  or  authorized  exponent,  to 
this  cart  and  to  this,  and  seems  to  tell  who  sat 
here  yesterday,  and  who  there  the  day  before. 

Of  the  riders  in  the  tumbrils,  some  observe 
these  things,  and  all  things  on  their  last  roadside, 
with  an  impassive  stare  ; others,  with  a lingering 
interest  in  the  ways  of  life  and  men.  Some, 
seated  with  drooping  heads,  are  sunk  in  silent 
despair  ; again,  there  are  some  so  heedful  of 
their  looks  that  they  cast  upon  the  multitude 
such  glances  as  they  have  seen  in  theatres  and 
in  pictures.  Several  close  their  eyes,  and  think, 
or  try  to  get  their  straying  thoughts  together. 
Only  one,  and  he  a miserable  creature  of  a 
crazed  aspect,  is  so  shattered  and  made  drunk 
by  horror  that  he  sings,  and  tries  to  dance.  Not 
one  of  the  whole  number  appeals,  by  look  or 
gesture,  to  the  pity  of  the  peopie. 

***** 

The  clocks  are  on  the  stroke  of  three,  and  the 
furrow  ploughed  among  the  populace  is  turning 
round,  to  come  on  into  the  place  of  execution, 
and  end.  The  ridges  thrown  to  this  side  and  to 
that,  now  crumble  in  and  close  behind  the  last 
plough  as  it  passes  on,  for  all  are  following  to 
the  Guillotine.  In  front  of  it,  seated  in  chairs 
as  in  a garden  of  public  diversion,  are  a number 
of  women,  busily  knitting.  On  one  of  the  fore- 
most chairs  stands  The  Vengeance,  looking 
about  for  her  friend.  • 

***** 

The  tumbrils  began  to  discharge  their  loads. 
The  ministers  of  Sainte  Guillotine  are  robed 
and  ready.  Crash  ! — Ahead  is  held  up,  and  the 
knitting-women,  who  scarcely  lifted  their  eyes 
to  look  at  it  a moment  ago  when  it  could  think 
and  speak,  count  One. 

The  second  tumbril  empties  and  moves  on  ; 
the  third  comes  up.  Crash  ! — And  the  knitting- 
women,  never  faltering  or  pausing  in  their  work, 
count  Two. 

The  supposed  Evremonde  descends,  and  the 
seamstress  is  lifted  out  next  after  him.  He  has 
not  relinquished  her  patient  hand  in  getting  out, 
but  still  holds  it  as  he  promised.  He  gently 
places  her  with  her  back  to  the  crashing  engine 
that  constantly  whirrs  up  and  falls,  and  she  looks 
into  his  face  and  thanks  him. 

***** 

The  two  stand  in  the  fast-thinning  throng  of 
victims,  but  they  speak  as  if  they  were  alone. 
Eye  to  eye,  voice  to  voice,  hand  to  hand,  heart 
to  heart,  these  two  children  of  the  Universal 
Mother,  else  so  wide  apart  and  differing,  have 
come  together  on  the  dark  highway  to  repair 
home  together,  and  to  rest  in  her  bosom. 

She’ kisses  his  lips  ; he  kisses  hers  ; they  sol- 
emnly bless  each  other.  The  spare  hand  does 
not  tremble  as  he  releases  it ; nothing  worse 
than  a sweet,  bright  constancy  is  in  the  patient 
face.  She  goes  next  before  him — is  gone  ! the 
knitting-women  count  Twenty-Two. 

“ I am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith 
the  Lord  : he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he 
were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live : and  whoso- 


GUILLOTINE 


215 


HABIT 


ever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall  never 
die.” 

The  murmuring  of  many  voices,  the  upturning 
of  many  faces,  the  pressing  on  of  many  foot- 
steps in  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  so  that  it 
swells  forward  in  a mass,  like  one  great  heave 
of  water,  all  flashes  away.  Twenty-Three. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  III.,  Chap.  15. 

GUILLOTINE— The  reign  of  the. 

The  new  Era  began ; the  king  was  tried, 
doomed,  and  beheaded  ; the  Republic  of  Lib- 
erty, Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  declared  for 
victory  or  death  against  the  world  in  arms  ; the 
black  flag  waved  night  and  day  from  the  great 
towers  of  Notre  Dame  ; three  hundred  thousand 
men,  summoned  to  rise  against  the  tyrants  of 
the  earth,  rose  from  all  the  varying  soils  of 
France,  as  if  the  dragon’s  teeth  had  been  sown 
broadcast,  and  had  yielded  fruit  equally  on  hill 
and  plain,  on  rock,  in  gravel,  and  alluvial  mud, 
under  the  bright  sky  of  the  South  and  under 
the  clouds  of  the  North,  in  fell  and  forest,  in  the 
vineyards  and  the  olive-grounds,  and  among  the 
cropped  grass  and  the  stubble  of  the  corn,  along 
the  fruitful  banks  of  the  broad  rivers,  and  in 
the  sand  of  the  sea-shore.  What  private  solici- 
tude could  rear  itself  against  the  deluge  of  the 
Year  One  of  Liberty — the  deluge  rising  from 
below,  not  falling  from  above,  and  with  the 
windows  of  Heaven  shut,  not  opened  ! 

There  was  no  pause,  no  pity,  no  peace,  no 
interval  of  relenting  rest,  no  measurement  of 
time.  Though  days  and  nights  circled  as  regu- 
larly as  when  time  was  young,  and  the  evening 
and  the  morning  were  the  first  day,  other  count 
of  time  there  was  none.  Hold  of  it  was  lost  in 
the  raging  fever  of  a nation,  as  it  is  in  the  fever 
of  one  patient.  Now,  breaking  the  unnatural 
silence  of  a whole  city,  the  executioner  showed 
the  people  the  head  of  the  king — and  now,  it 
seemed  almost  in  the  same  Lreath,  the  head  of 
his  fair  wife,  which  had  had  eight  weary  months 
of  imprisoned  widowhood  and  misery  to  turn  it 
gray. 

And  yet,  observing  the  strange  law  of  con- 
tradiction which  obtains  in  all  such  cases,  the 
time  was  long,  while  it  flamed  by  so  fast.  A 
revolutionary  tribunal  in  the  capital,  and  forty 
or  fifty  thousand  revolutionary  committees  all 
over  the  land  ; a law  of  the  Suspected,  which 
struck  away  all  security  for  liberty  or  life,  and 
delivered  over  any  good  and  innocent  person  to 
any  bad  and  guilty  one  ; prisons  gorged  with 
people  who  had  committed  no  offence,  and 
could  obtain  no  hearing  ; these  things  became 
the  established  order  and  nature  of  appointed 
things,  and  seemed  to  be  ancient  usage  before 
they  were  many  weeks  old.  Above  all,  one 
hideous  figure  grew  as  familiar  as  if  it  had  been 
before  the  general  gaze  from  the  foundation  of 
the  world — the  figure  of  the  sharp  female  called 
La  Guillotine. 

It  was  the  popular  theme  for  jests  ; it  was  the 
best  cure  for  headache,  it  infallibly  prevented 
the  hair  from  turning  gray,  it  imparted  a pecu- 
liar delicacy  to  the  complexion,  it  was  the  Na- 
tional Razor  which  shaved  close:  who  kissed 
La  Guillotine,  looked  through  the  little  window 
and  sneezed  into  the  sack.  It  was  the  sign  of 
the  regeneration  of  the  human  race.  It  super- 
seded the  Cross.  Models  of  it  were  worn  on 
breasts  from  which  the  Cross  was  discarded, 


and  it  was  bowed  down  to  and  believed  in 
where  the  Cross  was  denied. 

It  sheared  off  heads  so  many,  that  it,  and  the 
ground  it  most  polluted,  were  a rotten  red.  It 
was  taken  to  pieces,  like  a toy-puzzle  for  a 
young  Devil,  and  was  put  together  again  when 
occasion  wanted  it.  It  hushed  the  eloquent, 
struck  down  the  powerful,  abolished  the  beauti- 
ful and  good.  Twenty-two  friends  of  high  pub- 
lic mark,  twenty-one  living  and  one  dead,  it 
had  lopped  the  heads  off,  in  one  morning,  in  as 
many  minutes.  • The  name  of  the  strong  man 
of  Old  Scripture  had  descended  to  the  chief 
functionary  who  worked  it ; but,  so  armed,  he 
was  stronger  than  his  namesake,  and  blinder, 
and  tore  away  the  gates  of  God’s  own  Temple 
every  day. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  III. , Chap.  4. 

One  year  and  three  rfionths.  During  all  that 
time  Lucie  was  never  sure,  from  hour  to  hour, 
but  that  the  Guillotine  would  strike  off  her  hus- 
band’s head  next  day.  Every  day,  through  the 
stony  streets,  the  tumbrils  now  jolted  heavily, 
filled  with  Condemned.  Lovely  girls , bright 
women,  brown-haired,  black-haired,  and  gray  ; 
youths ; stalwart  men  and  old  ; gentle  bom 
and  peasant  born  ; all  red  wine  for  La  Guillo- 
tine, all  daily  brought  into  light  from  the  dark 
cellars  of  the  loathsome  prisons,  and  carried  to 
her  through  the  streets  to  slake  her  devouring 
thirst.  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death  ; 
— the  last,  much  the  easiest  to  bestow,  O Guil- 
lotine ! — Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  III.,  Chap.  5. 

GUILT— The  pain  of. 

Although  at  the  bottom  of  his  every  thought 
there  was  an  uneasy  sense  of  guilt,  and  dread 
of  death,  he  felt  no  more  than  that  vague  con- 
sciousness of  it,  which  a sleeper  has  of  pain. 
It  pursues  him  through  his  dreams,  gnaws  at 
the  heart  of  all  his  fancied  pleasures,  robs  the 
banquet  of  its  taste,  music  of  its  sweetness, 
makes  happiness  itself  unhappy,  and  yet  is  no 
bodily  sensation,  but  a phantom  without  shape, 
or  form,  or  visible  presence  ; pervading  every- 
thing, but  having  no  existence  ; recognizable 
everywhere,  but  nowhere  seen,  or  touched,  or 
met  with  face  to  face,  until  the  sleep  is  past, 
and  waking  agony  returns. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  62. 


H 


HABIT— Of  reflection. 

Instead  of  putting  on  his  coat  and  waistcoat 
with  anything  like  the  impetuosity  that  could 
alone  have  kept  pace  with  Walter’s  mood,  he 
declined  to  invest  himself  with  those  garments 
at  all  at  present ; and  informed  Walter,  that  on 
such  a serious  matter,  he  must  be  allowed  to 
“ bite  his  nails  a bit.” 

“ It’s  an  old  habit  of  mine,  Wal’r,”  said  the 
Captain,  “ any  time  these  fifty  year.  When  you 
see  Ned  Cuttle  bite  his  nails,  Wal’r,  then  you 
may  know  that  Ned  Cuttle’s  aground.” 

Thereupon  the  Captain  put  his  iron  hoo 


HABIT  AND  DUTY 


210 


. HAIR 


between  his  teeth,  as  if  it  were  a hand  ; and  with 
an  air  of  wisdom  and  profundity  that  was  the 
very  concentration  and  sublimation  of  all  philo- 
sophical reflection  and  grave  inquiry,  applied 
himself  to  the  consideration  of  the  subject  in 
its  various  branches. — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  15. 

HABIT  AND  DUTY. 

“We  go  on  in  our  clock-work  routine,  from 
day  to  day,  and  can’t  make  out,  or  follow,  these 
changes.  They — they’re  a metaphysical  sort  of 
thing.  We — we  haven’t  leisure  for  it.  We — we 
haven’t  courage.  They’re  not  taught  at  schools 
or  colleges,  and  we  don’t  know  how  to  set  about 

it.  In  short,  we  are  so  d d business-like,” 

said  the  gentleman,  walking  to  the  window,  and 
back,  and  sitting  down  again,  in  a state  of  ex- 
treme dissatisfaction  and  vexation. 

“ I am  sure,”  said  the  gentleman,  rubbing  his 
forehead  again  ; and  drumming  on  the  table  as 
before,  “ I have  good  reason  to  believe  that  a 
jog-trot  life,  the  same  from  day  to  day,  would 
reconcile  one  to  anything.  One  don’t  see  any- 
thing, one  don’t  hear  anything,  one  don’t  know 
anything  ; that’s  the  fact.  We  go  on  taking  every- 
thing for  granted,  and  so  we  go  on,  until  what- 
ever we  do,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  we  do  from 
habit.  Habit  is  all  I shall  have  to  report,  when 
I am  called  upon  to  plead  to  my  conscience,  on 
my  death-bed.  ‘ Habit,’  says  I ; ‘ I was  deaf, 
dumb,  blind,  and  paralytic,  to  a million  things, 
from  habit.’  4 Very  business-like  indeed,  Mr. 
What’s-your-name,’  says  Conscience,  4 but  it 
won’t  do  here  ! ’ ” — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  33. 


self  on  one  object  at  a lime,  no  matter  how 
quickly  its  successor  should  come  upon  its  heels, 
which  I then  formed.  Heaven  knows  ( write 
this  in  no  spirit  of  self-laudation.  The  man 
who  reviews  his  own  life,  as  I do  mine,  in  going 
on  here  from  page  to  page,  had  need  to  have 
been  a good  man  indeed  if  he  would  be  spared 
the  sharp  consciousness  of  many  talents  neglect- 
ed, many  opportunities  wasted,  many  erratic  and 
perverted  feelings  constantly  at  war  within  his 
breast,  and  defeating  him.  I do  not  hold  one 
natural  gift,  I dare  say,  that  I have  not  abused. 
My  meaning  simply  is,  that  whatever  I have 
tried  to  do  in  life,  I have  tried  with  all  my  heart 
to  do  well  ; that  whatever  I have  devoted  my  • 
self  to,  I have  devoted  myself  to  completely  ; 
that  in  great  aims  and  in  small,  I have  always 
been  thoroughly  in  earnest.  I have  never  be- 
lieved it  possible  that  any  natural  or  improved 
ability  can  claim  immunity  from  the  companion- 
ship of  the  steady,  plain,  hard-working  qualities, 
and  hope  to  gain  its  end.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  such  fulfillment  on  this  earth.  Some 
happy  talent,  and  some  fortunate  opportunity, 
may  form  the  two  sides  of  the  ladder  on  which 
some  men  mount,  but  the  rounds  of  that  laddei 
must  be  made  of  stuff  to  stand  wear  and  tear  ; 
and  there  is  no  substitute  for  thorough-going, 
ardent,  and  sincere  earnestness.  Never  to  put 
one  hand  to  anything,  on  which  I could  throw 
my  whole  self  ; and  never  to  affect  depreciation 
of  my  work,  whatever  it  was  ; I find,  now,  to 
have  been  my  golden  rules. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  42. 


HABIT-  Its  influence. 

It’s  this  same  habit  that  confirms  some  of 
us,  who  are  capable  of  better  things,  in  Lucifer’s 
own  pride  and  stubbornness — that  confirms  and 
deepens  others  of  us  in  villainy — more  of  us  in 
indifference — that  hardens  us  from  day  to  day, 
according  to  the  temper  of  our  clay,  like  images, 
and  leaves  us  as  susceptible  as  images  to  new 
impressions  and  convictions. 

Dombey  Sf  Son,  Chap.  53. 


He  handed  her  down  to  a coach  she  had  in 
waiting  at  the  door  ; and  if  his  landlady  had  not 
been  deaf,  she  would  have  heard  him  muttering 
as  he  went  back  up  stairs,  when  the  coach  had 
driven  off,  that  we  were  creatures  of  habit,  and 
it  was  a sorrowful  habit  to  be  an  old  bachelor. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  58. 


HABITS— Of  work  and  life— Dickens,  his. 

I feel  as  if  it  were  not  for  me  to  record,  even 
though  this  manuscript  is  intended  for  no  eyes 
but  mine,  how  hard  I worked  at  that  tremen- 
dous shorthand,  and  all  improvement  appertain- 
ing to  it,  in  my  sense  of  responsibility  to  Dora 
and  her  aunts.  I will  only  add,  to  what  I have 
already  written  of  my  perseverance  at  this  time 
of  my  life,  and  of  a patient  and  continuous 
energy  which  then  began  to  be  matured  within 
me,  and  which  I know  to  be  the  strong  part  of 
my  character,  if  it  have  any  strength  at  all,  that 
there,  on  looking  back,  I find  the  source  of  my 
success.  I have  been  very  fortunate  in  worldly 
matters  ; many  men  have  worked  much  harder, 
and  not  succeeded  half  so  well ; but  I never 
could  have  done  what  I have  done,  without 
the  habits  of  punctuality,  order,  and  diligence, 
vithout  the  determination  to  concentrate  my- 


HACKMAN-A  labelled. 

“ Here  you  are,  sir,”  shouted  a strange  speci- 
men of  the  human  race,  in  a sackcloth  coat,  and 
apron  of  the  same,  who,  with  a brass  label  and 
number  round  his  neck,  looked  as  if  he  were 
catalogued  in  some  collection  of  rarities. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  2. 

HAIR- A head  of. 

His  message  perplexed  his  mind  to  that  de- 
gi'ee  that  he  was  fain,  several  times,  to  take  off 
his  hat  to  scratch  his  head.  Except  on  the 
crown,  which  was  raggedly  bald,  he  had  stiff, 
black  hair,  standing  jaggedly  all  over  it,  and 
growing  down-hill  almost  to  his  broad,  blunt 
nose.  It  was  so  like  smith’s  work,  so  much 
more  like  the  top  of  a strongly-spiked  wall  than 
a head  of  hair,  that  the  best  of  players  at  leap- 
frog might  have  declined  him,  as  the  most  dan- 
gerous man  in  the  world  to  go  over. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Chap.  3. 

H AIR— U nruly . 

Excellent  fellow  as  I knew  T raddles  to  be, 
and  warmly  attached  to  him  as  I was,  I could 
not  help  wishing,  on  that  delicate  occasion,  that 
he  had  never  contracted  the  habit  of  brushing 
his  hair  so  very  upright.  It  gave  him  a surprised 
look — not  to  say  a hearth-broomy  kind  of  ex- 
pression— which,  my  apprehensions  whispered, 
might  be  fatal  to  us. 

I took  the  liberty  of  mentioning  it  to  Trad- 
dles,  as  we  were  walking  to  Putney  : and  saying 
that  if  he  would  smooth  it  down  a little — . 

“ My  dear  Copperfield,”  said  T raddles,  lifting 
off  his  hat,  and  rubbing  his  hair  all  kinds  of 
ways,  “ nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure. 
But  it  won’t.” 


HAND 


217 


HAPPINESS 


“ Won’t  be  smoothed  down  ? ” said  I. 

“ No,”  said  T raddles.  “ Nothing  will  induce 
it.  If  I was  to  carry  a half-hundredweight  upon 
it,  all  the  way  to  Putney,  it  would  be  up  again 
the  moment  the  weight  was  taken  off.  You 
have  no  idea  what  obstinate  hair  mine  is,  Cop- 
perfield.  I am  quite  a fretful  porcupine.” 

“ They  pretend  that  Sophy  has  a lock  of  it  in 
her  desk,  and  is  obliged  to  shut  it  in  a clasped 
book,  to  keep  it  down.  We  laugh  about  it.” 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  41. 

HAND— Merdle’s  style  of  shaking-. 

Mr.  Merdle  was  slinking  about  the  hearth-rug, 
waiting  to  welcome  Mrs.  Sparkler.  His  hand 
seemed  to  retreat  up  his  sleeve  as  he  advanced 
to  do  so,  and  he  gave  her  such  a superfluity  of 
coat  cuff  that  it  was  like  being  received  by  the 
popular  conception  of  Guy  Fawkes.  When  he 
put  his  lips  to  hers,  besides,  he  took  himself 
into  custody  by  the  wrists,  and  backed  himself 
among  the  ottomans  and  chairs  and  tables  as  if 
he  were  his  own  Police  officer,  saying  to  himself, 
“ Now,  none  of  that ! Come  ! I’ve  got  you,  you 
know,  and  you  go  quietly  along  with  me  ! ” 
Little  Dorr  it,  Book  II.,  Chap.  16. 

HAND— Its  g-entleness. 

Joe  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder  with  the 
touch  of  a woman.  I have  often  thought  him 
since  like  the  steam-hammer,  that  can  crush  a man 
or  pat  an  egg-shell,  in  his  combination  of  strength 
with  gentleness.  “ Pip  is  that  hearty  welcome,” 
said  Joe,  “to  go  free  with  his  services,  to  honor 
and  fortun’,  as  no  words  can  tell  him.  But  if  you 
think  as  money  can  make  compensation  to  me  for 
the  loss  of  the  little  child — what  come  to  the  forge 
— and  ever  the  best  of  friends  ! — ” 

O dear  good  Joe,  whom  I was  so  ready  to 
leave  and  so  unthankful  to,  I see  you  again,  with 
your  muscular  blacksmith’s  arm  before  your 
eyes,  and  your  broad  chest  heaving,  and  your 
voice  dying  away.  O dear  good  faithful  tender 
Joe,  I feel  the  loving  tremble  of  your  hand  upon 
my  arm,  as  solemnly  this  day  as  if  it  had  been 
the  rustle  of  an  angel’s  wing  ! 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  18. 

HAND— Its  character. 

As  he  stood,  looking  at  his  cap  for  a little 
while  before  beginning  to  speak,  I could  not 
help  observing  what  power  and  force  of  charac- 
ter his  sinewy  hand  expressed,  and  what  a good 
and  trusty  companion  it  was  to  his  honest  brow 
and  iron-grey  hair. — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  51. 

HAND— A resolute. 

His  hand  upon  the  table  rested  there  in  per- 
fect repose,  with  a resolution  in  it  that  might 
have  conquered  lions. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  51. 

HAND- Dr.  Chillip’s  style  of  shaking-. 

He  quite  shook  hands  with  me — which  was  a 
violent  proceeding  for  him,  his  usual  course 
being  to  slide  a tepid  little  fish-slice  an  inch  or 
two  in  advance  of  his  hip,  and  evince  the  greatest 
discomposure  when  anybody  grappled  with  it. 
Even  now,  he  put  his  hand  in  his  coat  pocket 
as  soon  as  he  could  disengage  it,  and  seemed 
relieved  when  he  had  got  it  safe  back. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  59. 


HAND-A  g-hostly. 

As  I came  back,  I saw  Uriah  Heep  shutting 
up  the  office  ; and,  feeling  friendly  towards  every- 
body. went  in  and  spoke  to  him,  and  at  parting, 
gave  him  my  hand.  But  oh,  what  a clammy 
hand  his  was  ! as  ghostly  to  the  touch  as  to  the 
sight ! I rubbed  mine  afterwards,  to  w'arm  it, 
and  to  rub  his  off. 

It  was  such  an  uncomfortable  hand,  that,  when 
I went  to  my  room,  it  was  still  cold  and  wet 
upon  my  memory.  Leaning  out  of  window, 
and  seeing  one  of  the  faces  on  the  beam-ends 
looking  at  me  sideways,  1 fancied  it  was  Uriah 
Heep  got  up  there  somehow,  and  shut  him  out 
in  a hurry. — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  15. 

HAND— Of  sympathy. 

Long  may  it  remain  in  this  mixed  world  a 
point  not  easy  of  decision,  which  is  the  more 
beautiful  evidence  of  the  Almighty’s  goodness — 
the  delicate  fingers  that  are  formed  for  sensitive- 
ness and  sympathy  of  touch,  and  made  to  min- 
ister to  pain  and  grief,  or  the  rough,  hard,  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  hand,  that  the  heart  teaches,  guides, 
and  softens  in  a moment. 

Dombey  and  Son,  Chap.  48. 

HAPPINESS-Of  the  unfortunate. 

It  is  something  to  look  upon  enjoyment,  so 
that  it  be  free  and  wild  and  in  the  face  of  na- 
ture, though  it  is  but  the  enjoyment  of  an  idiot. 
It  is  something  to  know  that  Heaven  has  left 
the  capacity  of  gladness  in  such  a creature’s 
breast ; it  is  something  to  be  assured  that,  howr- 
ever  lightly  men  may  crush  that  faculty  in  their 
fellows,  the  Great  Creator  of  mankind  imparts 
it  even  to  his  despised  and  slighted  work.  Who 
would  not  rather  see  a poor  idiot  happy  in  the 
sunlight,  than  a wise  man  pining  in  a darkened 
jail  ! 

Ye  men  of  gloom  and  austerity,  who  paint  the 
face  of  Infinite  Benevolence  with  an  eternal 
frown  ; read  in  the  Everlasting  Book,  wide  open 
to  your  view,  the  lesson  it  would  teach.  Its  pic- 
tures are  not  in  black  and  sombre  hues,  but 
bright  and  glowing  tints ; its  music — save  when 
ye  drown  it — is  not  in  sighs  and  groans,  but 
songs  and  cheerful  sounds.  Listen  to  the  mil- 
lion voices  in  the  summer  air,  and  find  one  dis- 
mal as  your  own.  Remember,  if  ye  can,  the 
sense  of  hope  and  pleasure  which  every  glad 
return  of  day  awakens  in  the  breast  of  all  your 
kind  who  have  not  changed  their  nature  ; and 
learn  some  wisdom  even  from  the  witless,  when 
their  hearts  are  lifted  up  they  know  not  why,  by 
all  the  mirth  and  happiness  it  brings. 

Bamaby  Rudge,  Chap.  25. 

HAPPINESS-  The  power  of  trifles. 

“ A small  matter,”  said  the  Ghost,  “ to  make 
these  silly  folks  so  full  of  gratitude.” 

“ Small ! ” echoed  Scrooge. 

The  Spirit  signed  to  him  to  listen  to  the  two 
apprentices,  who  were  pouring  out  their  hearts 
in  praise  of  Fezziwig  ; and  when  xhe  had  done 
so  said,  ‘ V 

“Why!  Is  it  not?  He  has  spenNhut  a few 
pounds  of  your  mortal  money : three  or  four, 
perhaps.  Is  that  so  much  that  he  deserves  this 
praise  ? ” 

“ It  isn’t  that,”  said  Scrooge,  heated  by  the 
remark,  and  speaking  unconsciously  like  his 
former,  not  his  latter  self.  “ It  isn’t  that,  Spirit. 


HAPPINESS 


218 


HEART 


He  has  the  power  to  render  us  happy  or  un- 
happy ; to  make  our  service  light  or  burden- 
some ; a pleasure  or  a toil.  Say  that  his  power 
lies  in  words  and  looks  ; in  things  so  slight  and 
insignificant  that  it  is  impossible  to  add  and 
count  ’em  up  : what  then  ? The  happiness  he 
gives  is  quite  as  great  as  if  it  cost  a fortune.” 

Christmas  Caro l , Stave  2. 

HAPPINESS-  True. 

* * * A strain  of  rational  good-will  and 

cheerfulness,  doing  more  to  awaken  the  sympa- 
thies of  every  member  of  the  party  in  behalf  of 
his  neighbor,  and  to  perpetuate  their  good  feel- 
ing during  the  ensuing  year,  than  half  the  homi- 
lies that  have  ever  been  written,  by  half  the 
Divines  that  have  ever  lived. 

Sketches  ( Characters J,  Chap.  2. 

HASTE— The  advantages  of  seeming. 

More  is  done,  or  considered  to  be  done — 
which  does  as  well — by  taking  cabs,  and  “going 
about,”  than  the  fair  Tippins  knew  of.  Many 
vast  vague  reputations  have  been  made,  solely 
by  taking  cabs  and  going  about.  This  par- 
ticularly obtains  in  all  Parliamentary  affairs. 
Whether  the  business  in  hand  be  to  get  a man 
in,  or  get  a man  out,  or  get  a man  over,  or  pro- 
mote a railway,  or  jockey  a railway,  or  what 
else,  nothing  is  understood  to  be  so  effectual  as 
scouring  nowhere  in  a violent  hurry — in  short, 
as  taking  cabs  and  going  about. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  II.,  Chap.  3. 

HAT— Sam  Weller’s  apology  for  his. 

“ Sit  down.” 

“ Thank’ee,  sir,”  said  Sam.  And  down  he 
sat,  without  further  bidding,  having  previously 
deposited  his  old  white  hat  on  the  landing  out- 
side the  door.  “ ’Ta’nt  a werry  good  ’un  to  look 
at,”  said  Sam,  “ but  it’s  an  astonishin’  ’un  to 
wear  ; and  afore  the  brim  went,  it  was  a werry 
handsome  tile.  Hows’ever  its  lighter  without 
it,  that’s  one  thing,  and  every  hole  lets  in  some 
air,  that’s  another — wentilation  gossamer  I calls 
it.”  On  the  delivery  of  this  sentiment,  Mr. 
Weller  smiled  agreeably  upon  the  assembled 
Pickwickians. — Pickwick,  Chap.  12. 

HAT— The  pursuit  of  a. 

There  are  very  few  moments  in  a man’s  ex- 
istence when  he  experiences  so  much  ludicrous 
distress,  or  meets  with  so  little  charitable  com- 
miseration, as  when  he  is  in  pursuit  of  his  own 
hat.  A vast  deal  of  coolness,  and  a peculiar  de- 
gree of  judgment,  are  requisite  in  catching  a hat. 
A man  must  not  be  precipitate,  or  he  runs  over 
it ; he  must  not  rush  into  the  opposite  extreme, 
or  he  loses  it  altogether.  The  best  way  is,  to 
keep  gently  up  with  the  object  of  pursuit,  to  be 
wary  and  cautious,  to  watch  your  opportunity 
well,  get  gradually  before  it,  then  make  a rapid 
dive,  seize  it  by  the  crown,  and  stick  it  firmly  on 
your  head  : smiling  pleasantly  all  the  time,  as  if 
you  thought  it  as  good  a joke  as  anybody  else. 

Pickwick , Chap.  4. 

HEART  In  the  right  place. 

“ Thank  you,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Chivery,  without 
advancing  ; “ it's  no  odds  me  coming  in.  Mr. 
Clcnnam,  don’t  you  take  no  notice  of  my  son  (if 
you’ll  be  so  good)  in  case  you  find  him  cut  up 
any  wxiys  dillicull.  My  son  has  a ’art,  and  my 


son’s  ’art  is  in  the  right  place.  Me  and  his 
mother  knows  where  to  find  it,  and  we  find  it 
sitiwated  correct.” 

Little  Doirit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  27. 

HEARTS— Innocent. 

“If  we  all  had  hearts  like  those  which  beat  so 
lightly  in  the  bosoms  of  the  young  and  beautiful, 
what  a heaven  this  earth  would  be!  If,  while 
our  bodies  grow  old  and  withered,  our  hearts 
could  but  retain  their  early  youth  and  freshness, 
of  what  avail  would  be  our  sorrows  and  suffer- 
ings ! But,  the  faint  image  of  Eden  which  is 
stamped  upon  them  in  childhood,  chafes  and 
rubs  in  our  rough  struggles  with  the  world,  and 
soon  wears  away  : too  often  to  leave  nothing  but 
a mournful  blank  remaining.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  6. 

HEARTS-Open. 

Among  men  who  have  any  sound  and  sterling 
qualities,  there  is  nothing  so  contagious  as  pure 
openness  of  heart. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  35. 

HEART— A loving. 

If  the  little  Haymaker  had  been  armed  with 
the  sharpest  of  scythes,  and  had  cut  at  every 
stroke  into  the  Carrier’s  heart,  he  never  could 
have  gashed  and  wounded  it  as  Dot  had  done. 

It  was  a heart  so  full  of  love  for  her ; so 
bound  up  and  held  together  by  innumerable 
threads  of  winning  remembrance,  spun  from  the 
daily  working  of  her  many  qualities  of  endear- 
ment ; it  was  a heart  in  which  she  had  enshrined 
herself  so  gently  and  so  closely  ; a heart  so  sin- 
gle and  so  earnest  in  its  Truth,  so  strong  in 
right,  so  weak  in  wrong,  that  it  could  cherish 
neither  passion  nor  revenge  at  first,  and  had 
only  room  to  hold  the  broken  image  of  its  Idol. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  Chap.  3. 

HEART— a pure ; Tom  Pinch. 

Tom,  Tom!  The  man  in  all  this  world 
most  confident  in  his  sagacity  and  shrewdness; 
the  man  in  all  this  world  most  proud  of  the  dis- 
trust of  other  men,  and  having  most  to  show  in 
gold  and  silver  as  the  gains  belonging  to  his 
creed  ; the  meekest  favorer  of  that  wise  doc- 
trine, Every  man  for  himself,  and  God  for  us  all 
(there  being  high  wisdom  in  the  thought  that 
the  Eternal  Majesty  of  Heaven  ever  was,  or 
can  be,  on  the  side  of  selfish  lust  and  love!)  ; 
shall  never  find,  oh,  never  find,  be  sure  of  that, 
the  time  come  home  to  him,  when  all  his  wis- 
dom is  an  idiot’s  folly,  weighed  against  a sim- 
ple heart  ! — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  39. 

HEART— The  chance  revelations  of  the. 

There  are  chords  in  the  human  heart — 
strange,  varying  strings — which  are  only  struck 
by  accident ; which  will  remain  mute  and  sense- 
less to  appeals  the  most  passionate  and  earnest, 
and  respond  at  last  to  the  slightest  casual  touch. 
In  the  most  insensible  or  childish  minds,  there 
is  some  train  of  reflection  which  art  can  seldom 
lead,  or  skill  assist,  but  which  will  reveal  itself, 
as  great  truths  have  done,  by  chance,  and  when 
the  discoverer  has  the  plainest  end  in  view. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  55. 

HEART  -Afflictions. 

“ You  may  file  a strong  man’s  heart  away  for 


HEARTS 


219 


HOMAGE 


a good  many  years,  but  it  will  tell  all  of  a sud- 
den at  last.” — Bleak  House,  Chap.  23. 

HEARTS— The  necessity  of  shutters. 

“ I speak  as  I find,  Mr.  Sweedlepipes,”  said 
Mrs.  Gamp.  “ Forbid  it  should  be  otherways  ! 
But  we  never  knows  wot’s  hidden  in  each 
other’s  hearts  ; and  if  we  had  glass  winders 
there,  we’d  need  keep  the  shetters  up,  some  on 
us,  I do  assure  you  ! ” 

Marlin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  29. 

HEARTS— Light. 

Light  hearts,  light  hearts,  that  float  so  gaily 
on  a smooth  stream,  that  are  so  sparkling  and 
buoyant  in  the  sunshine — down  upon  fruit, 
bloom  upon  flowers,  blush  in  summer  air,  life 
of  the  winged  insect,  whose  whole  existence  is  a 
day — how  soon  ye  sink  in  troubled  water  ! 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  71. 

HEART— The  coin  of  the. 

The  heart  is  not  always  a royal  mint,  with 
patent  machinery,  to  work  its  metal  into  cur- 
rent coin.  Sometimes  it  throws  it  out  in  strange 
forms,  not  easily  recognized  as  coin  at  all.  But 
it  is  sterling  gold.  It  has  at  least  that  merit. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  20. 

HEART— An  empty. 

He  was  touched  in  the  cavity  where  his  heart 
should  have  been — in  that  nest  of  addled  eggs, 
where  the  birds  of  heaven  would  have  lived,  if 
they  had  not  been  whistled  away. 

Hard  7'imes,  Book  III.,  Chap.  2. 

HEART— Like  a bird-cage  (Sampson  Brass). 

“ I respect  you,  Kit,”  said  Brass,  with  emo- 
tion. I saw  enough  of  your  conduct  at  that 
time,  to  respect  you,  though  your  station  is  hum- 
ble, and  your  fortune  lowly.  It  isn’t  the  waist- 
coat that  I look  at.  It  is  the  heart.  The  checks 
in  the  waistcoat  are  but  the  wires  of  the  cage. 
But  the  heart  is  the  bird.  Ah  ! How  many  sich 
birds  are  perpetually  moulting,  and  putting  their 
beaks  through  the  wires  to  peck  at  all  man- 
kind ! ” 

This  poetic  figure,  which  Kit  took  to  be  in 
special  allusion  to  his  own  checked  waistcoat, 
quite  overcame  him  ; Mr.  Brass’s  voice  and 
manner  added  not  a little  to  its  effect,  for  he 
discoursed  with  all  the  mild  austerity  of  a her- 
mit, and  wanted  but  a cord  round  the  waist  of 
his  rusty  surtout,  and  a skull  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  to  be  completely  set  up  in  that  line  of 
business. — Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  56. 

HEART— The  silent  influence  of  the. 

There  was  heart  in  the  room  ; and  who  that 
has  a heart,  ever  fails  to  recognise  the  silent 
presence  of  another  ! 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  20. 

HEARTS— Mere  mechanisms. 

“ I was  about  to  speak  to  you  from  my  heart, 
sir,”  returned  Edward,  “ in  the  confidence  which 
should  subsist  between  us  ; and  you  check  me  in 
the  outset.” 

“ Now  do,  Ned,  do  not,”  said  Mr.  Chester, 
raising  his  delicate  hand  imploringly,  “ talk  in 
that  monstrous  manner.  About  to  speak  from 
yout  heart.  Don’t  you  know  that  the  heart  is 
an  ingenious  part  of  our  formation — the  centre 


of  the  blood-vessels  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — 
which  has  no  more  to  do  with  what  you  say  or 
think,  than  your  knees  have  ? How  can  you  be 
so  very  vulgar  and  absurd  ? These  anatomical 
allusions  should  be  left  to  gentlemen  of  the 
medical  profession.  They  are  really  not  agree- 
able in  society.  You  quite  surprise  me,  Ned.” 

“ Well ! there  are  no  such  things  to  wound, 
or  heal,  or  to  have  regard  for.  I know  your 
creed,  sir,  and  will  say  no  more,”  returned  his 
son. 

“ There  again,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  sipping  his 
wine,  “ you  are  wrong.  I distinctly  say  there 
are  such  things.  We  know  there  are.  The 
hearts  of  animals — of  bullocks,  sheep,  and  so 
forth — are  cooked  and  devoured,  as  I am  told, 
by  the  lower  classes,  with  a vast  deal  of  relish. 
Men  are  sometimes  stabbed  to  the  heart,  shot 
to  the  heart  ; but  as  to  speaking  from  the  heart, 
or  to  the  heart,  or  being  warm-hearted,  or  cold- 
hearted,  or  broken-hearted,  or  being  all  heart, 
or  having  no  heart — pah  1 these  things  are  non- 
sense, Ned.” — Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  32. 

HEARTS  AND  HEADS. 

“ Do  you  know  how  pinched  and  destitute  I 
am  ? ” she  retorted.  “ I do  not  think  you  do,  or 
can.  If  you  had  eyes,  and  could  look  around 
you  on  this  poor  place,  you  would  have  pity  on 
me.  Oh  ! let  your  heart  be  softened  by  your 
own  affliction,  friend,  and  have  some  sympathy 
with  mine.” 

The  blind  man  snapped  his  fingers  as  he  an- 
swered : 

“ — Beside  the  question,  ma’am,  beside  the 
question.  I have  the  softest  heart  in  the  world, 
but  I can’t  live  upon  it.  Many  a gentleman 
lives  well  upon  a soft  head,  who  would  find  a 
heart  of  the  same  quality  a very  great  draw- 
back.”— Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  45. 

HEARTLESSNESS. 

He’d  no  more  heart  than  a iron  file,  he  was  as 
cold  as  death,  and  he  had  the  head  of  the  Devil 
afore  mentioned. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  42. 

HEAVEN— The  real. 

The  real  Heaven  is  some  paces  removed  from 
the  mock  one  in  the  great  chandelier  of  the 
Theatre. — Somebody  s Luggage , Chap.  2. 

HOLIDAYS— The  happy  associations  of. 

Oh,  these  holidays  ! why  will  they  leave  us 
some  regret  ? why  cannot  we  push  them  back, 
only  a week  or  two,  in  our  memories,  so  as  to 
put  them  at  once  at  that  convenient  distance 
whence  they  may  be  regarded  either  with  a calm 
indifference  or  a pleasant  effort  of  recollection  ! 
why  will  they  hang  about  us,  like  the  flavor  of 
yesterday’s  wine,  suggestive  of  headaches  and 
lassitude,  and  those  good  intentions  for  the 
future,  which,  under  the  earth,  form  the  ever- 
lasting pavement  of  a large  estate,  and,  upon  it, 
usually  endure  until  dinner- time  or  thereabouts  ? 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  40. 

HOMAGE— To  woman. 

They  did  homage  to  Bella  as  if  she  were  a 
compound  of  fine  girl,  thorough-bred  horse, 
well-built  drag,  and  remarkable  pipe. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  III.,  Chap.  5. 


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HOME  OF  DICKENS— Gadshill. 

So  smooth  was  the  old  high-road,  and  so  fresh 
were  the  horses,  and  so  fast  went  I,  that  it  was 
midway  between  Gravesend  and  Rochester,  and 
the  widening  river  was  bearing  the  ships,  white- 
sailed  or  black-smoked,  out  to  sea,  when  I 
noticed  by  the  way-side  a very  queer  small  boy. 

“Halloa!”  said  I,  to  the  very  queer  small 
boy,  “ where  do  you  live  ? ” 

“ At  Chatham,”  says  he. 

“ What  do  you  do  there  ? ” says  I. 

“ I go  to  school,”  says  he. 

I took  him  up  in  a moment,  and  we  went  on. 
Presently,  the  very  queer  small  boy  says,  “ This 
is  Gadshill  we  are  coming  to,  where  Falstaff 
went  out  to  rob  those  travellers,  and  ran  away.” 

“You  know  something  about  Falstaff,  eh?” 
said  I. 

“ All  about  him,”  said  the  very  queer  small 
boy,  “ I am  old  (I  am  nine),  and  1 read  all  sorts 
of  books.  But  do  let  us  stop  at  the  top  of  the 
hill,  and  look  at  the  house  there,  if  you  please  ! ” 

“You  admire  that  house? ’’said  I. 

“ Bless  you,  sir,”  said  the  very  queer  small 
boy,  “ when  I was  not  more  than  half  as  old  as 
nine,  it  used  to  be  a treat  for  me  to  be  brought 
to  look  at  it.  And  now  I am  nine  I come  by 
myself  to  look  at  it.  And  ever  since  I can  re- 
collect, my  father,  seeing  me  so  fond  of  it,  has 
often  said  to  me,  4 If  you  were  to  be  very  per- 
severing, and  were  to  work  hard,  you  might 
some  day  come  to  live  in  it.’  Though  that’s 
impossible  1 ” said  the  very  queer  small  boy, 
drawing  a low  breath,  and  now  staring  at  the 
house  out  of  window  with  all  his  might. 

I was  rather  amazed  to  be  told  this  by  the 
very  queer  small  boy  ; for  that  house  happens 
to  be  my  house,  and  I have  reason  to  believe 
that  what  he  said  was  true. 

Well ! I made  no  halt  there,  and  I soon  drop- 
ped the  very  queer  small  boy  and  went  on. 
Over  the  road  where  the  old  Romans  used  to 
march,  over  the  road  where  the  old  Canterbury 
pilgrims  used  to  go,  over  the  road  where  the 
travelling  trains  of  the  old  imperious  priests  and 
princes  used  to  jingle  on  horseback  between  the 
continent  and  this  Island,  through  the  mud  and 
water,  over  the  road  where  Shakespeare  hum- 
med to  himself,  “ Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind,” 
as  he  sat  in  the  saddle  at  the  gate  of  the  inn- 
yard  noticing  the  carriers ; all  among  the  cherry 
orchards,  apple  orchards,  cornfields,  and  hop- 
gardens ; so  went  I,  by  Canterbury  to  Dover. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  7. 

HOME  -Of  Mr.  Dombay. 

Mr.  Dombey’s  house  was  a large  one,  on  the 
shady  side  of  a tall,  dark,  dreadfully  genteel 
street  in  the  region  between  Portland  Place  and 
Bryanstone  Square.  It  was  a cornerhouse,  with 
great  wide  areas  containing  cellars  frowned  upon 
by  barred  windows,  and  leered  at  by  crooked- 
eyed  doors  leading  to  dust-bins.  It  was  a house 
of  dismal  state,  with  a circular  back  to  it,  con- 
taining a whole  suit  of  drawing-rooms  looking 
upon  a gravelled  yard,  where  two  gaunt  trees, 
with  blackened  trunks  and  branches,  rattled 
rather  than  rustled,  their  leaves  were  so  smoke- 
dried  The  summer  sun  was  never  on  the 
street,  but  in  the  morning  about  breakfast-time, 
when  it  came  with  the  water-carts  and  the  old: 
clothes-men,  and  the  people  with  geraniums, 
and  the  umbrella  mender,  and  the  man  who 


trilled  the  little  bell  of  the  Dutch  clock  as  he 
went  along.  It  was  soon  gone  again  to  return 
no  more  that  day  ; and  the  bands  of  music  and 
the  straggling  Punch’s  shows  going  after  it,  left 
it  a prey  to  the  most  dismal  of  organs,  and 
white  mice  ; and  now  and  then  a porcupine,  to 
vary  the  entertainments  ; until  the  butlers  whose 
families  were  dining  out,  began  to  stand  at  the 
house-doors  in  the  twilight,  and  the  lamp-lighter 
made  his  nightly  failure  in  attempting  to  brighten 
up  the  stx-eet  with  gas. — Dombey  <5r*  Son,  Chap.  3. 

HOME— After  a funeral. 

When  the  funeral  was  over,  Mr.  Dombey 
ordered  the  furniture  to  be  covered  up — perhaps 
to  preserve  it  for  the  son  with  whom  his  plans 
were  all  associated — and  the  rooms  to  be  un- 
garnished, saving  such  as  he  retained  for  himself 
on  the  ground  floor.  Accordingly,  mysterious 
shapes  were  made  of  tables  and  chairs,  heaped 
together  in  the  middle  of  rooms,  and  covered 
over  with  great  winding  sheets.  Bell-handles, 
window-blinds,  and  looking-glasses,  being  paper- 
ed up  in  journals,  daily  and  weekly,  obtruded 
fragmentary  accounts  of  deaths  and  dreadful 
murders.  Every  chandelier  or  lustre,  muffled  in 
holland,  looked  like  a monstrous  tear  depending 
from  the  ceiling’s  eye.  Odors,  as  from  vaults 
and  damp  places,  came  out  of  the  chimneys. 
The  dead  and  buried  lady  was  awful  in  a picture- 
frame  of  ghastly  bandages.  Every  gust  of  wind 
that  rose,  brought  eddying  round  the  corner 
from  the  neighboring  mews,  some  fragments  of 
the  straw  that  had  been  strewn  before  the  house 
when  she  was  ill,  mildewed  remains  of  which 
were  still  cleaving  to  the  neighborhood  ; and 
these,  being  always  drawn  by  some  invisible  at- 
traction to  the  threshold  of  the  dirty  house  to 
let  immediately  opposite,  addressed  a dismal 
eloquence»to  Mr.  Dombey’s  windows. 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  3. 

HOME—  Of  a tourist. 

It  was  just  large  enough,  and  no  more  ; was 
as  pretty  within  as  it  was  without,  and  was  per- 
fectly well-arranged  and  comfortable.  Some 
traces  of  the  migratory  habits  of  the  family  were 
to  be  observed  in  the  covered  frames  and  furni- 
ture, and  wrapped  up  hangings  ; but  it  was  easy 
to  see  that  it  was  one  of  Mr.  M eagles’s  whims  to 
have  the  cottage  always  kept,  in  their  absence, 
as  if  they  were  always  coming  back  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  Of  articles  collected  on  his  various 
expeditions,  there  was  such  a vast  miscellany 
that  it  was  like  the  dwelling  of  an  amiable  Cor- 
sair. There  were  antiquities  from  Central  Italy, 
made  by  the  best  modern  houses  in  that  depart- 
ment of  industry ; bits  of  mummy  from  Egypt 
(and  perhaps  Birmingham)  ; model  gondolas 
from  Venice  ; model  villages  from  Switzerland  ; 
morsels  of  tesselated  pavement  from  Hercula- 
neum and  Pompeii,  like  petrified  minced  veal ; 
ashes  out  of  tombs,  and  lava  out  of  Vesuvius  ; 
Spanish  fans,  Spezzian  straw  hats,  Moorish  slip- 
pers, Tuscan  hair-pins,  Carrara  sculpture,  Tr^s- 
taverini  scarfs,  Genoese  velvets  and  filagree, 
Neapolitan  coral,  Roman  cameos,  Geneva  jew- 
elry, Arab  lanterns,  rosaries  blest  all  round  by 
the  Pope  himself,  and  an  infinite  variety  of  lum- 
ber. There  were  views,  like  and  unlike,  of  a 
multitude  of  places  ; and  there  was  one  little 
picture-room  devoted  to  a few  of  the  regular 
sticky  old  Saints,  with  sinews  like  whip-cord. 


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hair  like  Neptune’s,  wrinkles  like  tattooing,  and 
such  coats  of  varnish  that  every  holy  personage 
served  for  a fly-trap,  and  became  what  is  now 
.called  in  the  vulgar  tongue  a Catch-em-alive  O. 
Of  these  pictorial  acquisitions  Mr.  Meagles  spoke 
in  the  usual  manner.  He  was  no  judge,  he  said, 
except  of  what  pleased  himself ; he  had  picked 
them  up,  dirt-cheap,  and  people  had  considered 
them  rather  fine.  One  man,  who  at  any  rate 
ought  to  know  something  of  the  subject,  had  de- 
clared that  “ Sage,  Reading  ” (a  specially  oily 
old  gentleman  in  a blanket,  with  a swan’s  down 
tippet  for  a beard,  and  a web  of  cracks  all  over 
him  like  rich  pie-crust),  to  be  a fine  Guercino. 
As  for  Sebastian  del  Piombo  there,  you  would 
judge  for  yourself ; if  it  were  not  his  later  man- 
ner, the  question  was,  Who  was  it?  Titian, 
that  might  or  might  not  be — perhaps  he  had 
only  touched  it.  Daniel  Doyce  said  perhaps  he 
hadn’t  touched  it,  but  Mr.  Meagles  rather  de- 
clined to  overhear  the  remark. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  16. 

HOME— The  music  of  crickets  at. 

“ This  has  been  a happy  home,  John  ; and  I 
love  the  Cricket  for  its  sake  ! ” 

“ Why,  so  do  I then,”  said  the  Carrier.  “ So 
do  I,  Dot.” 

“ I love  it  for  the  many  times  I have  heard  it, 
and  the  many  thoughts  its  harmless  music  has 
given  me.  Sometimes,  in  the  twilight,  when  I 
have  felt  a little  solitary  and  down-hearted,  John 
— before  baby  was  here,  to  keep  me  company 
and  make  the  house  gay — when  I have  thought 
how  lonely  you  would  be  if  I should  die  ; how 
lonely  I should  be,  if  I could  know  that  you  had 
lost  me,  dear ; its  Chirp,  Chirp,  Chirp,  upon  the 
hearth,  has  seemed  to  tell  me  of  another  little 
voice,  so  sweet,  so  very  dear  to  me,  before  whose 
coming  sound  my  trouble  vanished  like  a dream. 
And  when  I used  to  fear — I did  fear  once,  John, 
I was  very  young,  you  know — that  ours  might 
prove  to  be  an  ill-assorted  marriage,  I being 
such  a child,  and  you  more  like  my  guardian 
than  my  husband ; and  that  you  might  not, 
however  hard  you  tried,  be  able  to  learn  to  love 
me,  as  you  hoped  and  prayed  you  might ; its 
Chirp,  Chirp,  Chirp,  has  cheered  me  up  again, 
and  filled  me  with  new  trust  and  confidence.  I 
was  thinking  of  these  things  to-night,  dear,  when 
I sat  expecting  you  ; and  I love  the  Cricket  for 
their  sake  !” — Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  i. 

HOME— Of  Mrs.  Ckickenstalker. 

Fat  company,  rosy-cheeked  company,  com- 
fortable company.  They  were  but  two,  but  they 
were  red  enough  for  ten.  They  sat  before  a 
bright  fire,  with  a small  low  table  between 
them  ; and  unless  the  fragrance  of  hot  tea  and 
muffins  lingered  longer  in  that  room  than  in 
most  others,  the  table  had  seen  service  very 
lately.  But  all  the  cups  and  saucers  being 
clean,  and  in  their  proper  places  in  the  corner 
cupboard  ; and  the  brass  toasting-fork  hanging 
in  its  usual  nook,  and  spreading  its  four  idle 
fingers  out,  as  if  it  wanted  to  be  measured  for  a 
glove,  there  remained  no  other  visible  tokens 
of  the  meal  just  finished,  than  such  as  purred 
and  washed  their  whiskers  in  the  person  of  the 
basking  cat,  and  glistened  in  the  gracious,  not 
to  say  the  greasy,  faces  of  her  patrons. 

Chimes,  4th  quarter. 


HOME. 

“‘O  Home,  our  comforter  and  friend  when 
others  fall  away,  to  part  with  whom,  at  any 
step  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave  ’ — ” 

* * * * * 

“ ‘ O Home,  so  true  to  us,  so  often  slighted  in 
return,  be  lenient  to  them  that  turn  away  from 
thee,  and  do  not  haunt  their  erring  footsteps  too 
reproachfully ! Let  no  kind  looks,  no  well- 
remembered  smiles,  be  seen  upon  thy  phantom 
face.  Let  no  ray  of  affection,  welcome,  gentle- 
ness, forbearance,  cordiality,  shine  from  thy 
whitehead.  Let  no  old' loving  word  or  tone 
rise  up  in  judgment  against  thy  deserter  ; but 
if  thou  canst  look  harshly  and  severely,  do,  in 
mercy  to  the  Penitent  ! ’ ” 

Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  2. 

HOME— Of  a female  philanthropist. 

We  expressed  our  acknowledgments,  and  sat 
down  behind  the  door,  where  there  was  a lame 
invalid  of  a sofa.  Mrs.  Jellyby  had  very  good 
hair,  but  was  too  much  occupied  with  her  African 
duties  to  brush  it.  The  shawl  in  which  she  had 
been  loosely  muffled,  dropped  on  to  her  chair 
when  she  advanced  to  us  ; and  as  she  turned  to 
resume  her  seat,  we  could  not  help  noticing  that 
her  dress  didn’t  nearly  meet  up  the  back,  and 
that  the  open  space  was  railed  across  with  a 
lattice-work  of  stay-lace — like  a summer-house. 

The  room,  which  was  strewn  with  papers,  and 
nearly  filled  by  a great  writing-table  covered 
with  similar  litter,  was,  I must  say,  not  only 
very  untidy,  but  very  dirty.  We  were  obliged 
to  take  notice  of  that  with  our  sense  of  sight, 
even  while,  with  our  sense  of  hearing,  we  fol- 
lowed the  poor  child  who  had  tumbled  down- 
stairs : I think  into  the  back-kitchen,  where 
somebody  seemed  to  stifle  him. 

❖ * * ❖ * 

But  what  principally  struck  us  was  a jaded, 
and  unhealthy-looking,  though  by  no  means 
plain  giri,  at  the  writing-table,  who  sat  biting 
the  feather  of  her  pen,  and  staring  at  us.  I 
suppose  nobody  ever  was  in  such  a state  of  ink. 
And,  from  her  tumbled  hair  to  her  pretty  feet, 
which  were  disfigured  with  frayed  and  broken 
satin  slippers  trodden  down  at  heel,  she  really 
seemed  to  have  no  article  of  dress  upon  her, 
from  a pin  upwards,  that  was  in  its  proper  con- 
dition or  its  right  place. 

“You  find  me,  my  dears,”  said  Mrs.  Jellyby, 
snuffing  the  two  great  office  candles  in  tin  can- 
dlesticks, which  made  the  room  taste  strongly  of 
hot  tallow  (the  fire  had  gone  out,  and  there  was 
nothing  in  the  grate  but  ashes,  a bundle  of 
wood,  and  a poker),  “ you  find  me,  my  dears,  as 
usual,  very  busy  ; but  that  you  will  excuse. 
The  African  project  at  present  employs  my  whole 
time.  It  involves  me  in  correspondence  with 
public  bodies,  and  with  private  individuals  anx- 
ious for  the  welfare  of  their  species  all  over  the 
country.  I am  happy  to  say  it  is  advancing. 
We  hope  by  this  time  next  year  to  have  from  a 
hundred  and  fifty  to  two  hundred  healthy  fami- 
lies cultivating  coffee  and  educating  the  natives 
of  Borrioboola-Gha,  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Niger.” — Bleak  House,  Chap.  4. 

HOME— A solitary. 

His  dwelling  was  so  solitary  and  vault-like — 
an  old,  retired  part  of  an  ancient  endowment 
for  students,  once  a brave  edifice  planted  in  an 


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open  place,  but  now  the  obsolete  whim  of  for- 
gotten architects  ; smoke-age-and-weather-dark- 
ened,  squeezed  on  every  side  by  the  overgrowing 
of  the  great  city,  and  choked,  like  an  old  well, 
with  stones  and  bricks  ; its  small  quadrangles, 
lying  down  in  very  pits  formed  by  the  streets 
and  buildings,  which,  in  course  of  time,  had 
been  constructed  above  its  heavy  chimney 
stacks  ; its  old  trees,  insulted  by  the  neighbor- 
ing smoke,  which  deigned  to  droop  so  low  when 
it  was  very  feeble  and  the  weather  very  moody  ; 
its  grass-plots,  struggling  with  the  mildewed 
earth  to  be  grass,  or  to  win  any  show  of  com- 
promise ; its  silent  pavement,  unaccustomed  to 
the  tread  of  feet,  and  even  to  the  observation 
of  eyes,  except  when  a stray  face  looked  down 
from  the  upper  world,  wondering  what  nook  it 
was  ; its  sun-dial  in  a little  bricked-up  corner, 
where  no  sun  had  straggled  fora  hundred  years, 
but  where,  in  compensation  for  the  sun’s  ne- 
glect, the  snow  would  lie  for  weeks  when  it  lay 
nowhere  else,  and  the  black  east  wind  would 
spin  like  a huge  humming-top,  when  in  all 
other  places  it  was  silent  and  still. 

His  dwelling,  at  its  heart  and  core — within 
doors — at  his  fireside — was  so  lowering  and 
old,  so  crazy,  yet  so  strong,  with  its  worm-eaten 
beams  of  wood  in  the  ceiling  and  its  sturdy 
floor  shelving  downward  to  the  great  oak  chim- 
ney-piece ; so  environed  and  hemmed  in  by  the 
pressure  of  the  town,  yet  so  remote  in  fashion, 
age,  and  custom  ; so  quiet,  yet  so  thundering 
with  echoes  when  a distant  voice  was  raised  or  a 
door  was  shut — echoes  not  confined  to  the  many 
low  passages  and  empty  rooms,  but  rumbling 
and  grumbling  till  they  were  stifled  in  the  heavy 
air  of  the  forgotten  Crypt  where  the  Norman 
arches  were  half  buried  in  the  earth. 

Haunted  Man , Chap.  i. 

HOME-Of  Miss  Tox. 

Miss  Tox  inhabited  a dark  little  house  that 
had  .been  squeezed,  at  some  remote  period  of 
English  History,  into  a fashionable  neighbor- 
hood at  the  west  end  of  the  town,  where  it  stood 
in  the  shade  like  a poor  relation  of  the  great 
street  round  the  comer,  coldly  looked  down  up- 
on by  mighty  mansions.  It  was  not  exactly  in  a 
court,  and  it  was  not  exactly  in  a yard  ; but  it  was 
in  the  dullest  of  No-Thoroughfares,  rendered 
anxious  and  haggard  by  distant  double  knocks. 

* * * * * 

The  greater  part  of  the  furniture  was  of  the 
powdered  head  and  pig-tail  period  ; comprising 
a plate-warmer,  always  languishing  and  sprawl- 
ing its  four  attenuated  bow  legs  in  somebody’s 
way  ; and  an  obsolete  harpsichord,  illuminated 
round  the  maker’s  name  with  a painted  garland 
of  sweet  peas. 

* * * * * 

Miss  Tox’s  bedroom  (which  was  at  the  back) 
commanded  a vista  of  Mews,  where  hostlers,  at 
whatever  sort  of  work  engaged,  were  continual- 
ly accompanying  themselves  with  effervescent 
noises  ; and  where  the  most  domestic  and  con- 
fidential garments  of  coachmen  and  their  wives 
and  families,  usually  hung,  like  Macbeth’s  ban- 
ners, on  the  outward  walls. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  7. 

HOME  - Of  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

The  Castle  of  this  ogress  and  child -queller 
was  in  a sleep  by-street  at  Brighton,  where  the 


soil  was  more  than  usually  chalky,  flinty,  and 
sterile,  and  the  houses  were  more  than  usually 
brittle  and  thin  ; where  the  small  front-gardens 
had  the  unaccountable  property  of  producing 
nothing  but  marigolds,  whatever  was  sown  in 
them  ; and  where  snails  were  constantly  dis- 
covered holding  on  to  the  street  doors,  and 
other  public  places  they  were  not  expected  to 
ornament,  with  the  tenacity  of  cupping-glasses. 
In  the  winter-time  the  air  couldn’t  be  got  out 
of  the  Castle,  and  in  the  summer-time  it  couldn’t 
be  got  in.  There  was  such  a continual  rever- 
beration of  wind  in  it,  that  it  sounded  like  a 
great  shell,  which  the  inhabitants  were  obliged 
to  hold  to  their  ears  night  and  day,  whether 
they  liked  it  or  no.  It  was  not,  naturally,  a 
fresh-smelling  house  ; and  in  the  window  of 
the  front  parlor,  which  was  never  opened,  Mrs. 
Pipchin  kept  a collection  of  plants  in  pots, 
which  imparted  an  earthy  flavor  of  their  own 
to  the  establishment.  However  choice  exam- 
ples of  their  kind,  too,  these  plants  were  of  a 
kind  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  embowerment  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin.  There  were  half-a-dozen  speci- 
mens of  the  cactus,  writhing  round  bits  of  lath, 
like  hairy  serpents  ; another  specimen  shooting 
out  broad  claws,  like  a green  lobster ; several 
creeping  vegetables,  possessed  of  sticky  and  ad- 
hesive leaves  ; and  one  uncomfortable  flower-pot 
hanging  to  the  ceiling,  which  appeared  to  have 
boiled  over,  and  tickling  people  underneath 
with  its  long  green  ends,  reminded  them  of 
spiders — in  which  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  dwelling  was 
uncommonly  prolific,  though  perhaps  it  challen- 
ged competition  still  more  proudly,  in  the  season, 
in  point  of  earwigs. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  8. 

HOME-The  love  of. 

And  let  me  linger  in  this  place  for  an  instant, 
to  remark,  if  ever  household  affections  and  loves 
are  graceful  things,  they  are  graceful  in  the  poor. 
The  ties  that  bind  the  wealthy  and  the  proud  to 
home  may  be  forged  on  earth,  but  those  which 
link  the  poor  man  to  his  humble  hearth  are  of 
the  truer  metal  and  bear  the  stamp  of  Heaven. 
The  man  of  high  descent  may  love  the  halls 
and  lands  of  his  inheritance  as  a part  of  him- 
self; as  trophies  of  his  birth  and  power:  his 
associations  with  them  are  associations  of  pride, 
and  wealth,  and  triumph  : the  poor  man’s  attach- 
ment to  the  tenement  he  holds,  which  strangers 
have  held  before,  and  may  to-morrow  occupy 
again,  has  a worthier  root,  struck  deep  into  a 
purer  soil.  His  household  gods  are  of  flesh 
and  blood,  with  no  alloy  of  silver,  gold,  or  pre- 
cious stones  ; he  has  no  property  but  in  the  af- 
fections of  his  own  heart ; and  when  they  en- 
dear bare  floors  and  walls,  despite  of  rags  and 
toil  and  scanty  fare,  that  man  has  his  love  of 
home  from  God,  and  his  rude  hut  becomes  a 
solemn  place. 

Oh  ! if  those  who  rule  the  destinies  of  nations 
would  but  remember  this — if  they  would  but 
think  how  hard  it  is  for  the  very  poor  to  have 
engendered  in  their  hearts  that  love  of  home 
from  which  all  domestic  virtues  spring,  when 
they  live  in  dense  and  squalid  masses  where 
social  decency  is  lost,  or  rather  never  found, — 
if  they  would  but  turn  aside  from  the  wide 
thoroughfares  and  great  houses,  and  strive  to 
improve  the  wretched  dwellings  in  by-ways, 
where  only  Poverty  may  walk, — many  low  roofs 
would  point  more  truly  to  the  sky,  than  the 


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loftiest  steeple  that  now  rears  prpudly  up  from 
the  midst  of  guilt,  and  crime,  and  horrible  dis- 
ease, to  mock  them  by  its  contrast.  In  hollow 
voices  from  Workhouse,  Hospital,  and  Jail,  this 
truth  is  preached  from  day  to  day,  and  has  been 
proclaimed  for  years.  It  is  no  light  matter — no 
outcry  from  the  working  vulgar — no  mere  ques- 
tion of  the  people’s  health  and  comforts  that 
may  be  whistled  down  on  Wednesday  nights. 
In  love  of  home,  the  love  of  country  has  its 
rise  ; and  who  are  the  truer  patriots  or  the  bet- 
ter in  time  of  need — those  who  venerate  the 
land,  owning  its  wood,  and  stream,  and  earth, 
and  all  that  they  produce — or  those  who  love 
their  country,  boasting  not  a foot  of  ground  in 
all  its  wide  domain  ? 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  38. 

HOME— The  comforts  of  (Gabriel  Varden). 

That  afternoon,  when  he  had  slept  off  his 
fatigue  ; had  shaved,  and  washed,  and  dressed, 
and  freshened  himself  from  top  to  toe  ; when 
he  had  dined,  comforted  himself  with  a pipe,  an 
extra  Toby,  a nap  in  the  great  arm-chair,  and  a 
quiet  chat  with  Mrs.  Varden  on  everything  that 
had  happened,  was  happening,  or  about  to  hap- 
pen, within  the  sphere  of  their  domestic  con- 
cern ; the  locksmith  sat  himself  down  at  the 
tea-table  in  the  little  back  parlor  ; the  rosiest, 
cosiest,  merriest,  heartiest,  best-contented  old 
buck  in  Great  Britain,  or  out  of  it. 

There  he  sat,  with  his  beaming  eye  on  Mrs. 
V.,  and  his  shining  face  suffused  with  gladness, 
and  his  capacious  waistcoat  smiling  in  every 
wrinkle,  and  his  jovial  humor  peeping  from  un- 
der the  table  in  the  very  plumpness  of  his  legs : 
a sight  to  turn  the  vinegar  of  misanthropy  into 
purest  milk  of  human  kindness.  There  he  sat, 
watching  his  wife  as  she  decorated  the  room 
with  flowers  for  the  greater  honor  of  Dolly  and 
Joseph  Willet,  who  had  gone  out  walking,  and 
for  whom  the  tea-kettle  had  been  singing  gaily 
on  the  hob  full  twenty  minutes,  chirping  as  never 
kettle  chirped  before  ; for  whom  the  best  ser- 
vice of  real  undoubted  china,  patterned  with  di- 
vers round-faced  mandarins  holding  up  broad 
umbrellas,  was  now  displayed  in  all  its  glory  ; 
to  tempt  whose  appetites  a clear,  transparent, 
juicy  ham,  garnished  with  cool,  green  lettuce- 
leaves  and  fragrant  cucumber,  reposed  upon  a 
shady  table,  covered  with  a snow-white  cloth  ; 
for  whose  delight,  preserves  and  jams,  crisp 
cakes  and  other  pastry,  short  to  eat,  with  cun- 
ning twists,  and  cottage  loaves,  and  rolls  of 
bread,  both  white  and  brown,  were  all  set  forth 
in  rich  profusion  ; in  whose  youth  Mrs.  V.  her- 
self had  grown  quite  young,  and  stood  there  in 
a gown  of  red  and  white  ; symmetrical  in  fig- 
ure, buxom  in  bodice,  ruddy  in  cheek  and  lip, 
faultless  in  ankle,  laughing  in  face  and  mood, 
in  all  respects  delicious  to  behold — there  sat 
the  locksmith  among  all  and  every  these  de- 
lights, the  sun  that  shone  upon  them  all : the 
centre  of  the  system  : the  source  of  light,  heat, 
life,  and  frank  enjoyment  in  the  bright  house- 
hold world. — Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  So. 

HOME— Of  confusion  and  wretchedness. 

“My  dear!”  said  I,  smiling.  “Your  papa, 
no  doubt,  considers  his  family.” 

“ O yes,  his  family  is  all  very  fine,  Miss  Sum- 
merson,”  replied  Miss  Jellyby  ; “but  what  com- 
fort is  his  family  to  him  ? His  family  is  nothing 


but  bills,  dirt,  waste,  noise,  tumbles  down-stairs, 
confusion,  and  wretchedness.  His  scrambling 
home,  from  week’s  end  to  week’s  end,  is  like  one 
great  washing-day — only  nothing’s  washed  ! ” 
Bleak  House , Chap.  14. 

HOME— A rosary  of  regrets. 

He  was  tortured  by  anxiety  for  those  he  had 
left  at  home  ; and  that  home  itself  was  but 
another  bead  in  the  long  rosary  of  his  regrets. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  61. 

HOME— Of  Captain  Cuttle. 

Captain  Cuttle  lived  on  the  brink  of  a little 
canal  near  the  India  Docks,  where  there  was  a 
swivel  bridge,  which  opened  now  and  then  to 
let  some  wandering  monster  of  a ship  come 
roaming  up  the  street  like  a stranded  leviathan. 
The  gi'adual  change  from  land  to  water,  on  the 
approach  to  Captain  Cuttle’s  lodgings,  was  curi- 
ous. It  began  with  the  erection  of  flagstaff's, 
as  appurtenances  to  public-houses  ; then  came 
slop-sellers’  shops,  with  Guernsey  shirts,  sou’- 
wester hats,  and  canvas  pantaloons,  at  once  the 
tightest  and  the  loosest  of  their  order,  hanging 
up  outside.  These  were  succeeded  by  anchor 
and  chain-cable  forges,  where  sledge-hammers 
were  dinging  upon  iron  all  day  long.  Then 
came  rows  of  houses,  with  little  vane-surmount- 
ed masts  uprearing  themselves  from  among  the 
scarlet  beans.  Then.,  ditches.  Then  pollard 
willows.  Then  more  ditches.  Then  unaccount- 
able patches  of  dirty  water,  hardly  to  be  des- 
cried, for  the  ships  that  covered  them.  Then, 
the  air  was  perfumed  with  chips  ; and  all  other 
trades  were  swallowed  up  in  mast,  oar,  and 
block-making,  and  boat-building.  Then,  the 
ground  grew  marshy  and  unsettled.  Then, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  smelt  but  rum  and  su- 
gar. Then,  Captain  Cuttle’s  lodgings — at  once 
a first  floor  and  a top  story,  in  Brig  Place — 
were  close  before  you. 

Dombey  dr3  Son,  Chap.  9. 

HOME— The  representative  of  character. 

It  is  not  a mansion  ; it  is  of  no  pretensions  as 
to  size  ; but  it  is  beautifully  arranged,  and  taste- 
fully kept.  The  lawn,  the  soft,  smooth  slope, 
the  flow’er-garden,  the  clumps  of  trees,  where 
graceful  forms  of  ash  and  willow  are  not  want- 
ing, the  conservatory,  the  rustic  verandah,  with 
sweet-smelling  creeping  plants  entwined  about 
the  pillars,  the  simple  exterior  of  the  house,  the 
well-ordered  offices,  though  all  upon  the  dimin- 
utive scale  proper  to  a mere  cottage,  bespeak 
an  amount  of  elegant  comfort  within,  that 
might  serve  for  a palace.  This  indication  is 
not  without  warrant ; for  within  it  is  a house  of 
refinement  and  luxury.  Rich  colors,  excellently 
blended,  meet  the  eye  at  every  turn  ; in  the 
furniture — its  proportions  admirably  devised  to 
suit  the  shapes  and  sizes  of  the  small  rooms  ; 
on  the  walls ; upon  the  floors  ; tingeing  and 
subduing  the  light  that  comes  in  through  the 
odd  glass  doors  and  windows  here  and  there. 
There  are  a few  choice  prints  and  pictures  too  ; 
in  quaint  nooks  and  recesses  there  is  no  want  of 
books  ; and  there  are  games  of  skill  and  chance 
set  forth  on  tables — fantastic  chess-men,  dice, 
back-gammon,  cards,  and  billiards. 

And  yet,  amidst  this  opulence  of  comfort, 
there  is  something  in  the  general  air  that  is  not 
well.  Is  it  that  the  carpets  and  the  cushions 


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are  too  soft  and  noiseless,  so  that  those  who  move 
or  repose  among  them  seem  to  act  by  stealth  ? 
Is  it  that  the  prints  and  pictures  do  not  com- 
memorate great  thoughts  or  deeds,  or  render 
nature  in  the  poetry  of  landscape,  hall,  or  hut, 
but  are  of  one  voluptuous  cast — mere  shows  of 
form  and  color — and  no  more?  Is  it  that  the 
books  have  all  their  gold  outside,  and  that  the 
titles  of  the  greater  part  qualify  them  to  be 
companions  of  the  prints  and  pictures?  Is  it 
that  the  completeness  and  the  beauty  of  the 
place  are  here  and  there  belied  by  an  affectation 
of  humility,  in  some  unimportant  and  inexpen- 
sive regard,  which  is  as  false  as  the  face  of  the 
too  truly  painted  portrait  hanging  yonder,  or 
its  original  at  breakfast  in  his  easy-chair  below 
it?  Or  is  it  that,  with  the  daily  breath  of  that 
original  and  master  of  all  here,  there  issues 
forth  some  subtle  portion  of  himself,  which 
gives  a vague  expression  of  himself  to  every- 
thing about  him  ? — Dombey  Son,  Chap.  33. 

HOME— In  the  suburbs. 

The  neighborhood  in  which  it  stands  has  as 
little  of  the  country  to  recommend  it,  as  it  has 
of  the  town.  It  is  neither  of  the  town  or  coun- 
try. The  former,  like  the  giant  in  his  travel- 
ling boots,  has  made  a stride  and  passed  it,  and 
has  set  his  brick  and  mortar  heel  a long  way  in 
advance  ; but  the  intermediate  space  between 
the  giant’s  feet,  as  yet,  is  only  blighted  country, 
and  not  town. — Dombey  6°  Son , Chap.  33. 

HOME— Disappointment  in  a. 

It  is  a most  miserable  thing  to  feel  ashamed 
of  home.  There  may  be  black  ingratitude  in 
the  thing,  and  the  punishment  may  be  retribu- 
tive and  well  deserved  ; but,  that  it  is  a misera- 
ble thing,  I can  testify. 

Home  had  never  been  a very  pleasant  place 
to  me,  because  of  my  sister’s  temper.  But,  Joe 
had  sanctified  it,  and  I believed  in  it.  I had 
believed  in  the  best  parlor  as  a most  elegant 
saloon  ; I had  believed  in  the  front  door,  as  a 
mysterious  portal  of  the  Temple  of  State,  whose 
solemn  opening  was  attended  with  a sacrifice  of 
roast  fowls  ; I had  believed  in  the  kitchen  as  a 
chaste  though  not  magnificent  apartment ; I had 
believed  in  the  forge  as  the  glowing  road  to 
manhood  and  independence.  Within  a single 
year  all  th's  was  changed. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  13. 

HOME. 

At  sunrise,  one  fair  Monday  morning — the 
twenty-seventh  of  June,  I shall  not  easily  forget 
the  day, — there  lay  before  us  old  Cape  Clear, 
God  bless  it,  showing,  in  the  mist  of  early  morn- 
ing, like  a cloud  ; the  brightest  and  most  wel- 
come cloud  to  us  that  ever  hid  the  face  of 
Heaven’s  fallen  sister, — Home. 

American  Notes , Chap.  16. 

HOME  Adornment  of  a. 

But  how  the  graces  and  elegances  which  she 
had  dispersed  about  the  poorly  furnished  room, 
went  to  the  heart  of  Nicholas  ! Flowers,  plants, 
birds,  the  harp,  the  old  piano  whose  notes  had 
sounded  so  much  sweeter  in  by-gone  times ; 
how  many  struggles  had  it  cost  her  to  keep 
these  two  last  links  of  that  broken  chain  which 
bound  her  yet  to  home!  With  every  slender 
ornament,  the  occupation  of  her  leisure  hours, 


replete  with  that  graceful  charm  which  lingers 
in  every  little  tasteful  work  of  woman’s  hands, 
how  much  patient  endurance  and  how  many 
gentle  affections  were  entwined  ! He  felt  as 
though  the  smile  of  Heaven  were  on  the  little 
chamber;  as  though  the  beautiful  devotion  of 
so  young  and  weak  a creature  had  shed  a ray 
of  its  own  on  the  inanimate  things  around,  and 
made  them  beautiful  as  itself ; as  though  the 
halo  with  which  old  painters  surround  the  bright 
angels  of  a sinless  world,  played  about  a being 
akin  in  spirit  to  them,  and  its  light  were  visibly 
before  him — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  46. 

HOME  The  place  of  affection. 

“ When  I talk  of  homes,”  pursued  Nicholas, 
“ I talk  of  mine — which  is  yours  of  course.  If  it 
were  defined  by  any  particular  four  walls  and  a 
roof,  God  knows  I should  be  sufficiently  puzzled 
to  say  whereabouts  it  lay  ; but  that  is  not  what 
I mean.  When  I speak  of  home,  I speak  of  the 
place  where,  in  default  of  a better,  those  I love 
are  gathered  together  ; and  if  that  place  were  a 
gipsy’s  tent,  or  a barn,  I should  call  it  by  the 
same  good  name  notwithstanding.  And  now, 
for  what  is  my  present  home  : which,  however 
alarming  your  expectations  may  be,  will  neither 
terrify  you  by  its  extent  nor  its  magnificence!” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  35. 

HOME— An  abandoned. 

God  knows  I had  no  part  in  it  while  they  re- 
mained there,  but  it  pained  me  to  think  of  the 
dear  old  place  as  altogether  abandoned  ; of  the 
weeds  growing  tall  in  the  garden,  and  the  fallen 
leaves  lying  thick  and  wet  upon  the  paths.  I 
imagined  how  the  winds  of  winter  would  howl 
round  it,  how  the  cold  rain  would  beat  upon  the 
window-glass,  how  the  moon  would  make  ghosts 
on  the  walls  of  the  empty  rooms,  watching  their 
solitude  all  night.  I thought  afresh  of  the  grave 
in  the  churchyard,  underneath  the  tree : and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  house  were  dead  too,  now,  and 
all  connected  with  my  father  and  mother  were 
faded  away. — David  Copperfield , Chap.  17. 

HOME— A desolate. 

Florence  lived  alone  in  the  great  dreary 
house,  and  day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived 
alone  ; and  the  blank  walls  looked  down  upon 
her  with  a vacant  stare,  as  if  they  had  a Gor- 
gon-like mind  to  stare  her  youth  and  beauty  into 
stone. 

No  magic  dwelling-place  in  magic  story,  shut 
up  in  the  heart  of  a thick  wood,  was  ever  more 
solitary  and  deserted  to  the  fancy,  than  was  her 
father’s  mansion  in  its  grim  reality,  as  it  stood 
lowering  on  the  street : always  by  night,  when 
lights  were  shining  from  neighboring  windows, 
a blot  upon  its  scanty  brightness  ; always  by 
day,  a frown  upon  its  never-smiling  face. 

There  were  not  two  dragon  sentries  keeping 
ward  before  the  gate  of  this  abode,  as  in  magic 
legend  are  usually  found  on  duty  over  the 
wronged  innocence  imprisoned  ; but  besides  a 
glowering  visage,  with  its  thin  lips  parted  wicked- 
ly, that  surveyed  all  comers  from  above  the  arch- 
way of  the  door,  there  was  a monstrous  fantasy  of 
rusty  iron,  curling  and  twisting  like  a petrifaction 
of  an  arbor  over  the  threshold,  budding  in  spikes 
and  corkscrew  points,  and  bearing,  one  on  either 
side,  two  ominous  extinguishers  that  seemed  to 
say,  “Who  enter  here,  leave  light  behind!” 


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There  were  no  talismanic  characters  engraven  on 
the  portal,  but  the  house  was  now  so  neglected  in 
appearance,  that  boys  chalked  the  railings  and 
the  pavement — particularly  round  the  corner 
where  the  side  wall  was — and  drew  ghosts  on  the 
stable  door  ; and  being  sometimes  driven  off  by 
Mr.  Towlinson,  made  portraits  of  him  in  return, 
with  his  ears  growing  out  horizontally  from  under 
his  hat.  Noise  ceased  to  be  within  the  shadow  of 
the  roof.  The  brass  band  that  came  into  the 
street  once  a week,  in  the  morning,  never  brayed 
a note  in  at  those  windows  ; but  all  such  com- 
pany, down  to  a poor  little  piping  organ  of  weak 
intellect,  with  an  imbecile  party  of  automaton 
dancers,  waltzing  in  and  out  of  folding-doors, 
fell  off  from  it  with  one  accord,  and  shunned  it 
as  a hopeless  place. 

The  spell  upon  it  was  more  wasting  than  the 
spell  that  used  to  set  enchanted  houses  sleeping 
once  upon  a time,  but  left  their  waking  fresh- 
ness unimpaired. 

The  passive  desolation  of  disuse  was  every- 
where silently  manifest  about  it.  Within  doors, 
curtains,  drooping  heavily,  lost  their  old  folds 
and  shapes,  and  hung  like  cumbrous  palls. 
Hecatombs  of  furniture,  still  piled  and  covered 
up,  shrunk  like  imprisoned  and  forgotten  men, 
and  changed  insensibly.  Mirrors  were  dim  as 
with  the  breath  of  years.  Patterns  of  carpets 
faded  and  became  perplexed  and  faint,  like  the 
memory  of  those  years’  trifling  incidents. 
Boards,  starting  at  unwonted  footsteps,  creaked 
and  shook.  Keys  rusted  in  the  locks  of  doors. 
Damp  started  on  the  walls,  and  as  the  stains 
came  out,  the  pictures  seemed  to  go  in  and 
secrete  themselves.  Mildew  and  mould  began 
to  lurk  in  closets.  Fungus  trees  grew  in  corners 
of  the  cellars.  Dust  accumulated,  nobody  knew 
whence  or  how  : spiders,  moths,  and  grubs  were 
heard  of  every  day.  An  exploratory  black-beetle 
now  and  then  was  found  immovable  upon  the 
stairs,  or  in  an  upper  room,  as  wondering  how 
he  got  there.  Rats  began  to  squeak  and 
scuffle  in  the  night-time,  through  dark  galleries 
they  mined  behind  the  panelling. 

The  dreary  magnificence  of  the  state-rooms, 
seen  imperfectly  by  the  doubtful  light  admitted 
through  closed  shutters,  would  have  answered 
well  enough  for  an  enchanted  abode.  Such  as 
the  tarnished  paws  of  gilded  lions,  stealthily 
put  out  from  beneath  their  wrappers  ; the  marble 
lineaments  of  busts  on  pedestals,  fearfully  re- 
vealing themselves  through  veils  ; the  clocks 
that  never  told  the  time,  or,  if  wound  up  by  any 
chance,  told  it  wrong,  and  struck  unearthly 
numbers,  which  are  not  upon  the  dial ; the  acci- 
dental tinklings  among  the  pendant  lustres, 
more  startling  than  alai'm-bells  ; the  softened 
sounds  and  laggard  air  that  made  their  way 
among  these  objects,  and  a phantom  crowd  of 
others,  shrouded  and  hooded,  and  made  spectral 
of  shape.  But,  besides,  there  was  the  great 
staircase,  where  the  lord  of  the  place  so  rarely 
set  his  foot,  and  by  which  his  little  child  had 
gone  up  to  Heaven.  There  were  other  staircases 
and  passages  where  no  one  went  for  weeks  to- 
gether ; there  were  two  closed  rooms  associated 
with  dead  members  of  the  family,  and  with 
whispered  recollections  of  them  ; and  to  all  the 
house  but  Florence,  there  was  a gentle  figure 
moving  through  the  solitude  and  gloom,  that 
gave  to  every  lifeless  thing  a touch  of  present 
human  interest  and  wonder. 


For  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted 
house,  and  day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived 
alone,  and  the  cold  walls  looked  down  upon  her 
with  a vacant  stare,  as  if  they  had  a Gorgon-like 
mind  to  stare  her  youth  and  beauty  into  stone. 

The  grass  began  to  grow  upon  the  roof,  and 
in  the  crevices  of  the  basement  paving.  A scaly, 
crumbling  vegetation  sprouted  round  the  win- 
dow-sills. Fragments  of  mortar  lost  their  hold 
upon  the  inside  of  the  unused  chimneys,  and 
came  dropping  down.  The  two  trees  with  the 
smoky  trunks  were  blighted  high  up,  and  the 
withered  branches  domineered  above  the  leaves. 
Through  the  whole  building  white  had  turned 
yellow,  yellow  nearly  black  : and  since  the  time 
when  the  poor  lady  died,  it  had  slowly  become 
a dark  gap  in  the  long  monotonous  street. 

But  Florence  bloomed  there,  like  the  king’s 
fair  daughter  in  the  story. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  23. 

HOME— A fashionable. 

The  saying  is,  that  home  is  home,  be  it  never 
so  homely.  If  it  hold  good  in  the  opposite 
contingency,  and  home  is  home  be  it  never  so 
stately,  what  an  altar  to  the  Household  Gods  is 
raised  up  here. — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  35. 

HOME— Family  reunion  at  Toodle’s. 

Mr.  Toodle  had  only  three  stages  of  existence. 
He  was  either  taking  refreshment  in  the  bosom 
just  mentioned,  or  he  was  tearing  through  the 
country  at  from  twenty-five  to  fifty  miles  an  hour, 
or  he  was  sleeping  after  his  fatigues.  He  was 
always  in  a whirlwind  or  a calm,  and  a peace- 
able, contented,  easy-going  man  Mr.  Toodle 
was  in  either  state,  Avho  seemed  to  have  made 
over  all  his  own  inheritance  of  fuming  and  fret- 
ting to  the  engines  with  which  he  was  connected, 
which  panted,  and  gasped,  and  chafed,  and 
wore  themselves  out,  in  a most  unsparing  man- 
ner, while  Mr.  Toodle  led  a mild  and  equable 
life. 

“Polly,  my  gal,”  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a 
young  Toodle  on  each  knee,  and  two  more 
making  tea  for  him,  and  plenty  more  scattered 
about — Mr.  Toodle  was  never  out  of  children, 
but  always  kept  a good  supply  on  hand — “ you 
an’t  seen  our  Biler  lately,  have  you  ? ” 

“ No,”  replied  Polly,  “ but  he’s  almost  certain 
to  look  in  to-night.  It’s  his  right  evening,  and 
he’s  very  regular.” 

“ I suppose,”  said  Mr.  Toodle,  relishing  his 
meal  infinitely,  “ as  our  Biler  is  a doin’  now  about, 
as  well  as  a boy  can  do,  eh,  Polly  ? ” 

“ Oh ! he’s  a doing  beautiful !”  responded  Polly. 

“ He  an’t  got  to  be  at  all  secret-like — has  he, 
Polly?  ” inquired  Mr.  Toodle. 

“ No  ! ” said  Mrs.  Toodle,  plumply. 

* * * * * 

“You  see,  my  boys  and  gals,”  said  Mr.  Too- 
dle, looking  round  upon  his  family,  “ wotever 
you’re  up  to  in  a honest  way,  it’s  my  opinion 
as  you  can’t  do  better  than  be  open.  If  you 
find  yourselves  in  cuttings  or  in  tunnels,  don’t 
you  play  no  secret  games.  Keep  your  whistles 
going,  and  let’s  know  where  you  are.” 

This  profound  reflection  Mr.  Toodle  washed 
down  with  a pint  mug  of  tea,  and  proceeded  to 
solidify  with  a great  weight  of  bread  and  but- 
ter ; charging  his  young  daughters,  meanwhile, 
to  keep  plenty  of  hot  water  in  the  pot,  as  he 


HOME 


220 


HONOR 


was  uncommon  dry,  and  should  take  the  indefi- 
nite quantity  of  “ a sight  of  mugs,”  before  his 
thirst  was  appeased. 

In  satisfying  himself,  however,  Mr.  Toodle 
was  not  regardless  of  the  younger  branches 
about  him,  who,  although  they  had  made  their 
own  evening  repast,  were  on  the  look-out  for 
irregular  morsels  as  possessing  a relish.  These 
he  distributed  now  and  then  to  the  expectant 
circle,  by  holding  out  great  wedges  of  bread 
and  butter,  to  be  bitten  at  by  the  family  in  law- 
ful succession,  and  by  serving  out  small  doses 
of  tea  in  like  manner  with  a spoon ; which 
snacks  had  such  a relish  in  the  mouths  of  these 
young  Toodles,  that,  after  partaking  of  the  same, 
they  performed  private  dances  of  ecstasy  among 
themselves,  and  stood  on  one  leg  a piece,  and 
hopped,  and  indulged  in  other  saltatory  tokens 
of  gladness.  These  vents  for  their  excitement 
found,  they  gradually  closed  about  Mr.  Toodle 
again,  and  eyed  him  hard  as  he  got  through 
more  bread  and  butter,  and  tea ; affecting, 
however,  to  have  no  further  expectations  of 
their  own  in  reference  to  those  viands,  but  to 
be  conversing  on  foreign  subjects,  and  whisper- 
ing confidentially. 

Mr.  Toodle,  in  the  midst  of  this  family  group, 
and  setting  an  awful  example  to  his  children  in 
the  way  of  appetite,  was  conveying  the  two 
young  Toodles  on  his  knees  to  Birmingham  by 
special  engine,  and  was  contemplating  the  rest 
over  a barrier  of  bread  and  butter,  when  Rob 
the  Grinder,  in  his  sou’wester  hat  and  mourning 
slops,  presented  himself. 

“ Why,  Polly  ! ” cried  Jemima.  “ You  ! what 
a turn  you  have  given  me  ! who’d  have  thought 
it ! come  along  in,  Polly  ! How  well  you  do 
look  to  be  sure  ! The  children  will  go  half 
wild  to  see  you,  Polly,  that  they  will.” 

That  they  did,  if  one  might  judge  from  the 
noise  they  made,  and  the  way  in  which  they 
dashed  at  Polly  and  dragged  her  to  a low  chair 
in  the  chimney  corner,  where  her  own  honest 
apple-face  became  immediately  the  centre  of  a 
bunch  of  smaller  pippins,  all  laying  their  rosy 
cheeks  close  to  it,  and  all  evidently  the  growth 
of  the  same  tree. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  38. 

HOME— Of  Miss  Tox. 

Miss  Tox,  all  unconscious  of  any  such  rare 
appearances  in  connection  with  Mr.  Dombey’s 
house,  as  scaffoldings  and  ladders,  and  men  with 
their  heads  tied\up  in  pocket-handkerchiefs,  glar- 
ing in  at  the  windows  like  flying  genii  or  strange 
birds — having  breakfasted  one  morning  at  about 
this  eventful  period  of  time,  on  her  customary 
viands:  to  wit,  one  French  roll  rasped,  one  egg, 
new  laid  (or  warranted  to  be),  and  one  little  pot 
of  tea,  wherein  was  infused  one  little  silver 
scoop-full  of  that  herb  on  behalf  of  Miss  Tox, 
and  one  little  silver  scoop-full  on  behalf  of  the 
teapot — a flight  of  fancy  in  which  good  house- 
keepers delight  ; went  up-stairs  to  set  forth  the 
bird  waltz  on  the  harpsichord,  to  water  and  ar- 
range the  plants,  to  dust  the  nick-nacks,  and, 
according  to  her  daily  custom,  to  make  her  little 
drawing-room  the  garland  of  Princess's  Place. 

Miss  Pox  endued  herself  with  the  pair  of  an- 
cient gloves,  like  dead  leaves,  in  which  she  was 
accustomed  to  perform  these  avocations — hidden 
from  human  sight  at  other  times  in  a table 
drawer — and  went  methodically  to  work  ; be- 


ginning with  the  bird  waltz  ; passing,  by  a natu- 
ral association  of  ideas,  to  her  bird — a very  high- 
shouldered canary,  stricken  in  years,  and  much 
rumpled,  but  a piercing  singer,  as  Princess’s 
Place  well  knew  ; taking,  next  in  order,  the  lit- 
tle china  ornaments,  paper  fly-cages,  and  so 
forth  ; and  coming  round,  in  good  time,  to  the 
plants,  which  generally  required  to  be  snipped 
here  and  there  with  a pair  of  scissors,  for  some 
botanical  reason  that  was  very  powerful  with 
Miss  Tox. — Dombey  dr3  Son , Chap.  29. 

HOME  Its  peace  and  consolation. 

Florence  felt  that,  for  her,  there  was  greater 
peace  within  it  than  elsewhere.  It  was  better 
and  easier  to  keep  her  secret  shut  up  there, 
among  the  tall  dark  walls,  than  to  carry  her 
abroad  into  the  light,  and  try  to  hide  it  from  a 
crowd  of  happy  eyes.  It  was  better  to  pursue 
the  study  of  her  loving  heart,  alone,  and  find  no 
new  discouragements  in  loving  hearts  about  her. 

It  was  easier  to  hope,  and  pray,  and  love  on,  all 
uncared  for,  yet  with  constancy  and  patience,  in 
the  tranquil  sanctuary  of  such  remembrances, 
although  it  moulded,  rusted,  and  decayed  about 
her  ; than  in  a new  scene,  let  its  gayety  be  what 
it  would.  She  welcomed  back  her  old  enchanted 
dream  of  life,  and  longed  for  the  old  dark  door 
to  close  upon  her,  once  again. 

Dombey  dr3  Son,  Chap.  28. 

HOMELESSNESS. 

In  the  wildness  of  her  sorrow,  shame,  and 
terror,  the  forlorn  girl  hurried  through  the  sun- 
shine of  a bright  morning,  as  if  it  were  the  dark- 
ness of  a winter  night.  Wringing  her  hands 
and  weeping  bitterly,  insensible  to  everything 
but  the  deep  wound  in  her  breast,  stunned  by 
the  loss  of  all  she  loved,  left  like  the  sole  sur- 
vivor on  a lonely  shore  from  the  wreck  of  a 
great  vessel,  she  fled  without  a thought,  without 
a hope,  without  a purpose,  but  to  fly  somewhere 
— anywhere. 

The  cheerful  vista  of  the  long  street,  burnished 
by  the  morning  light,  the  sight  of  the  blue  sky 
and  airy  clouds,  the  vigorous  freshness  of  the  day, 
so  flushed  and  rosy  in  its  conquest  of  the  night, 
awakened  no  responsive  feelings  in  her  so  hurt 
bosom.  Somewhere,  anywhere,  to  hide  her 
head  ! somewhere,  anywhere,  for  refuge,  never 
more  to  look  upon  the  place  from  which  she  fled  ! 

But  there  were  people  going  to  and  fro  ; there 
were  opening  shops,  and  servants  at  the  doors 
of  houses  ; there  was  the  rising  clash  and  roar 
of  the  day’s  struggle.  Florence  saw  surprise 
and  curiosity  in  the  faces  flitting  past  her, 
saw  long  shadows  coming  back  upon  the  pave- 
ment ; and  heard  voices  that  were  strange  to  her 
asking  her  where  she  went,  and  what  the  matter 
was  ; and  though  these  frightened  her  the  more 
at  first,  and  made  her  hurry  on  the  faster,  they 
did  her  the  good  service  of  recalling  her  in  some 
degree  to  herself,  and  reminding  her  of  the 
necessity  of  greater  composure.  | * 

Where  to  go?  Still  somewhere,  anywhere! 
still  going  on  ; but  where?  She  thought  of  the 
only  other  time  she  had  been  lost  in  the  wide 
wilderness  of  London— though  not  lost  as  now 
— and  went  that  way.  To  the  home  of  Walter  s 
uncle. — Dombey  or3  Son , Chap,  4S. 

HONOR  -The  true  path  of. 

“ Let  no  man  turn  aside,  ever  so  slightly,  from 


HONOR 


227 


HOPES 


the  broad  path  of  honor,  on  the  plausible  pre- 
tence that  he  is  justified  by  the  goodness  of  his 
end.  All  good  ends  can  be  worked  out  by  good 
means.  Those  that  cannot,  are  bad  ; and  may 
be  counted  so  at  once,  and  left  alone.” 

Barnaby  Budge , Chap . 79. 

I I 

HONOR -The  word  of. 

“ My  good  fellow,”  retorted  Mr.  Boffin,  “you 
have  my  word  ; and  how  you  can  have  that, 
without  my  honor  too,  I don’t  know.  I’ve 
sorted  a lot  of  dust  in  my  time,  but  I never 
knew  the  two  things  go  into  separate  heaps.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  III.,  Chap.  14. 

HONESTY— The  luxury  of. 

“ A man,”  says  Sampson,  “ who  loses  forty- 
seven  pound  ten  in  one  morning  by  his  honesty, 
is  a man  to  be  envied.  If  it  had  been  eighty 
pound,  the  luxuriousness  of  feeling  would  have 
been  increased.  Every  pound  lost,  would  have 
been  a hundredweight  of  happiness  gained. 
The  still  small  voice,  Christopher,”  cries  Brass, 
smiling,  and  tapping  himself  on  the  bosom,  “ is 
a-singing  comic  songs  within  me,  and  all  is  hap- 
piness and  joy  ! ” — Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  57. 

HONEST  MAN-An. 

“ I tell  you,  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Witherden, 
“what  I think  as  an  honest  man,  which,  as  the 
poet  observes,  is  the  noblest  work  of  God.  I 
agree  with  the  poet  in  every  particular,  ma’am. 
The  mountainous  Alps  on  the  one  hand,  or  a 
humming-bird  on  the  other,  is  nothing,  in  point 
of  workmanship,  to  an  honest  man — or  woman.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  14. 

HOPE —Disappointed. 

Most  men  will  be  found  sufficiently  true  to 
themselves  to  be  true  to  an  old  idea.  It  is  no 
proof  of  an  inconstant  mind,  but  exactly  the 
opposite,  when  the  idea  will  not  bear  close  com- 
parison with  the  reality,  and  the  contrast  is  a 
fatal  shock  to  it.  Such  was  Clennam’s  case.  In 
his  youth  he  had  ardently  loved  this  woman, 
and  had  heaped  upon  her  all  the  locked-up 
wealth  of  his  affection  and  imagination.  That 
wealth  had  been,  in  his  desert  home,  like  Robin- 
son Crusoe’s  money  ; exchangeable  with  no  one, 
lying  idle  in  the  dark  to  rtist,  until  he  poured  it 
out  for  her.  Ever  since  that  memorable  time, 
though  he  had,  until  the  night  of  his  arrival,  as 
completely  dismissed  her  from  any  association 
with  his  Present  and  Future  as  if  she  had  been 
dead  (which  she  might  easily  have  been  for  any- 
thing he  knew),  he  had  kept  the  old  fancy  of  the 
Past  unchanged,  in  its  old  sacred  place.  And 
now,  after  all,  the  last  of  the  Patriarchs  coolly 
walked  into  the  parlor,  saying  in  effect,  “ Be 
good  enough  to  throw  it  down  and  dance  upon 
it.” — Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  13. 

HOPES— Disappointed. 

When  he  had  walked  on  the  river’s  brink  in  the 
peaceful  moonlight,  for  some  half-an-hour,  he 
put  his  hand  in  his  breast,  and  tenderly  took  out 
the  handful  of  roses.  Perhaps  he  put  them  to 
his  heart,  perhaps  he  put  them  to  his  lips,  but 
certainly  he  bent  down  on  the  shore,  and  gently 
launched  them  on  the  flowing  river.  Pale  and 
unreal  in  the  moonlight,  the  river  floated  them 
away. 

The  lights  were  bright  within  doors  when  he 


entered,  and  the  faces  on  which  they  shone,  his 
own  face  not  excepted,  were  soon  quietly  cheer- 
ful. They  talked  of  many  subjects  (his  partner 
never  had  had  such  a ready  store  to  draw  upon 
for  the  beguiling  of  the  time),  and  so  to  bed,  and 
to  sleep.  While  the  flowers,  pale  and  unreal  in 
the  moonlight,  floated  away  upon  the  river  ; and 
thus  do  greater  things  that  once  were  in  our 
breasts,  and  near  our  hearts,  flow  from  us  to  the 
eternal  seas. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  I.,  Chap.  28. 

HOPES-Of  Captain  Cuttle. 

Captain  Cuttle,  addressing  his  face  to  the 
sharp  wind  and  slanting  rain,  looked  up  at  the 
heavy  scud  that  was  flying  fast  over  the  wilder- 
ness of  house-tops,  and  looked  for  something 
cheery  there  in  vain.  The  prospect  near  at  hand 
was  no  better.  In  sundry  tea-chesfs  and  other 
rough  boxes  at  his  feet,  the  pigeons  of  Rob  the 
Grinder  were  cooing  like  so  many  dismal  breezes 
getting  up.  Upon  the  Captain’s  coarse  blue 
vest  the  cold  rain-drops  started  like  steel  beads  ; 
and  he  could  hardly  maintain  himself  aslant 
against  the  stiff  Nor’wester  that  came  pressing 
against  him,  importunate  to  topple  him  over  the 
parapet,  and  throw  him  on  the  pavement  below. 
If  there  were  any  Hope  alive  that  evening,  the 
Captain  thought,  as  he  held  his  hat  on,  it  cer- 
tainly kept  house,  and  wasn’t  out  of  doors  ; so 
the  Captain,  shaking  his  head  in  a despondent 
manner,  went  in  to  look  for  it. 

Captain  Cuttle  descended  slowly  to  the  little 
back  parlor,  and,  seated  in  his  accustomed  chair, 
looked  for  it  in  the  fire  ; but  it  was  not  there, 
though  the  fire  was  bright.  He  took  out  his 
tobacco-box  and  pipe,  and  composing  himself  to 
smoke,  looked  for  it  in  the  red  glow  from  the 
bowl,  and  in  the  wreaths  of  vapor  that  curled 
upward  from  his  lips  ; but  there  was  not  so 
much  as  an  atom  of  the  rust  of  Hope’s  anchor 
in  either.  He  tried  a glass  of  grog  ; but  melan- 
choly truth  was  at  the  bottom  of  that  well,  and 
he  couldn’t  finish  it.  He  made  a turn  or  two  in 
the  shop,  and  looked  for  Hope  among  the  instru- 
ments ; but  they  obstinately  worked  out  reckon- 
ings for  the  missing  ship,  in  spite  of  any  oppo- 
sition he  could  offer,  that  ended  at  the  bottom 
of  the  lone  sea. — Dombey  &■'  Son,  Chap.  32. 


“ Hope,  you  see,  Wal’r,”  said  the  Captain, 
sagely,  “ Hope.  It’s  that  as  animates  you.  Hope 
is  a buoy,  for  which  you  overhaul  your  Little 
Warbler,  sentimental  diwision,  but  Lord,  my 
lad,  like  any  other  buoy,  it  only  floats  ; it  can’t 
be  steered  nowhere.  Along  with  the  figure-head 
of  Hope,”  said  the  Captain,  “ there’s  a anchor  ; 
but  what’s  the  good  of  my  having  a anchor,  if  I 
can’t  find  no  bottom  to  let  it  go  in  ? ” 

Captain  Cuttle  said  this  rather  in  his  charac- 
ter of  a sagacious  citizen  and  householder,  bound 
to  impart  a morsel  from  his  stores  of  wisdom  to 
an  inexperienced  youth,  than  in  his  own  proper 
person.  Indeed,  his  face  was  quite  luminous  as 
he  spoke,  with  new  hope,  caught  from  Walter  ; 
and  he  appropriately  concluded  by  slapping 
him  on  the  back,  and  saying,  with  enthusiasm, 
“ Hooroar,  my  lad  ! Indiwidually,  I’m  o’  your 
opinion.” — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  50. 


Captain  Cuttle,  like  all  mankind,  little  knew 
how  much  hope  had  survived  within  him  under 
discouragement,  until  he  felt  its  death-shock. 

Dombey  Sf  Son,  Chap.  32. 


HOPES 


228 


HORSEBACK 


HOPES— Unrealized. 

It  is  when  our  budding  hopes  are  nipped  be- 
yond recovery  by  some  rough  wind,  that  we  are 
the  most  disposed  to  picture  to  ourselves  what 
flowers  they  might  have  borne,  if  they  had  flour- 
ished.— Dombcy  Son,  Chap . io. 

HOPE— A subtle  essence. 

Such  is  Hope,  Heaven’s  own  gift  to  struggling 
mortals  ; pervading,  like  some  subtle  essence 
from  the  skies,  all  things,  both  good  and  bad  ; 
as  universal  as  death,  and  more  infectious  than 
disease  ! — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  19. 

HORSES  AND  DOGS. 

“ There  ain’t  no  sort  of  orse  that  I. ain’t  bred, 
and  no  sort  of  dorg.  Orses  and  dorgs  is  some 
men’s  fancy.  They’re  wittles  and  drink  to  me — 
lodging,  wife,  and  children — reading,  writing, 
and  ’rithmetic — snuff,  tobacker,  and  sleep.” 

“ That  ain’t  the  sort  of  man  to  see  sitting  be- 
hind a coach-box,  is  it  though?”  said  William 
in  my  ear,  as  he  handled  the  reins. 

I construed  this  remark  into  an  indication  of 
a wish  that  he  should  have  my  place,  so  I blush- 
ingly  offered  to  resign  it. 

“ Well,  if  you  don’t  mind,  sir,”  said  William, 
“ I think  it  would  be  more  correct.” 

David  Copperjield , Chap.  19. 

HORSE— The  carrier’s. 

The  carrier’s  horse  was  the  laziest  horse  in 
the  world,  I should  hope,  and  shuffled  along, 
with  his  head  down,  as  if  he  liked  to  keep  peo- 
ple waiting  to  whom  the  packages  were  directed. 
I fancied,  indeed,  that  he  sometimes  chuckled 
audibly  over  this  reflection,  but  the  carrier  said 
he  was  only  troubled  with  a cough. 

David  Copperjield,  Chap.  3. 

HORSE-Mr.  Pecksniff’s. 

The  best  of  architects  and  land  surveyors 
kept  a horse,  in  whom  the  enemies  already  men- 
tioned more  than  once  in  these  pages,  pretended 
to  detect  a fanciful  resemblance  to  his  master. 
Not  in  his  outward  person,  for  he  was  a raw- 
boned.  haggard  horse,  always  on  a much  shorter 
allowance  of  corn  than  Mr.  Pecksniff;  but  in  his 
moral  character,  wherein,  said  they,  he  was  full 
of  promise,  but  of  no  performance.  He  was 
always,  in  a manner,  going  to  go,  and  never 
going.  When  at  his  slowest  rate  of  travelling, 
he  would  sometimes  lift  up  his  legs  so  high,  and 
display  such  mighty  action,  that  it  was  difficult 
to  believe  he  was  doing  less  than  fourteen  miles 
an  hour  ; and  he  was  forever  so  perfectly  satis- 
fied with  his  own  speed,  and  so  little  discon- 
certed by  opportunities  of  comparing  himself 
with  the  fastest  trotters,  that  the  illusion  was  the 
more  difficult  of  resistance.  He  was  a kind  of 
animal  who  infused  into  the  breasts  of  strangers 
a lively  sense  of  hope,  and  possessed  all  those 
who  knew  him  better  with  a grim  despair.  In 
what  respect,  having  these  points  of  character, 
he  might  be  fairly  likened  to  his  master,  that 
good  man’s  slanderers  only  can  explain.  Put 
it  is  a melancholy  truth,  and  a deplorable  in- 
stance of  the  uncharitableness  of  the  world,  that 
they  made  the  comparison. 

In  this  horse,  and  the  hooded  vehicle,  what- 
ever its  proper  name  might  lie,  to  which  he  was 
usually  harnessed— it  was  more  like  a gig  with 
a tumor,  than  anything  else — all  Mr.  Pinch’s 


thoughts  and  wishes  centred,  one  bright  frosty 
morning:  for  with  this  gallant  equipage  he  was 
about  to  drive  to  Salisbury  alone,  there  to  meet 
with  the  new  pupil,  and  thence  to  bring  him 
home  in  triumph. — Marlin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  5. 

HORSE— Tenacity  of  life  in  a. 

“ How  old  is  that  horse,  my  friend  ? ” in- 
quired Mr.  Pickwick,  rubbing  his  nose  with  the 
shilling  he  had  reserved  for  the  fare. 

“ Forty-two,”  replied  the  driver,  eying  him 
askant. 

“ What  ! ” ejaculated  Mr.  Pickwick,  laying  his 
hand  upon  his  note-book.  The  driver  reiterated 
his  former  statement.  Mr.  Pickwick  looked  very 
hard  at  the  man’s  face,  but  his  features  were  im- 
movable, so  he  noted  down  the  fact  forthwith. 

“And  how  long  do  you  keep  him  out  at  a 
time?”  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick  searching  for 
further  information. 

“ Two  or  three  veeks,”  replied  the  man. 

“Weeks!”  said  Mr.  Pickwick  in  astonish- 
ment— and  out  came  the  note-book  again. 

“ He  lives  at  Pentonwil  when  he’s  at  home,” 
observed  the  driver,  coolly,  “ but  we  seldom 
takes  him  home,  on  account  of  his  veakness.” 

“On  account  of  his  weakness!”  reiterated 
the  perplexed  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“He  always  falls  down  when  he’s  took  out  of 
the  cab,”  continued  the  driver  ; “but  when  he’s 
in  it,  we  bears  him  up  wery  tight,  and  takes  him 
in  wery  short,  so  as  he  can’t  wery  well  fall 
down  ; and  we  got  a pair  o’  precious  large 
wheels  on,  so  ven  he  does  move,  they  run  after 
him,  and  he  must  go  on — he  can’t  help  it.” 

Mr.  Pickwick  entered  every  word  of  this 
statement  in  his  note-book,  with  the  view  of 
communicating  it  to  the  club,  as  a ^ingular  in- 
stance of  the  tenacity  of  life  in  horses,  under 
trying  circumstances. — Pickwick,  Chap.  2. 

HORSE-A  fast. 

“Here’s  the  gen’lm’n  at  lv_>t V*  said  one, 
touching  his  hat  w'ith  mock  politeness.  “ Wery 
glad  to  see  you,  sir, — been  a-waiting  for  you 
these  six  weeks.  Jump  in,  if  you  please,  sir!” 

“ Nice  light  fly  and  fast  trotter,  sir,”  said 
another  : “ fourteen  miles  a hour,  and  surround- 
in’ objects  rendered  inwisible  by  ex-treme  we- 
locity  ! ” 

“ Large  fly  for  your  luggage,  sir,”  cried  a 
third.  “ Wery  large  fly  here,  sir — reg’lar  blue- 
bottle ! ” 

“ Here’s  your  fly,  sir ! ” shouted  another  aspir- 
ing charioteer,  mounting  the  box,  and  inducing 
an  old  gray  horse  to  indulge  in  some  imperfect 
reminiscences  of  a canter.  “ Look  at  him,  sir  ! 
— temper  of  a lamb  and  haction  of  a steam- 
ingein  ! ” — Tales,  Chap.  4. 

HORSEBACK— Mr.  Winkle  on. 

“ Bless  my  soul  !”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  as  they 
stood  upon  the  pavement  while  the  coats  were 
being  put  in.  “ Bless  my  soul ! who’s  to  drive? 
I never  thought  of  that.” 

“Oh!  you,  of  course,”  said  Mr.  Tupman. 

“ Of  course,”  said  Mr.  Snodgrass. 

“ I !”  exclaimed  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Not  the  slightest  fear,  sir,”  interposed  the 
hostler.  “ Warrant  him  quiet,  sir  ; a hinfant  in 
arms  might  drive  him.” 

“ He  don’t  shy,  does  he  ? ” inquired  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. 


HOSPITAL 


229 


HOSPITAL 


“Shy,  sir? — He  wouldn’t  shy  if  he  was  to 
meet  a vaggin-load  of  monkeys  with  their  tails 
burnt  off.” 

The  last  recommendation  was  indisputable. 
Mr.  Tupman  and  Mr.  Snodgrass  got  into  the 
bin  ; Mr.  Pickwick  ascended  to  his  perch,  and 
deposited  his  feet  on  a floor-clothed  shelf, 
erected  beneath  it  for  that  purpose. 

“Now,  Shiny  Villiam,”  said  the  hostler  to  the 
deputy  hostler,  “give  the  gen’lm’n  the  ribbins.” 
“ Shiny  Villiam” — so  called,  probably  from  his 
sleek  hair  and  oily  countenance — placed  the 
reins  in  Mr.  Pickwick’s  left  hand  ; and  the 
upper  hostler  thrust  a whip  into  his  right. 

“ Wo — o 1 ” cried  Mr.  Pickwick,  as  the  tall 
quadruped  evinced  a decided  inclination  to 
back  into  the  coffee-room  window. 

“Wo — o!”  echoed  Mr.  Tupman  and  Mr. 
Snodgrass,  from  the  bin. 

“ Only  his  playfulness,  gen’lm’n,”  said  the 
head  hostler  encouragingly  ; “ jist  kitch  hold  on 
him,  Villiam.”  The  deputy  restrained  the  ani- 
mal’s impetuosity,  and  the  principal  ran  to  assist 
Mr.  Winkle  in  mounting. 

“ T’other  side,  sir,  if  you  please.” 

“ Blowed  if  the  gen’lm’n  worn’t  a gettin’  up  on 
the  wrong  side,”  whispered  a grinning  post-boy 
to  the  inexpressibly  gratified  waiter. 

Mr.  Winkle,  thus  instructed,  climbed  into  his 
saddle,  with  about  as  much  difficulty  as  he  would 
have  experienced  in  getting  up  the  side  of  a 
first-rate  man-of-war. 

“All  right?”  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  an 
inward  presentiment  that  it  was  all  wrong. 

“All  right,”  replied  Mr.  Winkle,  faintly. 

“Let  ’em  go,”  cried  the  hostler, — “ Hold  him 
in,  sir,”  and  away  went  the  chaise,  and  the  sad- 
dle-horse, with  Mr.  Pickwick  on  the  box  of  the 
one,  and  Mr.  Winkle  oh  the  back  of  the  other, 
to  the  delight  and  gratification  of  the  whole  inn- 
yard. 

“What  makes  him  go  sideways?”  said  Mr. 
Snodgrass  in  the  bin,  to  Mr.  Winkle  in  the  saddle. 

“I  can’t  imagine,”  replied  Mr.  Winkle.  His 
horse  was  drifting  up  the  street  in  the  most 
mysterious  manner — side  first,  with  his  head 
towards  one  side  of  the  way,  and  his  tail  to- 
wards the  other. 

Mr.  Pickwick  had  no  leisure  to  observe  either 
this  or  any  other  particular,  the  whole  of  his  fac- 
ulties being  concentrated  in  the  management  of 
the  animal  attached  to  the  chaise,  who  displayed 
various  peculiarities,  highly  interesting  to  a by- 
stander, but  by  no  means  equally  amusing’  to 
any  one  seated  behind  him.  Besides  constantly 
jerking  his  head  up,  in  a very  unpleasant  and 
uncomfortable  manner,  and  tugging  at  the  reins 
to  an  extent  which  rendered  it  a matter  of  great 
difficulty  for  Mr.  Pickwick  to  hold  them,  he  had 
a singular  propensity  for  darting  suddenly  every 
now  and  then  to  the  side  of  the  road,  then  stop- 
ping short,  and  then  rushing  forward  for  some 
minutes,  at  a speed  which  it  was  wholly  impos- 
sible to  control. — Pickwick , Chap.  5. 

HOSPITAL— The  patients  in  a. 

We  went  into  a large  ward  containing  some 
twenty  or  five-and-twenty  beds.  We  went  into 
several  such  wards,  one  after  another.  I find 
it  very  difficult  to  indicate  what  a shocking 
sight  I saw  in  them  without  frightening  the 
reader  from  the  perusal  of  these  lines,  and  defeat- 
ing my  object  of  making  it  known. 


O the  sunken  eyes  that  turned  to  me  as  I 
walked  between  the  rows  of  beds,  or — worse 
still — that  glazedly  looked  at  the  white  ceiling, 
and  saw  nothing  and  cared  for  nothing ! Here 
lay  the  skeleton  of  a man,  so  lightly  covered 
with  a thin,  unwholesome  skin,  that  not  a bone 
in  the  anatomy  was  clothed,  and  I could  clasp 
the  arm  above  the  elbow  in  my  finger  and  thumb. 
Here  lay  a man  with  the  black  scurvy  eating 
his  legs  away,  his  gums  gone,  and  his  teeth  all 
gaunt  and  bare.  This  bed  was  empty  because 
gangrene  had  set  in,  and  the  patient  had  died 
but  yesterday.  That  bed  was  a hopeless  one, 
because  its  occupant  was  sinking  fast,  and  could 
only  be  roused  to  turn  the  poor  pinched  mask 
of  face  upon  the  pillow,  with  a feeble  moan. 
The  awful  thinness  of  the  fallen  cheeks,  the  awful 
brightness  of  the  deep-set  eyes,  the  lips  of  lead, 
the  hands  of  ivory,  the  recumbent  human  images 
lying  in  the  shadow  of  death  with  a kind  of 
solemn  twilight  on  them,  like  the  siyty  who  had 
died  aboard  the  ship  and  were  lying  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sea,  O Pangloss,  God  forgive  you  ! 

In  one  bed  lay  a man  whose  life  had  been 
saved  (as  it  was  hoped)  by  deep  incisions  in  the 
feet  and  legs.  While  I was  speaking  to  him,  a 
nurse  came  up  to  change  the  poultices  which 
this  operation  had  rendered  necessary,  and  I 
had  an  instinctive  feeling  that  it  was  not  well  to 
turn  away  merely  to  spare  myself.  Pie  was 
sorely  wasted  and  keenly  susceptible,  but  the 
efforts  he  made  to  subdue  any  expression  of 
impatience  or  suffering  were  quite  heroic.  It 
was  easy  to  see  in  the  shrinking  of  the  figure, 
and  the  drawing  of  the  bedclothes  over  the  head, 
how  acute  the  endurance  was,  and  it  made  me 
shrink  too,  as  if  / were  in  pain  ; but  when  the 
new  bandages  were  on,  and  the  poor  feet  were 
composed  again,  he  made  an  apology  for  him- 
self (though  he  had  not  uttered  a word),  and  said 
plaintively,  “ I am  so  tender  and  weak,  you  see, 
sir  ! ” Neither  from  him.  nor  from  any  one  sufferer 
of  the  whole  ghastly  number,  did  I hear  a com- 
plaint. Of  thankfulness  for  present  solicitude  and 
care,  I heard  much  ; of  complaint,  not  a word. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  8. 

HOSPITAL— Associations  of  a. 

In  our  rambles  through  the  streets  of  London 
after  evening  has  set  in,  we  often  pause  beneath 
the  windows  of  some  public  hospital,  and  pic- 
ture to  ourselves  the  gloomy  and  mournful  scenes 
that  are  passing  within.  The  sudden  moving 
of  a taper  as  its  feeble  ray  shoots  from  window 
to  window,  until  its  light  gradually  disappears, 
as  if  it  were  carried  farther  back  into  the  room 
to  the  bedside  of  some  suffering  patient,  is 
enough  to  awaken  a whole  crowd  of  reflections  ; 
the  mere  glimmering  of  the  low-burning  lamps, 
which,  when  all  other  habitations  are  wrapped 
in  darkness  and  slumber,  denote  the  chamber 
where  so  many  forms  are  writhing  with  pain, 
or  wasting  with  disease,  is  sufficient  to  check 
the  most  boisterous  merriment. 

Who  can  tell  the  anguish  of  those  weary 
hours,  when  the  only  sound  the  sick  man 
hears,  is  the  disjointed  wanderings  of  some 
feverish  slumberer  near  him,  the  low  moan  of 
pain,  or  perhaps  the  muttered,  long-forgotten 
prayer  of  a dying  man  ? Who,  but  they  who 
have  felt  it,  can  imagine  the  sense  of  loneliness 
and  desolation  which  must  be  the  portion  of 
those  who  in  the  hour  of  dangerous  illness  are 


HOSPITAL 


230 


HOTEL 


left  to  be  tended  by  strangers  ; for  what  hands, 
be  they  ever  so  gentle,  can  wipe  the  clammy 
brow,  or  smooth  the  restless  bed,  like  those  of 
mother,  wife,  or  child  ? 

Characters  {Sketches),  Chap.  6. 

HOSPITAL-A  female. 

In  ten  minutes  I had  ceased  to  believe  in  such 
fables  of  a golden  time  as  youth,  the  prime  of 
life,  or  a hale  old  age.  In  ten  minutes  all  the 
lights  of  womaiikind  seemed  to  have  been 
blown  out,  and  nothing  in  that  way  to  be  left 
this  vault  to  brag  of  but  the  flickering  and  ex- 
piring snuffs. 

And  what  was  very  curious  was,  that  these 
dim  old  women  had  one  company  notion  which 
was  the  fashion  of  the  place.  Every  old  woman 
who  became  aware  of  a- visitor,  and  was  not  in 
bed,  hobbled  over  a form  into  her  accustomed 
seat,  and  became  one  of  a line  of  dim  old  women 
confronting  another  line  of  dim  old  women 
across  a narrow  table.  There  was  no  obliga- 
tion whatever  upon  them  to  range  themselves 
in  this  way  ; it  was  their  manner  of  “ receiv- 
ing.” As  a rule,  they  made  no  attempt  to  talk 
to  one  another,  or  to  look  at  the  visitor,  or  to 
look  at  anything,  but  sat  silently  working  their 
mouths,  like  a sort  of  poor  old  Cows. 

Among  the  bedridden  there  was  great  pa- 
tience, great  reliance  on  the  books  under  the 
pillow,  great  faith  in  God.  All  cared  for  sym- 
pathy, but  none  much  cared  to  be  encouraged 
with  hope  of  recovery  ; on  the  whole,  I should 
say,  it  was  considered  rather  a distinction  to 
have  a complication  of  disorders,  and  to  be  in  a 
worse  way  than  the  rest. 

Unco?nmercial  Traveller , Chap.  3. 

HOSPITAL— Magrgy’s  experience  in  a. 

“ My  history  ? ” cried  Maggy.  “ Little 
mother.” 

“ She  means  me,”  said  Dorrit,  rather  con- 
fused ; “ she  is  very  much  attached  to  me. 
Her  old  grandmother  was  not  so  kind  to  her  as 
she  should  have  been  ; was  she,  Maggy?  ” 

Maggy  shook  her  head,  made  a drinking-ves- 
sel of  her  clenched  left-hand,  drank  out  of  it, 
and  said,  “‘Gin.”  Then  beat  an  imaginary 
child,  and  said,  “ Broom-handles  and  pokers.” 

“ When  Maggy  was  ten  years  old,”  said  Dor- 
rit, watching  her  face  while  she  spoke,  “ she 
had  a bad  fever,  sir,  and  she  has  never  grown 
any  older  ever  since.” 

“ Ten  years  old,”  said  Maggy,  nodding  her 
head.  “ But  what  a nice  hospital ! So  com- 
fortable, wasn’t  it  ? Oh,  so  nice  it  was.  Such 
a Ev’nly  place  !” 

“She  had  never  been  at  peace  before,  sir,” 
said  Dorrit,  turning  towards  Arthur  for  an  in- 
stant and  speaking  low,  “and  she  always  runs 
off  upon  that.” 

“Such  beds  there  is  there!”  cried  Maggy. 
“Such  lemonades!  Such  oranges!  Such  deli- 
cious broth  and  wine  ! Such  Chicking  ! Oh, 
ain’t  it  a delightful  place  to  go  and  stop 
at  ? ” 

“So  Maggy  stopped  there  as  long  as  she 
could,”  said  Dorrit,  in  her  former  tone  of  tell- 
ing a child’s  story  ; the  tone  designed  for  Mag- 
gy’s ear,  “ and  at  last  when  she  could  stop  there 
no  longer,  she  came  out.” 

Little  Don'it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  9. 


HOSPITALS-The  sick  in. 

Abed  in  these  miserable  rooms,  her*,  on  bed- 
steads, there  (for  a change,  as  I understood  it) 
on  the  floor,  were  women  in  every  stage  of  dis- 
tress and  disease.  None  but  those  who  have 
attentively  observed  such  scenes  can  conceive 
the  extraordinary  variety  of  expression  still  la- 
tent under  the  general  monotony  and  uniform- 
ity of  color,  attitude,  and  condition.  The  form 
a little  coiled  up  and  turned  away,  as  though  it 
had  turned  its  back  on  this  world  forever ; the 
uninterested  face,  at  once  lead-colored  and  yel- 
low, looking  passively  upward  from  the  pillow  ; 
the  haggard  mouth  a little  dropped  ; the  hand 
outside  the  coverlet,  so  dull  and  indifferent,  so 
light  and  yet  so  heavy — 'these  were  on  every 
pallet  ; but  when  I stopped  beside  a bed,  and 
said  ever  so  slight  a word  to  the  figure  lying 
there,  the  ghost  of  the  old  character  came  into 
the  face,  and  made  the  Foul  ward  as  various  as 
the  fair  world.  No  one  appeared  to  care  to 
live,  but  no  one  complained  ; all  who  could 
speak  said  that  as  much  was  done  for  them  as 
could  be  done  there — that  the  attendance  was 
kind  and  patient — that  their  suffering  was  very 
heavy,  but  they  had  nothing  to  ask  for. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  3. 

HOTEL— A fashionable. 

Now,  Jairing’s  being  an  hotel  for  families  and 
gentlemen,  in  high  repute  among  the  midland 
counties,  Mr.  Grazinglands  plucked  up  a great 
spirit  when  he  told  Mrs.  Grazinglands  she 
should  have  a chop  there.  That  lady  likewise 
felt  that  she  was  going  to  see  Life.  Arriving 
on  that  gay  and  festive  scene,  they  found  the 
second  waiter,  in  a flabby  undress,  cleaning  the 
windows  of  the  empty  coffee-room  ; and  the  first 
waiter,  denuded  of  his  white  tie,  making  up  his 
cruets  behind  the  Post-Office  Directory.  The 
latter  (who  took  them  in  hand)  was  greatly  put 
out  by  their  patronage,  and  showed  his  mind  to 
be  troubled  by  a sense  of  the  pressing  necessity 
of  instantly  smuggling  Mrs.  Grazinglands  into 
the  obscurest  corner  of  the  building.  This 
slighted  lady  (who  is  the  pride  of  her  division 
of  the  county)  was  immediately  conveyed,  by 
several  dark  passages,  and  up  and  down  several 
steps,  into  a penitential  apartment  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  where  five  invalided  old  plate- 
warmers  leaned  up  against  one  another  under  a 
discarded  old  melancholy  sideboard,  and  where 
the  wintry  leaves  of  all  the  dining-tables  in  the 
house  lay  thick.  Also,  a sofa,  of  incomprehen- 
sible form  regarded  from  any  sofane  point  of 
view,  murmured,  “ Bed ; ” while  an  air  of  min- 
gled fluffiness  and  heeltaps  added,  “ Second 
Waiter’s.”  Secreted  in  this  dismal  hold,  ob- 
jects of  a mysterious  distrust  and  suspicion, 
Mr.  Grazinglands  and  his  charming  partner  wait- 
ed twenty  minutes  for  the  smoke  (for  it  never 
came  to  a fire),  twenty-five  minutes  for  the 
sherry,  half  an  hour  for  the  table-cloth,  forty 
minutes  for  the  knives  and  forks,  three  quarters 
of  an  hour  for  the  chops,  and  an  hour  for  the 
potatoes.  On  settling  the  little  bill — which 
was  not  much  more  than  the  day’s  pay  of  a 
Lieutenant  in  the  navy — Mr.  Grazinglands  took 
heart  to  remonstrate  against  the  general  quality 
and  cost  of  his  reception.  To  whom  the  waiter 
replied,  substantially,  that  Jairing’s  made  it  a 
merit  to  have  accepted  him  on  any  terms, 
“ For,”  added  the  waiter  (unmistakably  coughing 


HOTELS 


231 


HOUSE 


at  Mrs.  Grazinglands,  the  pride  of  her  division 
of  the  county)  “ when  indiwiduals  is  not  staying 
in  the  ’Ouse,  their  favors  is  not  as  a rule  looked 
upon  as  making  it  worth  Mr.  Jairing’s  while  ; nor 
is  it,  indeed,  a style  of  business  Mr.  J airing 
wishes.”  Finally,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grazinglands 
passed  out  of  J airing’s  hotel  for  Families  and 
Gentlemen  in  a state  of  the  greatest  depression, 
scorned  by  the  bar,  and  did  not  recover  their 
self-respect  for  several  days. 

Uncommercial  Traveller ; Chap.  6. 

HOTELS— Their  characteristics. 

We  all  know  the  new  hotel  near  the  station, 
where  it  is  always  gusty,  going  up  the  lane 
which  is  always  muddy,  where  we  are  sure  to 
arrive  at  night,  and  where  we  make  the  gas  start 
awfully  when  we  open  the  front  door.  We  all 
know  the  flooring  of  the  passages  and  staircases 
that  is  too  new,  and  the  walls  that  are  too  new, 
and  the  house  that  is  haunted  by  the  ghost  of 
mortar.  We  all  know  the  doors  that  have 
cracked,  and  the  cracked  shutters  through  which 
we  get  a glimpse  of  the  disconsolate  moon.  We 
all  know  the  new  people  who  have  come  to  keep 
the  new  hotel,  and  who  wish  they  had  never 
come,  and  who  (inevitable  result)  wish  we  had 
never  come.  We  all  know  how  much  too  scant 
and  smooth  and  bright  the  new  furniture  is,  and 
how  it  has  never  settled  down,  and  cannot  fit 
itself  into  right  places,  and  will  get  into  wrong 
places.  We  all  know  how  the  gas,  being  lighted, 
shows  maps  of  Damp  upon  the  walls.  We  all 
know  how  the  ghost  of  mortar  passes  into  our 
sandwich,  stirs  our  negus,  goes  up  to  bed  with 
us,  ascends  the.  pale  bedroom  chimney,  and 
prevents  the  smoke  from  following.  We  all 
know  how  a leg  of  our  chair  comes  off  at  break- 
fast in  the  morning,  and  how  the  dejected  waiter 
attributes  the  accident  to  a general  greenness 
pervading  the  establishment,  and  informs  us,  in 
reply  to  a local  inquiry,  that  he  is  thankful  to 
say  he  is  an  entire  stranger  in  that  part  of  the 
country,  and  is  going  back  to  his  own  connec- 
tion on  Saturday. 

We  all  know,  on  the  other  hand,  the  great 
station  hotel,  belonging  to  the  company  of  pro- 
prietors, which  has  suddenly  sprung  up  in  the 
back  outskirts  of  any  place  we  like  to  name, 
and  where  we  look  out  of  our  palatial  windows 
at  little  back-yards  and  gardens,  old  summer- 
houses, fowl-houses,  pigeon-traps,  and  pigsties. 
We  all  know  this  hotel,  in  which  we  can  get 
anything  we  want,  after  its  kind,  for  money  ; but 
where  nobody  is  glad  to  see  us,  or  sorry  to  see 
us,  or  minds  (our  bill  paid)  whether  we  come  or 
go,  or  how,  or  when,  or  why,  or  cares  about  us. 
We  all  know  this  hotel,  where  we  have  no  in- 
dividuality, but  put  ourselves  into  the  general 
post,  as  it  were,  and  are  sorted  and  disposed  of 
according  to  our  division.  We  all  know  that 
we  can  get  on  very  well  indeed  at  such  a place, 
but  still  not  perfectly  well  ; and  this  may  be 
because  the  place  is  largely  wholesale,  and  there 
is  a lingering  personal  retail  interest  within  us 
that  asks  to  be  satisfied. 

To  sum  up.  My  uncommercial  travelling  has 
not  yet  brought  me  to  the  conclusion  that  we  are 
close  to  perfection  in  these  matters.  And  just 
as  I do  not  believe  that  the  end  of  the  world  will 
ever  be  near  at  hand,  so  long  as  any  of  the  very 
tiresome  and  arrogant  people  who  constantly 
predict  that  catastrophe  are  left  in  it,  so  I shall 


have  small  faith  in  the  Hotel  Millennium,  while 
any  of  the  uncomfortable  superstitions  I have 
glanced  at  remain  in  existence. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  6. 

HOUSE— Of  a Barnacle. 

Arthur  Clennam  came  to  a squeezed  house, 
with  a ram-shackle  bowed  front,  little  dingy 
windows,  and  a little  dark  area  like  a damp 
waistcoat-pocket,  which  he  found  to  be  number 
twenty-four  Mews  Street  Grosvenor  Square. 
To  the  sense  of  smell,  the  house  was  like  a sort 
of  bottle  filled  with  a strong  distillation  of  mews  ; 
and  when  the  footman  opened  the  door,  he 
seemed  to  take  the  stopper  out. 

The  footman  was  to  the  Grosvenor  Square 
footmen,  what  the  house  was  to  the  Grosvenor 
Square  houses.  Admirable  in  his  way,  his  way 
was  a back  and  a bye  way.  His  gorgeousness 
was  not  unmixed  with  dirt  ; and  both  in  com- 
plexion and  consistency,  he  had  suffered  from 
the  closeness  of  his  pantry.  A sallow  flabbiness 
was  upon  him,  when  he  took  the  stopper  out, 
and  presented  the  bottle  to  Mr.  Clennam’s  nose. 

“ Be  so  good  as  to  give  that  card  to  Mr.  Tite 
Barnacle,  and  to  say  that  I have  just  now  seen 
the  younger  Mr.  Barnacle,  who  recommended 
me  to  call  here.’ 

The  footman  (who  had  as  many  large  buttons 
with  the  Barnacle  crest  upon  them,  on  the  flaps 
of  his  pockets,  as  if  he  were  the  family  strong 
box,  and  carried  the  plate  and  jewels  about  with 
him,  buttoned  up)  pondered  over  the  card  a 
little  ; then  said,  “ Walk  in.”  It  required  some 
judgment  to  do  it  without  butting  the  inner  hall- 
door  open,  and  in  the  consequent  mental  con- 
fusion and  physical  darkness  slipping  down  the 
kitchen  stairs.  The  visitor,  however,  brought 
himself  up  safely  on  the  door-mat. 

Still  the  footman  said  “Walk  in,”  so  the  vis- 
itor followed  him.  At  the  inner  hall-door, 
another  bottle  seemed  to  be  presented,  and 
another  stopper  taken  out.  This  second  vial 
appeared  to  be  filled  with  concentrated  provis- 
ions, and  extract  of  Sink  from  the  pantry.  After 
a skirmish  in  the  narrow  passage,  occasioned  by 
the  footman’s  opening  the  door  of  the  dismal 
dining-room  with  confidence,  finding  some  one 
there  with  consternation,  and  backing  on  the 
visitor  with  disorder,  the  visitor  was  shut  up, 
pending  his  announcement,  in  a close  back 
parlor.  There  he  had  an  opportunity  of  re- 
freshing himself  with  both  the  bottles  at  once, 
looking  out  at  a low  blinding  back  wall  three 
feet  off,  and  speculating  on  the  number  of  Bar- 
nacle families  within  the  bills  of  mortality  who 
lived  in  such  hutches  of  their  own  free  flunkey 
choice. — Little  Dor?  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  io. 

HOUSE— A sombre. 

He  stepped  into  the  sober,  silent,  air-tight 
house — one  might  have  fancied  it  to  have  been 
stifled  by  Mutes  in  the  Eastern  manner — and 
the  door,  closing  again,  seemed  to  shut  out 
sound  and  motion.  The  furniture  was  formal, 
grave,  and  qualcer-like,  but  well  kept ; and 
had  as  prepossessing  an  aspect  as  anything,  from 
a human  creature  to  a wooden  stool,  that  is 
meant  for  much  use  and  is  preserved  for  little, 
can  ever  wear.  There  was  a grave  clock,  tick- 
ing somewhere  up  the  staircase  ; and  there  was 
a songless  bird  in  the  same  direction,  pecking 
at  his  cage  as  if  he  were  ticking  too.  The  par- 


HOUSE 


232 


HOUSE 


lor-fire  ticked  in  the  grate.  There  was  only  one 
person  on  the  parlor-hearth,  and  the  loud  watch 
in  his  pocket  ticked  audibly. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  13. 

HOUSE- An  old. 

Passing,  now  the  mouldy  hall  of  some  obsolete 
Worshipful  Company,  now  the  illuminated  win- 
dows of  a Congregationless  Church,  that  seemed 
to  be  waiting  for  some  adventurous  Belzoni  to 
dig  it  out  and  discover  its  history  ; passing 
silent  warehouses  and  wharves,  and  here  and 
there  a narrow  alley  leading  to  the  river,  where 
a wretched  little  bill.  Found  Drowned,  was 
weeping  on  the  wet  wall  ; he  came  at  last  to 
the  house  he  sought.  An  old  brick  house,  so 
dingy  as  to  be  all  but  black,  standing  by  itself 
within  a gateway.  Before  it,  a square  court- 
yard where  a shrub  or  two  and  a patch  of  grass 
were  as  rank  (which  is  saying  much)  as  the 
iron  railings  inclosing  them  were  rusty  ; behind 
it,  a jumble  of  roots.  It  was  a double  house, 
with  long,  narrow,  heavily-framed  windows. 
Many  years  ago  it  had  had  it  in  its  mind  to  slide 
down  sideways  ; it  had  been  propped  up,  how- 
ever, and  was  leaning  on  some  half-dozen  gi- 
gantic crutches ; which  gymnasium  for  the 
neighboring  cats,  weather-stained,  smoke-black- 
ened, and  overgrown  with  weeds,  appeared  in 
these  latter  days  to  be  no  very  sure  reliance. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 


In  the  course  of  the  day  too,  Arthur  looked 
through  the  whole  house.  Dull  and  dark  he 
found  it.  The  gaunt  rooms,  deserted  for  years 
upon  years,  seemed  to  have  settled  down  into  a 
gloomy  lethargy  from  which  nothing  could  rouse 
them  again.  The  furniture,  at  once  spare  and 
lumbering,  hid  in  the  rooms  rather  than  fur- 
nished them,  and  there  was  no  color  in  all  the 
house  ; such  color  as  had  ever  been  there,  had 
long  ago  started  away  on  lost  sunbeams — got 
itself  absorbed,  perhaps,  into  flowers,  butterflies, 
plumage  of  birds,  precious  stones,  what  not. 
There  was  not  one  straight  floor,  from  the  foun- 
dation to  the  roof ; the  ceilings  were  so  fantas- 
tically clouded  by  smoke  and  dust,  that  old 
women  might  have  told  fortunes  in  them,  better 
than  in  grouts  of  tea ; the  dead-cold  hearths 
showed  no  traces  of  having  ever  been  warmed, 
but  in  heaps  of  soot  that  had  tumbled  down  the 
chimneys,  and  eddied  about  in  little  dusky 
whirlwinds  when  the  doors  were  opened.  In 
what  had  once  been  a drawing-room,  there  were 
a pair  of  meagre  mirrors,  with  dismal  proces- 
sions of  black  figures  carrying  black  garlands, 
walking  round  the  frames  ; but  even  these  were 
short  of  heads  and  legs,  and  one  undertaker-like 
Cupid  had  swung  round  on  his  own  axis  and 
got  upside  down,  and  another  had  fallen  off  al- 
together.— Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  5. 

HOUSE— A tenement. 

The  house  was  very  close,  and  had  an  un- 
wholesome smell.  The  little  staircase  windows 
looked  in  at  the  back  windows  of  other  houses 
as  unwholesome  as  itself,  with  poles  and  lines 
thrust  out  of  them,  on  which  unsightly  linen 
hung:  as  if  the  inhabitants  were  angling  for 
clothes,  and  had  had  some  wretched  bites  not 
worth  attending  to.  In  the  back  garret — a 
sickly- room,  with  a turn-up  bedstead  in  it,  so 


hastily  and  recently  turned  up  that  the  blankets 
were  boiling  over,  as  it  were,  and  keeping  the 
lid  open — a half-finished  breakfast  of  coffee  and 
toast,  for  two  persons,  was  jumbled  down  any- 
how on  a rickety  table. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  9. 

HOUSE  — And  surrounding-s  (of  Mrs. 

Go  wan). 

The  house,  on  a little  desert  island,  looked  as 
if  it  had  broken  away  from  somewhere  else,  and 
had  floated  by  chance  into  its  present  anchorage, 
in  company  with  a vine  almost  as  much  in  want 
of  training  as  the  poor  wretches  who  were  lying 
under  its  leaves.  The  features  of  the  surround- 
ing picture  were,  a church  with  boarding  and 
scaffolding  about  it,  which  had  been  under  sup- 
posititious repair  so  long  that  the  means  of  repair 
looked  a hundred  years  old,  and  had  themselves 
fallen  into  decay  ; a quantity  of  washed  linen, 
spread  to  dry  in  the  sun  ; a number  of  houses 
at  odds  with  one  another  and  grotesquely  out 
of  the  perpendicular,  like  rotten  pre-Adamite 
cheeses  cut  into  fantastic  shapes  and  full  of 
mites  ; and  a feverish  bewilderment  of  windows, 
with  their  lattice-blinds  all  hanging  askew,  and 
something  draggled  and  dirty  dangling  out  of 
most  of  them. 

On  the  first-floor  of  the  house  was  a Bank — a 
surprising  experience  for  any  gentleman  of  com- 
mercial pursuits  bringing  laws  for  all  mankind 
from  a British  city — where  the  two  spare  .clerks, 
like  dried  dragoons,  in  green  velvet  caps  adorned 
with  golden  tassels,  stood,  bearded,  behind  a 
small  counter  in  a small  room,  containing  no 
other  visible  objects  than  an  empty  iron  safe, 
with  the  door  open,  a jug  of  water,  and  a paper- 
ing of  garlands  of  roses  ; but  who,  on  lawful 
requisition,  by  mei'ely  dipping  their  hands  out 
of  sight,  could  produce  exhaustless  mounds  of 
five-franc  pieces.  Below  the  Bank  was  a suite  of 
three  or  four  rooms  with  barred  windows,  which 
had  the  appearance  of  a jail  for  criminal  rats. 
Above  the  Bank  was  Mrs.  Gowan’s  residence. 

Notwithstanding  that  its  walls  were  blotched, 
as  if  missionary  maps  were  bursting  out  of  them 
to  impart  geographical  knowledge ; notwith- 
standing that  its  weird  furniture  was  forlornly 
faded  and  musty,  and  that  the  prevailing  Vene- 
tian odor  of  bilge  water  and  an  ebb-tide  on  a 
weedy  shore  was  very  strong ; the  place  was 
better  within  than  it  promised.  The  door  was 
opened  by  a smiling  man  like  a reformed  assas- 
sin— a temporary  servant — who  ushered  them 
into  the  room  where  Mrs.  Gowan  sat. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  6. 

HOUSE— A gloomy. 

A dead  sort  of  house,  with  a dead  wall  over 
the  way  and  a dead  gateway  at  the  side,  where 
a pendant  bell-handle  produced  two  dead  tinkles, 
and  a knocker  produced  a dead,  flat,  surface  tap- 
ping, that  seemed  not  to  have  depth  enough  in 
it  to  penetrate  even  the  cracked  door.  However, 
the  door  jarred  open  on  a dead  sort  of  spring  ; 
and  he  closed  it  behind  him  as  he  entered  a 
dull  yard,  soon  brought  to  a close  at  the  back 
by  another  dead  wall,  where  an  attempt  had 
been  made  to  train  some  creeping  shrubs,  which 
were  dead  ; and  to  make  a little  fountain  in  a 
grotto,  which  was  dry  ; and  to  decorate  that  with 
a little  statue,  which  was  gone. 

Little  Doirit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  20. 


HOUSE 


233 


HOUSE 


HOUSE— In  fashionable  locality. 

Like  unexceptionable  society,  the  opposing 
rows  of  houses  in  Harley  Street  were  very  grim 
with  one  another.  Indeed,  the  mansions  and 
their  inhabitant^ were  so  much  alike  in  that  re- 
spect, that  the  people  were  often  to  be  found 
drawn  up  on  opposite  sides  of  dinner-tables, 
in  the  shade  of  their  own  loftiness,  staring  at 
the  other  side  of  the  way  with  the  dullness  of 
the  houses. 

Everybody  knows  how  like  the  street,  the 
two  dinner-rows  of  people  who  take  their  stand 
by  the  street  will  be.  The  expressionless  uni- 
form twenty  houses,  all  to  be  knocked  at  and 
rung  at  in  the  same  form,  all  approachable  by  the 
same  dull  steps,  all  fended  off  by  the  same  pat- 
tern of  railing,  all  with  the  same  impracticable 
fire-escapes,  the  same  inconvenient  fixtures  in 
their  heads,  and  everything,  without  exception,  to 
be  taken  at  a high  valuation — who  ha^  not  dined 
with  these?  The  house  so  drearily  out  of  re 
pair,  the  occasional  bow-window,  the  stuccoed 
house,  the  newly-fronted  house,  the  corner  house 
with  nothing  but  angular  rooms,  the  house  with 
the  blinds  always  down,  the  house  with  the 
hatchment  always  up,  the  house  where  the  col- 
lector has  called  for  one  quarter  of  an  Idea,  and 
found  nobody  at  home — who  has  not  dined 
with  these?  The  house  that  nobody  will  take, 
and  is  to  be  had  a bargain — who  does  not  know 
her  ? The  showy  house  that  was  taken  for  life  by 
the  disappointed  gentleman,  and  which  doesn’t 
suit  him  at  all — who  is  unacquainted  with  that 
haunted  habitation  ? 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  21. 

HOUSE— A debilitated. 

The  debilitated  old  house  in  the  city,  wrapped 
in  its  mantle  of  soot,  and  leaning  heavily  on  the 
crutches  that  had  partaken  of  its  decay  and 
worn  out  with  it,  never  knew  a healthy  or  cheer- 
ful interval,  let  what  would  betide.  If  the  sun 
ever  touched  it,  it  was  but  with  a ray,  and  that 
was  gone  in  half  an  hour  ; if  the  moonlight  ever 
fell  upon  it,  it  was  only  to  put  a few  patches  on 
its  doleful  cloak,  and  make  it  look  more  wretched. 
The  stars,  to  be  sure,  coldly  watched  it  when 
the  nights  and  the  smoke  were  clear  enough  ; 
and  all  bad  weather  stood  by  it  with  a rare 
fidelity.  You  should  alike  find  rain,  hail,  frost, 
and  thaw  lingering  in  that  dismal  enclosure, 
when  they  had  vanished  from  other  places  ; and 
as  to  snow,  you  should  see  it  there  for  weeks, 
long  after  it  had  changed  from  yellow  to  black, 
slowly  weeping  away  its  grimy  life.  The  place 
had  no  other  adherents.  As  to  street  noises,  the 
rumbling  of  wheels  in  the  lane  merely  rushed  in 
at  the  gateway  in  going  past,  and  rushed  out 
again  ; making  the  listening  Mistress  Affery 
feel  as  if  she  were  deaf,  and  recovered  the  sense 
of  hearing  by  instantaneous  flashes.  So  with 
whistling,  singing,  talking,  laughing,  and  all 
pleasant  human  sounds.  They  leaped  the  gap 
in  a moment,  and  went  upon  their  way. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  15. 

HOUSE— Illuminated  by  love. 

She  reserved  it  for  me  to  restore  the  desolate 
house,  admit  the  sunshine  into  the  dark  rooms, 
set  the  clocks  a going  and  the  cold  hearths  a 
blazing,  tear  down  the  cobwebs,  destroy  the 
vermin— in  short,  do  all  the  shining  deeds  of 
the  young  Knight  of  romance,  and  marry  the 


Princess.  I had  stopped  to  look  at  the  house 
as  I passed  ; and  its  seared  red  brick  walls, 
blocked  windows,  and  strong  green  ivy,  clasp- 
ing even  the  stacks  of  chimneys  with  its 
twigs  and  tendons,  as  if  with  sinewy  old  arms, 
had  made  up  a rich  attractive  mystery,  of  which 
I was  the  hero. — Great  Expectations , Chap.  29. 

HOUSE— A fierce-looking-. 

They  lived  at  Camberwell  ; in  a house  so  big 
and  fierce,  that  its  mere  outside,  like  the  outside 
of  a giant’s  castle,  struck  terror  into  vulgar  minds 
and  made  bold  persons  quail.  There  was  a great 
front  gate  ; with  a great  bell,  whose  handle  was 
in  itself  a note  of  admiration  ; and  a great 
lodge  ; which,  being  close  to  the  house,  rather 
spoilt  the  look  out  certainly,  but  made  the  look- 
in  tremendous.  At  this  entry,  a great  porter 
kept  constant  watch  and  ward  ; and  when  he 
gave  the  visitor  high  leave  to  pass,  he  rang  a 
second  great  bell,  responsive  to  whose  note  a 
great  footman  appeared  in  due  time  at  the  great 
hall-door,  with  such  great  tags  upon  his  liveried 
shoulder  that  he  was  perpetually  entangling  and 
hooking  himself  among  the  chairs  and  tables, 
and  led  a life  of  torment  which  could  scarcely 
have  been  surpassed,  if  he  had  been  a blue-bot- 
tle in  a world  of  cobwebs. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  9. 

HOUSE— An  ancient,  renovated. 

Some  attempts  had  been  made,  I noticed,  to 
infuse  new  blood  into  this  dwindling  frame,  by 
repairing  the  costly  old  wood-work  here  and 
there  with  common  deal  ; but  it  was  like  the 
marriage  of  a reduced  old  noble  to  a plebeian 
pauper,  and  each  party  to  the  ill  assorted  union 
shrunk  away  from  the  other. 

David  Copper  field.  Chap.  50. 

HOUSE— An  old-fashioned. 

At  length  we  stopped  before  a very  old  house 
bulging  out  over  the  road  ; a house  with  long, 
low,  lattice-windows  bulging  out  still  farther,  and 
beams  with  carved  heads  on  the  ends  bulging 
out  too,  so  that  I fancied  the  whole  house  was 
leaning  forward,  trying  to  see  who  was  passing 
on  the  narrow  pavement  below.  It  was  quite 
spotless  in  its  cleanliness.  The  old-fashioned 
brass  knocker  on  the  low  arched  door,  ornament- 
ed with  carved  garlands  of  fruit  and  flowers, 
twinkled  like  a star  ; the  two  stone  steps  de- 
scending to  the  door  were  as  white  as  if  they  had 
been  covered  with  fair  linen  ; and  all  the  angles 
and  corners,  and  carvings  and  mouldings,  and 
quaint  little  panes  of  glass,  and  quainter  little 
windows,  though  as  old  as  the  hills,  were  as  pure 
as  any  snow  that  ever  fell  upon  the  hills. 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  15. 

HOUSE— A stiff  looking-. 

The  Town  Hall  stands  like  a brick  and  mor- 
tar private  on  parade. — Reprinted  Pieces. 

HOUSE^Of  a Southern  planter. 

The  planter’s  house  was  an  airy,  rustic  dwell- 
ing, that  brought  Defoe’s  description  of  such 
places  strongly  to  my  recollection.  The  day  was 
very  warm,  but,  the  blinds  all  being  closed,  and 
the  windows  and  doors  set  wide  open,  a shady 
coolness  rustled  through  the  rooms, which  was  ex- 
quisitely refreshing  after  the  glare  and  heat  with- 
out. Before  the  windows  was  an  open  piazza, 


H0U3E 


234 


HOUSE 


where,  in  what  they  call  the  hot  weather — what- 
ever that  may  be — they  sling  hammocks,  and 
drink  and  doze  luxuriously.  I do  not  know  how 
their  cool  refections  may  taste  within  the  ham- 
mocks, but,  having  experience,  I can  report  that, 
out  of  them,  the  mounds  of  ices  and  the  bowls 
of  mint-julep  and  sherry-cobbler  they  make  in 
these  latitudes  are  refreshments  never  to  be 
thought  of  afterwards,  in  summer,  by  those  who 
would  preserve  contented  minds. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  g. 

HOUSE— A monotonous  pattern. 

An  indescribable  character  of  faded  gentility 
that  attached  to  the  house  I sought,  and  made 
it  unlike  all  the  other  houses  in  the  street — 
though  they  were  all  built  on  one  monotonous 
pattern,  and  looked  like  the  early  copies  of  a 
blundering  boy  who  was  learning  to  make 
houses,  and  had  not  yet  got  out  of  his  cramped 
brick -and-mortar  pothooks — reminded  me  still 
more  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber. 

David  Copperjield , Chap.  27. 

HOUSE— Of  Caleb  Plummer. 

Caleb  Plummer  and  his  Blind  Daughter  lived 
all  alone  by  themselves,  in  a little  cracked  nut- 
shell of  a wooden  house,  which  was,  in  truth,  no 
better  than  a pimple  on  the  prominent  red-brick 
nose  of  Gruff  and  Tacldeton.  The  premises  of 
Gruff  and  Tackleton  were  the  great  feature  of 
the  street ; but  you  might  have  knocked  down 
Caleb  Plummer’s  dwelling  with  a hammer  or 
two,  and  carried  off  the  pieces  in  a cart. 

* * * * * 

It  stuck  to  the  premises  of  Gruff  and  Tackle- 
ton,  like  a barnacle  to  a ship’s  keel,  or  a snail  to 
a door,  or  a little  bunch  of  toadstools  to  the 
stem  of  a tree.  But  it  was  the  germ  from  which 
the  full-grown  trunk  of  Gruff  and  Tackleton  had 
sprung  ; and  under  its  crazy  roof,  the  Gruff  be- 
fore last  had,  in  a small  way,*  made  toys  for  a 
generation  of  old  boys  and  girls,  who  had  play- 
ed with  them,  and  found  them  out,  and  broken 
them,  and  gone  to  sleep. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  2. 

HOUSE— A shy  looking-. 

In  one  of  these  streets,  the  cleanest  of  them 
all,  and  on  the  shady  side  of  the  way — for  good 
housewives  know  that  sunlight  damages  their 
cherished  furniture,  and  so  choose  the  shade 
rather  than  its  intrusive  glare — there  stood  the 
house  with  which  we  have  to  deal.  It  was  a 
modest  building,  not  very  straight,  not  large,  not 
tall  ; not  bold-faced,  with  great  staring  windows, 
but  a shy,  blinking  house,  with  a conical  roof 
going  up  into  a peak  over  its  garret  window  of 
four  small  panes-  of  glass,  like  a cocked  hat  on 
the  head  of  an  elderly  gentleman  wuh  one  eye. 
It  was  not  built  of  brick  or  lofty  stone,  but  of 
wood  and  plaster ; it  was  not  planned  with  a 
dull  and  wearisome  regard  to  regularity,  for  no 
one  window  matched  the  other,  or  seemed  to 
have  the  slightest  reference  to  anything  besides 
itself. — Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  4. 

HOUSE  Description  of  Bleak  House  and 
furniture. 

It  was  one  of  those  delightfully  irregular 
houses  where  you  go  up  and  down  steps  out  of 
one  room  into  another,  and  where  you  come 
upon  more  rooms  when  you  think  you  have 


seen  all  there  are,  and  where  there  is  a bounti- 
ful provision  of  little  halls  and  passages,  and 
where  you  find  still  older  cottage-rooms  in  un- 
expected places,  with  lattice* windows  and  green 
growth  pressing  through  them?  Mine,  which 
we  entered  first,  was  of  this  kind,  with  an  up- 
and-down  roof,  that  had  more  corners  in  it  than 
I ever  counted  afterwards,  and  a chimney  (there 
was  a wood-fire  on  the  hearth)  paved  all  around 
with  pure  white  tiles,  in  every  one  of  which  a 
bright  miniature  of  the  fire  was  blazing.  Out 
of  this  room  you  went  down  two  steps,  into  a 
charming  little  sitting-room,  looking  down  upon 
a flower-garden,  which  room  was  henceforth  to 
belong  to  Ada  and  me.  Out  of  this  you  went 
up  three  steps,  into  Ada’s  bed-room,  which  had 
a fine  broad  window,  commanding  a beautiful 
view  (we  saw  a great  expanse  of  darkness  lying 
underneath  the  stars),  to  which  there  was  a hol- 
low window-seat,  in  which,  with  a spring-lock, 
three  dear  Adas  might  have  been  lost  at  once. 
Out  of  this  room  you  passed  into  a little  gallery, 
with  which  the  other  best  rooms  (only  two)  com- 
municated, and  so,  by  a little  staircase  of  shallow 
steps,  with  a number  of  corner  stairs  in  it,  con- 
sidering its  length,  down  into  the  hall.  But  if, 
instead  of  going  out  at  Ada’s  door,  you  came 
back  into  my  room,  and  went  out  at  the  door 
by  which  you  had  entered  it,  and  turned  up  a 
few  crooked  steps  that  branched  off  in  an  unex- 
pected manner  from  the  stairs,  you  lost  yourself 
in  passages,  with  mangles  in  them,  and  three- 
cornered  tables,  and  a Native-Hindoo  chair, 
which  was  also  a sofa,  a box,  and  a bedstead, 
and  looked,  in  every  form,  something  between  a 
bamboo  skeleton  and  a great  bird-cage,  and  had 
been  brought  from  India  nobody  knew  by  whom 
or  when.  From  these  you  came  on  Richard’s 
room,  which  was  part  library,  part  sitting-room, 
part  bed-room,  and  seemed  indeed  a comforta- 
ble compound  of  many  rooms.  Out  of  that, 
you  went  straight,  with  a little  interval  of  pas- 
sage, to  the  plain  room  where  Mr.  Jarndyce 
slept,  all  the  year  round,  with  his  window  open, 
his  bedstead,  without  any  furniture,  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor  for  more  air,  and  his 
cold-bath  gaping  for  him  in  a smaller  room 
adjoining.  Out  of  that,  you  came  into  another 
passage,  where  there  were  back-stairs,  and  where 
you  could  hear  the  horses  being  rubbed  down, 
outside  the  stable,  and  being  told  to  Hold  up, 
and  Get  over,  as  they  slipped  about  very  much 
on  the  uneven  stones.  Or  you  might,  if  you 
came  out  at  another  door  (every  room  had  at 
least  two  doors),  go  straight  down  to  the  hall 
again  by  half-a-dozen  steps  and  a low  archway, 
wondering  how  you  got  back  there,  or  had  ever 
got  out  of  it. 

The  furniture,- old-fashioned  rather  than  old, 
like  the  house,  was  as  pleasantly  irregular.  Ada’s 
sleeping-room  was  all  flowers — in  chintz  and  pa- 
per, in  velvet,  in  needlework,  in  the  brocade  of 
two  stiff  courtly  chairs,  which  stood,  each  at- 
tended by  a little  page  of  a stool  for  greater 
state,  on  either  side  of  the  fire-place.  Our  sit- 
ting-room was  green  ; and  had,  framed  and 
glazed,  upon  the  walls,  numbers  of  surprising 
and  surprised  birds,  staring  out  of  pictures  at  a 
real  trout  in  a case,  as  brown  and  shining  as  if 
it  had  been  served  with  gravy  ; at  the  death  of 
Captain  Cook  ; and  at  the  whole  process  of  pre- 
paring tea  in  China,  as  depicted  by  Chinese  art- 
ists. In  my  room  there  were  oval  engravings 


HOUSE 


235 


HOUSE  AND  GARDEN 


of  the  months — ladies  haymaking,  in  short 
waists,  and  large  hats  tied  under  the  chin,  for 
June — smooth-legged  noblemen,  pointing,  with 
cocked-hats,  to  village  steeples,  for  October. 
Half-length  portraits,  in  crayons,  abounded  all 
through  the  house  ; but  were  so  dispersed  that 
I found  the  brother  of  a youthful  officer  of  mine 
in  the  china-closet,  and  the  gray  old  age  of  my 
pretty  young  bride,  with  a flower  in  her  bodice, 
in  the  breakfast-room.  As  substitutes  I had  four 
angels,  of  Queen  Anne’s  reign,  taking  a com- 
placent gentleman  to  heaven,  in  festoons,  with 
some  difficulty  ; and  a composition  in  needle- 
work, representing  fruit,  a kettle,  and  an  alpha- 
bet. All  the  movables,  from  the  wafdrojpes  to 
the  chairs  and  tables,  hangings,  glasses,  even  to 
the  pin-cushions  and  scent-bottles  on  the  dress- 
ing-tables, displayed  the  same  quaint  variety. 
They  agreed  in  nothing  but  their  perfect  neat- 
ness, their  display  of  the  whitest  linen,  and  their 
storing- up,  wheresoever  the  existence  of  a draw- 
er, small  or  large,  rendered  it  possible,  of  quan- 
tities of  rose-leaves  and  sweet  lavender.  Such, 
with  its  illuminated  windows,  softened  here  and 
there  by  shadows  of  curtains,  shining  out  upon 
the  starlight  night ; with  its  light,  and  warmth, 
and  comfort ; with  its  hospitable  jingle,  at  a 
distance,  of  preparations  for  dinner  ; with  the 
face  of  its  generous  master  brightening  every- 
thing we  saw  ; and  just  wind  enough  without  to 
sound  a low  accompaniment  to  everything  we 
heard ; were  our  first  impressions  of  Bleak 
House. — Bleak  House,  Chap . 6. 

HOUSE— A sombre. 

It  was  a dreary,  silent  building,  with  echoing 
courtyards,  desolated  turret-chambers,  and  whole 
suites  of  rooms  shut  up  and  mouldering  to  ruin. 

The  terrace-garden,  dark  with  the  shades  of 
overhanging  trees,  had  an  air  of  melancholy  that 
was  quite  oppressive.  Great  iron  gates,  disused 
for  many  years,  and  red  with  rust,  drooping  on 
their  hinges  and  overgrown  with  long  rank  grass, 
seemed  as  though  they  tried  to  sink  into  the 
ground,  and  hide  their  fallen  state  among  the 
friendly  weeds.  The  fantastic  monsters  on  the 
walls,  green  with  age  and  damp,  and  covered 
here  and  there  with  moss,  looked  grim  and  de- 
solate. There  was  a sombre  aspect  even  on  that 
part  of  the  mansion  which  was  inhabited  and 
kept  in  good  repair,  that  struck  the  beholder 
with  a sense  of  sadness  ; of  something  forlorn 
and  failing,  whence  cheerfulness  was  banished. 
It  would  have  been  difficult  to  imagine  a bright 
fire  blazing  in  the  dull  and  darkened  rooms,  or 
to  picture  any  gaiety  of  heart  or  revelry  that  the 
frowning  walls  shut  in.  It  seemed  a place  where 
such  things  had  been,  but  could  be  no  more — 
the  very  ghost  of  a house,  haunting  the  old  spot 
in  its  old  outward  form,  and  that  was  all. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  13. 

HOUSE— A dissipated-looking-. 

She  stopped  at  twilight,  at  the  door  of  a mean 
little  public  house,  with  dim  red  lights  in  it.  As 
haggard  and  as  shabby,  as  if,  for  want  of  cus- 
tom, it  had  itself  taken  to  drinking,  and  had 
gone  the  way  all  drunkards  go,  and  was  very 
near  the  end  of  it. — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  5. 


rooms,  bright  damask  does  penance  in  brown 
holland,  carving  and  gilding  puts  on  mortifica- 
tion, and  the  Dedlock  ancestors  retire  from  the 
light  of  day  again.  Around  and  around  the 
house  the  leaves  fall  thick — but  never  fast,  for 
they  come  circling  down  with  a dead  lightness 
that  is  sombre  and  slow.  Let  the  gardener  sweep 
and  sweep  the  turf  as  he  will,  and  press  the 
leaves  into  full  barrows,  and  wheel  them  off, 
still  they  lie  ankle-deep.  Howls  the  shrill  wind 
round  Chesney  Wold  ; the  sharp  rain  beats,  the 
windows  rattle,  and  the  chimneys  growl.  Mists 
hide  in  the  avenues,  veil  the  points  of  view,  and 
move  in  funeral- wise  across  the  rising  grounds. 
On  all  the  house  there  is  a cold,  blank  smell, 
like  the  smell  of  a little  church,  though  some- 
thing dryer  : suggesting  that  the  dead  and  buried 
Dedlocks  walk  there, 'in  the  long  nights,  and 
leave  the  flavor  of  their  graves  behind  them. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  29. 

HOUSE— A dull  fashionable. 

For  the  rest,  Lincolnshire  life  to  Volumnia  is 
a vast  blank  of  overgrown  house  looking  out 
upon  trees,  sighing,  wringing  their  hands,  bow- 
ing their  heads,  and  casting  their  tears  upon  the 
window-panes  in  monotonous  depression.  A 
labyrinth  of  grandeur,  less  the  property  of  an 
old  family  of  human  beings  and  their  ghostly 
likenesses,  than  of  an  old  family  of  echoings  and 
thunderings  which  start  out  of  their  hundred 
graves  at  every  sound,  and  go  resounding  through 
the  building.  A waste  of  unused  passages  and 
staircases,  in  which  to  drop  a comb  upon  a bed- 
room floor  at  night  is  to  send  a stealthy  footfall 
on  an  errand  through  the  house.  A place  where 
few  people  care  to  go  about  alone  ; where  a 
maid  screams  if  an  ash  drops  from  the  fire, 
takes  to  crying  at  all  times  and  seasons,  becomes 
the  victim  of  a low  disorder  of  the  spirits,  and 
gives  warning  and  departs. 

Thus  Chesney  Wold.  With  so  much  of  itself 
abandoned  to  darkness  and  vacancy  ; with  so 
little  change  under  the  summer  shining  or  the 
wintry  lowering  ; so  sombre  and  motionless  al- 
ways— no  flag  flying  now  by  day,  no  rows  of 
lights  sparkling  by  night ; with  no  family  to 
come  and  go,  no  visitors  to  be  the  souls  of  pale 
cold  shapes  of  rooms,  no  stir  of  life  about  it  ; — - 
passion  and  pride,  even  to  the  stranger’s  eye, 
have  died  away  from  the  place  in  Lincolnshire, 
and  yielded  it  to  dull  repose. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  66. 

HOUSE  AND  GARDEN-A  country. 

He  lived  in  a pretty  house,  formerly  the  Par- 
sonage-house, with  a lawn  in  front,  a bright 
flower-garden  at  the  side,  and  a well-stocked 
orchard  and  kitchen-garden  in  the  rear,  enclosed 
with  a venerable  wall  that  had  of  itself  a 
ripened,  ruddy  look.  But,  indeed,  everything 
about  the  place  wore  an  aspect  of  maturity  and 
abundance.  The  old  lime-tree  walk  was  like 
green  cloisters,  the  very  shadows  of  the  cherry- 
trees  and  apple-trees  were  heavy  with  fruit, 
the  gooseberry-bushes  were  so  laden  that 
their  branches  arched  and  rested  on  the  earth, 
the  strawberries  and  raspberries  grew  in  like 
profusion,  and  the  peaches  basked  by  the  hun- 
dred on  the  wall.  Tumbled  about  among  the 
spread  nets  and  the  glass  frames  sparkling  and 
winking  in  the  sun,  there  were  such  heaps- of 

and  cucumbers, 


HOUSE— In  winter. 

Chesney  Wold  is  shut  up,  carpets  are  rolled 
into  great,  scrolls  in  corners  of  comfortless  I drooping  pods,  and  marrow 


II0TJ3E-FR0NT 


230 


HOUSE-AGENT 


that  every  foot  of  ground  appeared  a vegetable 
treasury,  while  the  smell  of  sweet  kerbs  and  all 
kinds  of  wholesome  growth  (to  say  nothing  of 
the  neighboring  meadows,  where  the  hay  was 
carrying)  made  the  whole  air  a great  nosegay. 
Such  stillness  and  composure  reigned  within  the 
orderly  precincts  of  the  old  red  wall,  that  even 
the  feathers,  hung  in  garlands  to  scare  the  birds, 
hardly  stirred  ; and  the  wall  had  such  a ripen- 
ing influence  that  where,  here  and  there,  high 
up  a disused  nail  and  scrap  of  list  still  clung  to 
it,  it  was  easy  to  fancy  that  they  had  mellowed 
with  the  changing  seasons,  and  that  they  had 
rusted  and  decayed  according  to  the  common 
fate. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  18. 

HOUSE-FRONT— Like  an  old  beau. 

The  house-front  is  so  old  and  worn,  and  the 
brass  plate  is  so  shining  and  staring,  that  the 
general  result  has  reminded  imaginative  stran- 
gers of  a battered  old  beau  with  a large  modern 
eye-glass  stuck  in  his  blind  eye. 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  3. 

HOUSE— Mr.  Gradgrind’s. 

A very  regular  feature  on  the  face  of  the 
country,  Stone  Lodge  was.  Not  the  least  dis- 
guise toned  down  or  shaded  off  that  uncompro- 
mising fact  in  the  landscape.  A. great  square 
house,  with  a heavy  portico  darkening  the  prin- 
cipal windows,  as  its  master’s  heavy  brows  over- 
shadowed his  eyes.  A calculated,  cast  up,  bal- 
anced, and  proved  house.  Six  windows  on  this 
side  of  the  door,  six  on  that  side  ; a total  of 
twelve  in  this  wing,  a total  of  twelve  in  the 
other  wing  ; four-and-twenty  carried  over  to  the 
back  wings.  A lawn  and  garden  and  an  infant 
avenue,  all  ruled  straight  like  a botanical  ac- 
count-book, Gas  and  ventilation,  drainage  and 
water-service,  all  of  the  primest  quality.  Iron 
clamps  and  girders,  fireproof  from  top  to  bot- 
tom ; mechanical  lifts  for  the  housemaids,  with 
all  their  brushes  and  brooms  ; everything  that 
heart  could  desire. 

Everything?  Well,  I suppose  so.  The  little 
Gradgrinds  had  cabinets  in  various  departments 
of  science,  too.  They  had  a little  conchologi- 
cal  cabinet,  and  a little  metallui*gical  cabinet, 
and  a little  mineralogical  cabinet ; and  the 
specimens  were  all  arranged  and  labelled,  and 
the  bits  of  stone  and  ore  looked  as  though  they 
might  have  been  broken  from  the  parent  sub- 
stances by  those  tremendously  hard  instruments, 
their  own  names. 

Hard  Times,  Book  I.,  Chap.  3. 

HOUSES— Old. 

On  either  side  of  him,  there  shot  up  against 
the  ciark  sky,  tall,  gaunt,  straggling  houses,  with 
time-stained  fronts,  and  windows  that  seemed 
to  have  shared  the  lot  of  eyes  in  mortals,  and  to 
have  grown  dim  and  sunken  with  age.  Six, 
seven,  eight  stories  high,  were  the  houses  ; story 
piled  above  story,  as  children  build  with  cards — 
throwing  their  dark  shadows  over  the  roughly 
paved  road,  and  making  the  dark  night  darker. 

Pickwick , Chap.  49. 

HOUSES-  A neighborhood  of. 

They  were  a gloomy  suite  of  rooms,  in  a low- 
ering pile  of  building  up  a yard,  where  it  had 
so  little  business  to  be,  that  one  could  scarcely 
help  fancying  it  must  have  run  there  when  it 


was  a young  house,  playing  at  hide-and-seek 
with  other  houses,  and  have  forgotten  the  way 
out  again.— Christmas  Carol,  Stave  I. 

HOUSES  In  St.  Louis. 

In  the  old  French  portion  of  the  town  the 
thoroughfares  are  narrow  and  crooked,  and  some 
of  the  houses  are  very  quaint  and  picturesque, 
being  built  of  wood,  with  tumble-down  galler- 
ies before  the  windows,  approachable  by  stairs, 
or  rather  ladders,  from  the  street.  There  are 
queer  little  barbers’  shops  and  drinking-houses 
too,  in  this  quarter  ; and  abundance  of  cra/.y 
old  tenements  with  blinking  casements,  such  as 
may  be  seen  in  Flanders.  Some  of  these  an- 
cient habitations,  with  high  garret  gable-win- 
dows perking  into  the  roofs,  have  a kind  of 
French  shrug  about  them  ; and  being  lop-sided 
with  age,  appear  to  hold  their  heads  askew,  be- 
sides, as  if  they  were  grimacing  in  astonishment 
at  the  American  Improvements. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  12. 

HOUSES  Isolated  in  a city. 

But  it  is  neither  to  old  Almshouses  in  the 
country,  nor  to  new  Almshouses  by  the  railroad, 
that  these  present  Uncommercial  notes  relate. 
They  refer  back  to  journeys  made  among  those 
commonplace  smoky-fronted  London  Alms- 
houses, with  a little  paved  court-yard  in  front 
enclosed  by  iron  railings,  which  have  got  snowed 
up,  as  it  were,  by  bricks  and  mortar  ; which  were 
once  in  a suburb,  but  are  now  in  the  densely 
populated  town, — gaps  in  the  busy  life  around 
them,  parentheses  in  the  close  and  blotted  texts 
of  the  streets. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  27. 

HOUSES- Involved  in  law. 

“ I told  you  this  was  the  Growlery,  my  dear. 
Where  was  I ? ” 

I reminded  him,  at  the  hopeful  change  he  had 
made  in  Bleak  House. 

“ Bleak  House  : true.  There  is,  in  that  city 
of  London  there,  some  property  of  ours,  which 
is  much  at  this  day  what  Bleak  House  was  then, 
— I say  property  of  ours,  meaning  of  the  Suit’s, 
but  I ought  to  call  it  the  property  of  Costs  ; for 
Costs  is  the  only  power  on  earth  that  will  ever 
get  anything  out  of  it  now,  or  will  ever  know  it 
for  anything  but  an  eyesore  and  a heartsore.  It 
is  a street  of  perishing  blind  houses,  with  their 
eyes  stoned  out ; without  a pane  of  glass,  with- 
out so  much  as  a window-frame,  with  the  bare 
blank  shutters  tumbling  from  their  hinges  and 
falling  asunder ; the  iron  rails  peeling  away  in 
flakes  of  rust;  the  chimneys  sinking  in;  the 
stone  steps  to  every  door  (and  every  door  might 
be  Death’s  Door)  turning  stagnant  green  ; the 
very  crutches  on  which  the  ruins  are  propped, 
decaying.  Although  Bleak  House  was  not  in 
Chancery,  its  master  was,  and  it  was  stamped 
with  the  same  seal.  These  are  the  Great  Seal’s 
impressions,  my  dear,  all  over  England — the 
children  know  them  ! ” — Bleak  House,  Chap.  8. 

HOUSE-AGENT -Casby,  the. 

A heavy,  selfish,  drifting  Booby,  who,  having 
stumbled,  in  the  course  of  his  unwieldy  jostlings 
against  other  men,  on  the  discovery  that  to  get 
through  life  with  ease  and  credit,  he  had  but  to 
hold  ids  tongue,  keep  the  bald  part  of  his  head 
I well  polished,  and  leave  his  hair  alone,  hud  had 


H0U3E-T3P 


237 


HOUSE-KEEPER 


just  cunning  enough  to  seize  the  idea  and  stick 
to  it.  It  was  said  that  his  being  town-agent  to 
Lord  Decimus  Tite  Barnacle  was  referable,  not 
to  his  having  the  least  business  capacity,  but  to 
his  looking  so  supremely  benignant  that  nobody 
could  suppose  the  property  screwed  or  jobbed 
under  such  a man  ; also,  that  for  similar  reasons 
he  now  got  more  money  out  of  his  own  wretched 
lettings,  unquestioned,  than  anybody  with  a less 
knobby  and  less  shining  crown  could  possibly 
have  done.  In  a word,  it  was  represented 
(Clennam  called  to  mind,  alone  in  the  ticking 
parlor)  that  many  people  select  their  models, 
much  as  the  painters,  just  now  mentioned,  select 
theirs  ; and  that,  whereas  in  the  Royal  Academy 
some  evil  old  ruffian  of  a Dog-stealer  will  an- 
nually be  found  embodying  all  the  cardinal  vir- 
tues, on  account  of  his  eyelashes,  or  his  chin,  or 
his  legs  (thereby  planting  thorns  of  confusion 
in  the  breasts  of  the  more  observant  students 
of  nature),  so  in  the  great  social  Exhibition, 
accessories  are  often  accepted  in  lieu  of  the  in- 
ternal character. 

Calling  these  things  to  mind,  and  ranging 
Mr.  Pancks  in  a row  with  them,. Arthur  Clen- 
nam leaned  this  day  to  the  opinion,  without 
quite  deciding  on  it,  that  the  last  of  the  Patri- 
archs was  the  drifting  Booby  aforesaid,  with  the 
one  idea  of  keeping  the  bald  part  of  his  head 
highly  polished  ; and  that,  much  as  an  unwieldy 
ship  in  the  Thames  river  may  sometimes  be 
seen  heavily  driving  with  the  tide,  broadside  on, 
stern  first,  in  its  own  way  and  in  the  way  of 
everything  else,  though  making  a great  show  of 
navigation,  when  all  of  a sudden,  a little  coaly 
steam-tug  will  bear  down  upon  it,  take  it  in  tow, 
and  bustle  off  with  it ; similarly,  the  cumbrous 
Patriarch  had  been  taken  in  tow  by  the  snorting 
Pancks,  and  was  now  following  in  the  wake  of 
that  dingy  little  craft. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap . 13. 


Plis  turning  of  his  smooth  thumbs  over  one 
another  as  he  sat  there,  was  so.  typical  to  Clen- 
nam of  the  way  in  which  he  would  make  the 
subject  revolve  if  it  were  pursued,  never  show- 
ing any  new  part  of  it,  nor  allowing  it  to  make 
the  smallest  advance,  that  it  did  much  to  help 
to  convince  him  of  his  labor  having  been  in 
vain.  He  might  have  taken  any  time  to  think 
about  it,  for  Mr.  Casby,  well  accustomed  to  get 
on  anywhere  by  leaving  everything  to  his  bumps 
and  his  white  hair,  knew  his  strength  to  lie  in 
silence.  So  there  Casby  sate,  twirling  and  twirl- 
ing, and  making  his  polished  head  and  fore- 
head look  largely  benevolent  in  every  knob. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  9. 

HOUSE-TOP— Scene  from  Todg-ers’s. 

The  top  of  the  house  was  worthy  of  notice. 
There  was  a sort  of  terrace  on  the  roof,  with 
posts  and  fragments  of  rotten  lines,  once  in- 
tended to  dry  clothes  upon  ; and  there  were 
two  or  three  tea-chests  out  there,  full  of  earth, 
with  forgotten  plants  in  them,  like  old  walking- 
sticks.  Whoever  climbed  to  this  observatory, 
was  stunned  at  first  from  having  knocked  his 
head  against  the  little  door  in  coming  out ; and 
after  that,  was  for  the  moment  choked  from 
having  looked,  perforce,  straight  down  the 
kitchen  chimney  ; but  these  two  stages  over, 
there  were  things  to  gaze  at  from  the  top  of 
Todgers’s,  well  worth  your  seeing  too.  For,  first 


and  foremost,  if  the  day  were  bright,  you  ol>- 
j served  upon  the  house-tops,  stretching  far  away, 
a long  dark  path — the  shadow  of  the  Monu- 
ment: and  turning  round,  the  tall  original  was 
close  beside  you,  with  every  hair  erect  upon  his 
golden  head,  as  if  the  doings  of  the  city  fright- 
ened him.  Then  there  were  steeples,  towers, 
belfries,  shining  vanes,  and  masts  of  ships  ; a 
very  forest.  Gables,  house-tops,  garret-win- 
dows, wilderness  upon  wilderness.  Smoke  and 
noise  enough  for  all  the  world  at  once. 

After  the  first  glance,  there  were  slight  fea- 
tures in  the  1 idst  of  this  crowd  of  objects, 
which  sprung  out  from  the  mass  without  any 
reason,  as  it  were,  and  took  hold  of  the  atten- 
tion whether  the  spectator  would  or  no.  Thus, 
the  revolving  chimney-pots  on  one  great  stack 
of  buildings,  seemed  to  be  turning  gravely  to 
each  other  every  now  and  then,  and  whispering 
the  result  of  their  separate  observation  of  what 
was  going  on  below.  Others,  of  a crook-backed 
shape,  appeared  to  be  maliciously  holding  them- 
selves askew,  that  they  might  shut  the  prospect 
out  and  baffle  Todgers’s.  The  man  who  was 
mending  a pen  at  an  upper  window  over  the 
way,  became  of  paramount  importance  in  the 
scene,  and  made  a blank  in  it,  ridiculously  dis- 
proportionate in  its  extent,  when  he  retired. 
The  gambols  of  a piece  of  cloth  upon  the  dyer’s 
pole  had  far  more  interest  for  the  moment  than  all 
the  changing  motion  of  the  crowd.  Yet  even 
while  the  looker-on  felt  angry  with  himself  for 
this,  and  wondered  how  it  was,  the  tumult 
swelled  into  a roar;  the  hosts  of  objects  seemed 
to  thicken  and  expand  a hundredfold  ; and  after 
gazing  round  him,  quite  scared,  he  turned  into 
Todgers’s  again,  much  more  rapidly  than  he 
came  out  ; and  ten  to  one  he  told  M.  Todgers 
afterwards  that  if  he  hadn’t  done  so,  he  would 
certainly  have  come  into  the  street  by  the  short- 
est cut : that  is  to  say,  head  foremost. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  9. 

HOUSE-KEEPER-Ruth  as  a. 

“ Oh,  you  are  going  to  work  in  earnest,  are 
you  ? ” 

Ayes  aye  ! That  she  was.  And  in  such  pleas- 
ant earnest,  moreover,  that  Tom’s  attention 
wandered  from  his  writing  every  moment.  First, 
she  tripped  down  stairs  into  the  kitchen  for  the 
flour,  then  for  the  pie-board,  then  for  the  eggs, 
then  for  the  butter,  then  for  a jug  of  water,  then 
for  the  rolling-pin,  then  for  a pudding-basin, 
then  for  the  pepper,  then  for  the  salt,  making  a 
separate  journey  for  everything,  and  laughing 
every  time  she  started  off  afresh.  When  all  the 
materials  were  collected,  she  was  horrified  to 
find  she  had  no  apron  on,  and  so  ran  up  stairs, 
by  way  of  variety,  to  fetch  it.  She  didn’t  put 
it  on  upstairs,  but  came  dancing  down  with  it  in 
her  hand  ; and  being  one  of  those  little  women 
to  whom  an  apron  is  a most  becoming  little 
vanity,  it  took  an  immense  time  to  arrange  ; 
having  to  be  carefully  smoothed  down  beneath 
— Oh,  heaven,  what  a wicked  little  stomacher  ! 
and  to  be  gathered  up  into  little  plaits  by  the 
strings  before  it  could  be  tied,  and  to  be  tapped, 
rebuked,  and  wheedled,  at  the  pockets,  before 
it  would  set  right,  which  at  last  it  did,  and  when 
it  did — but  never  mind  ; this  is  a sober  chronicle. 
And  then,  there  were  cuffs  to  be  tucked  up,  for 
fear  of  flour  ; and  she  had  a little  ring  to  pull 
off  her  finger,  which  wouldn’t  come  off  (foolish 


HOUSE-KEEPER 


238 


HOUSE-KEEPER 


little  ring ! ) : and  during  the  whole  of  these 
preparations  she  looked  demurely  every  now  and 
then  at  Tom,  from  under  her  dark  eye-lashes,  as 
if  they  were  all  a part  of  the  pudding,  and  in- 
dispensable to  its  composition. 

* * x * * 

Such  a busy  little  woman  as  she  was  ! So  full 
of  self-importance,  and  trying  so  hard  not  to 
smile,  or  seem  uncertain  about  anything  ! It 
was  a perfect  treat  to  Tom  to  see  her  with 
her  brows  knit,  and  her  rosy  lips  pursed  up, 
kneading  away  at  the  crust,  rolling  it  out,  cut- 
ting it  up  into  strips,  lining  the  basin  with  it, 
shaving  it  off  fine  round  the  rim,  chopping  up 
the  steak  into  small  pieces,  raining  down  pepper 
and  salt  upon  them,  packing  them  into  the  basin, 
pouring  in  cold  water  for  gravy,  and  never  ven- 
turing to  steal  a look  in  his  direction,  lest  her 
gravity  should  be  disturbed  ; until,  at  last,  the 
basin  being  quite  full,  and  only  wanting  the  top 
crust,  she  clapped  her  hands,  all  covered  with 
paste  and  flour,  at  Tom,  and  burst  out  heartily 
into  such  a charming  little  laugh  of  triumph, 
that  the  pudding  need  have  had  no  other  sea- 
soning to- commend  it  to  the  taste  of  any  rea- 
sonable man  on  earth. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  39. 

HOUSE-KEEPER-Ruth. 

Well ! she  was  a cheerful  little  thing  ; and  had 
a quaint,  bright  quietness  about  her,  that  was 
infinitely  pleasant.  Surely  she  was  the  best 
sauce  for  chops  ever  invented.  The  potatoes 
seemed  to  take  a pleasure  in  sending  up  their 
grateful  steam  before  her  ; the  froth  upon  the 
pint  of  porter  pouted  to  attract  her  notice.  But 
.t  was  all  in  vain.  She  saw  nothing  but  Tom. 
Tom  was  the  first  and  last  thing  in  the  world. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  37. 

Pleasant  little  Ruth  ! Cheerful,  tidy,  bust- 
ling, quiet  little  Ruth  ! No  doll’s  house  ever 
yielded  greater  delight  to  its  young  mistress, 
than  little  Ruth  derived  from  her  glorious  do- 
minion over  the  triangular  parlor  and  the  two 
small  bedrooms. 

To  be  Tom’s  housekeeper.  What  dignity  ! 
Housekeeping,  upon  the  commonest  terms,  as- 
sociated itself  with  elevated  responsibilities  of 
all  sorts  and  kinds  ; but  housekeeping  for  Tom 
implied  the  utmost  complication  of  grave  trusts 
and  mighty  charges.  Well  might  she  take  the 
keys  out  of  the  little  chiffonnier  which  held  the 
tea  and  sugar  ; and  out  of  the  two  little  damp 
cupboards  down  by  the  fire-place,  where  the 
very  black  beetles  got  mouldy,  and  had  the  shine 
taken  out  of  their  backs  by  envious  mildew  ; 
and  jingle  them  upon  a ring  before  Tom’s  eyes 
when  he  came  down  to  breakfast ! Well  might 
she,  laughing  musically,  put  them  up  in  that 
blessed  little  pocket  of  hers  with  a merry  pride  ! 
For  it  was  such  a grand  novelty  to  be  mistress 
of  anything,  that  if  she  had  been  the  most  re- 
1-  ntless  and  despotic  of  all  little  housekeepers, 
she  might  have  pleaded  just  that  much  for  her 
excuse,  and  have  been  honorably  acquitted. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  39. 

HOUSE-KEEPER  Servants  a curse  to  the. 

After  several  varieties  of  experiment,  wc  had 
given  up  the  housekeeping  as  a bad  job.  The 
house  kept  itself,  and  we  kept  a page.  The 
principal  f':;:tion  of  this  retainer  was  to  quarrel 


with  the  cook  ; in  which  respect  he  was  a per- 
fect Whittington,  without  his  cat,  or  the  remotest 
chance  of  being  made  Lord  Mayor. 

lie  appears  to  me  to  have  lived  in  a hail  of 
saucepan-lids.  1 1 is  whole  existence  was  a scuffle, 
lie  would  shriek  for  help  on  the  most  improper 
occasions, — as  when  we  had  a little  dinner 
party,  or  a few  friends  in  the  evening, — and  would 
come  tumbling  out  of  the  kitchen,  with  iron 
missiles  flying  after  him.  We  wanted  to  get 
rid  of  him,  but  he  was  very  much  attached  to  us, 
and  wouldn’t  go.  He  was  a tearful  boy,  and 
broke  into  such  deplorable  lamentations,  when 
a cessation  of  our  connection  was  hinted  at, 
that  we  were  obliged  to  keep  him.  He  had  no 
mother — no  anything  in  the  way  of  a relative, 
that  I could  discover,  except  a sister,  who  fled 
to  America  the  moment  we  had  taken  him  off 
her  hands — and  he  became  quartered  on  us  like 
a horrible  young  changeling.  He  had  a lively 
perception  of  his  own  unfortunate  state,  and 
was  always  rubbing  his  eyes  with  the  sleeve  of  his 
jacket,  or  stooping  to  blow  his  nose  on  the  extreme 
corner  of  a little  pocket-handkerchief,  which 
he  never  would  take  completely  out  of  his  pocket, 
but  always  economised  and  secreted.  This  .un- 
lucky page,  engaged  in  an  evil  hour  at  six 
pounds  ten  per  annum,  was  a source  of  contin- 
ual trouble  to  me.  I watched  him  as  he  grew 
— and  he  grew  like  scarlet  beans— with  painful 
apprehensions  of  the  time  when  he  would  begin 
to  shave  ; even  of  the  days  when  he  would  be 
bald  or  grey.  I saw  no  prospect  of  ever  get- 
ting rid  of  him  ; and,  projecting  myself  into  the 
future,  used  to  think  what  an  inconvenience  he 
would  be  when  he  was  an  old  man. 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  48. 

HOUSE-KEEPER -The  neatness  of  Mrs. 

Tibbs. 

Mrs.  Tibbs  was,  beyond  all  dispute,  the  most 
tidy,  fidgety,  thrifty  little  personage,  that  ever 
inhaled  the  smoke  of  London  : and  the  house 
of  Mrs.  Tibbs  was,  decidedly,  the  neatest  in  all 
Great  Coram  Street.  The  area  and  the  area 
steps,  and  the  street-door,  and  the  street-door 
steps,  and  the  brass  handle,  and  the  door-plate, 
and  the  knocker,  and  the  fan-light,  were  all  as 
clean  and  bright  as  indefatigable  white-washing, 
hearth-stoning,  and  scrubbing  and  rubbing  could 
make  them.  The  wonder  was,  that  the  brass 
door-plate,  with  the  interesting  inscription, 
“ Mrs.  Tibbs,”  had  never  caught  fire  from  con- 
stant friction,  so  perseveringly  was  it  polished. 
There  were  meat-safe-looking  blinds  in  the  par- 
lor windows,  blue  and  gold  curtains  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  spring-roller  blinds,  as  Mrs. 
Tibbs  was  wont  in  the  pride  of  her  heart  to 
boast,  “ all  the  way  up.”  The  bell-lamp  in  the 
passage  looked  as  clear  as  a soap-bubble  ; you 
could  see  yourself  in  all  the  tables,  and  French- 
polish  yourself  on  any  one  of  the  chairs.  The 
banisters  were  bees’-waxed  ; and  the  very  stair- 
wires  made  your  eyes  wink,  they  were  so  glit- 
tering.— Talcs.  The  Boarding-House,  Chap.  1. 

HOUSE-KEEPER— Mrs.  Sweeney. 

The  genuine  laundress,  too,  is  an  institution 
not  to  be  had  in  its  entirety  out  of  and  away  from 
the  genuine  Chambers. ' Again,  it  is  not  denied 
that  you  may  be  robbed  elsewhere.  Elsewhere 
you  may  have — for  money — dishonesty,  drunk- 
enness, dirt,  laziness,  and  profound  incapacity. 


HOUSE-KEEPER 


239 


HUCKSTER 


But  the  veritable  shining-recl-faced,  shameless 
laundress  ; the  true  Mrs.  Sweeney, — in  figure, 
rotor,  texture,  and  smell  like  the  old  damp  fam- 
ily umbrella  ; the  tip-top  complicated  abomina- 
tion of  stockings,  spirits,  bonnet,  limpness,  loose- 
ness, and  larceny, — is  only*to  be  drawn  at  the 
fountain-head.  Mrs.  Sweeney  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  individual  art.  It  requires  the  united 
efforts  of  several  men  to  insure  that  great  result, 
and  it  is  only  developed  in  perfection  under  an 
Honorable  Society  and  in  an  Inn  of  Court. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  14. 

HOUSE-KEEPER-Of  Dedlock  Hall. 

Mrs.  Rouncewell  might  have  been  sufficiently 
assured  by  hearing  the  rain,  but  that  she  is 
rather  deaf,  which  nothing  will  induce  her  to 
believe.  She  is  a fine  old  lady,  handsome, 
stately,  wonderfully  neat,  and  has  such  a back 
and  such  a stomacher,  that  if  her  stays  should 
turn  out  when  she  dies  to  have  been  a broad 
old-fashioned  family  fire-grate,  nobody  who 
knows  her  would  have  cause  to  be  surprised. 
Weather  affects  Mrs.  Rouncewell  little.  The 
house  is  there  in  all  weathers,  and  the  house,  as 
she  expresses  if,  “is  what  she  looks  at.”  She 
sits  in  her  room  (in  a side  passage  on  the  ground 
floor,  with  an  arched  window  commanding  a 
smooth  quadrangle,  adorned  at  regular  intervals 
with  smooth  round  trees  and  smooth  round 
blocks  of  stone,  as  if  the  trees  were  going  to 
play  at  bowls  with  the  stones),  and  the  whole 
house  imposes  on  her  mind.  She  can  open  it 
on  occasion,  and  be  busy  and  fluttered  ; but  it 
is  shut  up  now,  and  lies  on  the  breadth  of  Mrs. 
Rouncewell’s  iron-bound  bosom,  in  a majestic 
sleep. — Bleak  House , Chap.  7. 

HOUSE-KEEPER-Mrs.  Billickin,  the. 

Personal  faintness  and  an  overpowering  per- 
sonal candor  were  the  distinguishing  features  of 
Mrs.  Billickin’s  organization.  She  came  lan- 
guishing out  of  her  own  exclusive  back-parlor, 
with  the  air  of  having  been  expressly  brought 
to  for  the  purpose  from  an  accumulation  of  sev- 
eral swoons. 

“ I hope  I see  you  well,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Bil- 
lickin, recognizing  her  visitor  with  a bend. 

“ Thank  you,  quite  well.  And  you,  ma’am  ? ” 
returned  Mr.  Gi'ewgious. 

“ I am  as  well,”  said  Mrs.  Billickin,  becoming 
aspirational  with  excess  of  faintness,  “ as  I hever 
ham.” 

“ My  ward  and  an  eldei'ly  lady,”  said  Mr. 
Grewgious,  “wish  to  find  a genteel  lodging  for 
a month  or  so.  Have  you  any  apartments 
available,  ma’am  ? ” 

“ Mr.  Grewgious,”  returned  Mrs.  Billickin, 
“ I will  not  deceive  you,  far  from  it.  I have 
apartments  available.” 

* * * # * 

“ Coals  is  either  by  the  fire,  or  per\hQ  scuttle.” 
She  emphasized  the  prepositions  as  marking  a 
subtle  but  immense  difference.  “Dogs' is  not 
viewed  with  favior.  Besides  litter,  they  gets 
stole,  and  sharing  suspicions  is  apt  to  creep  in, 
and  unpleasantness  takes  place.” 

Edwin  D/ood,  Chap.  22. 

HUCKSTER -The  stall  of  Silas  Wegg. 

Assuredly,  this  stall  of  Silas  Wegg’s  was  the 
hardest  little  stall  of  all  the  sterile  little  stalls  in 
London.  It  gave  you  the  face-ache  to  look  at 


his  apples,  the  stomach-ache  to  look  at  his 
oranges,  the  tooth-ache  to  look  at  his  nuts.  Of 
the  latter  commodity  he  had  always  a grim  little 
heap,  on  which  lay  a littfle  wooden  measure 
which  had  no  discernible  inside,  and  was  con- 
sidered to  represent  the  penn’orth  appointed  by 
Magna  Charta.  Whether  from  too  much  east 
wind  or  no — it  was  an  easterly  corner — the  stall, 
the  stock,  and  the  keeper,  were  all  as  dry  as  the 
desert.  Wegg  was  a knotty  man,  and  a close- 
grained,  with  a face  carved  out  of  very  hard  ma- 
terial, that  had  just  as  much  play  of  expression 
as  a watchman’s  rattle.  When  he  laughed,  cer- 
tain jerks  occurred  in  it,  and  the  rattle  sprung. 
Sooth  to  say,  he  was  so  wooden  a man  that  he 
seemed  to  have  taken  his  wooden  leg  naturally, 
and  rather  suggested  to  the  fanciful  observer, 
that  he  might  be  expected — if  his  development  re- 
ceived no  untimely  check — to  be  completely  set 
up  with  a pair  of  wooden  legs  in  about  six  months. 

Mr.  Wegg  was  an  observant  person,  or,  as  he 
himself  said,  “ took  a powerful  sight  of  notice.” 
He  saluted  all  his  regular  passers-by  every  day, 
as  he  sat  on  his  stool  backed  up  by  the  lamp- 
post  ; and  on  the  adaptable  character  of  these 
salutes  he  greatly  plumed  himself.  Thus,  to  the 
rector,  he  addressed  a bow,  compounded  of  lay 
deference,  and  a slight  touch  of  the  shady  pre- 
liminary meditation  at  church  ; to  the  doctor,  a 
confidential  bow,  as  to  a gentleman  whose 
acquaintance  with  his  inside  he  begged  respect- 
fully to  acknowledge  ; before  the  Quality  he  de- 
lighted to  abase  himself ; and  for  Uncle  Parker, 
who  was  in  the  army  (at  least  so  he  had  settled 
it),  he  put  his  open  hand  to  the  side  of  his  hat, 
in  a military  manner  which  that  angry  eyed, 
buttoned  up,  inflammatory-faced  old  gentleman 
appeared  but  imperfectly  to  appreciate. 

The  only  article  in  which  Silas  dealt,  that 
was  not  hard,  was  gingerbread.  On  a certain 
day,  some  wretched  infant  having  purchased  the 
damp  gingerbread-horse  (fearfully  out  of  condi- 
tion), and  the  adhesive  bird-cage,  which  had 
been  exposed  for  the  day’s  sale,  he  had  taken 
a tin  box  from  under  his  stool  to  produce  a relay 
of  those  dreadful  specimens,  and  was  going  to 
look  in  at  the  lid,  when  he  said  to  himself,  paus- 
ing : “ Oh  ! here  you  are  again  ! ” 

The  words  referred  to  a broad,  round-shoul- 
dered, one-sided  old  fellow  in  mourning,  coming 
comically  ambling  towards  the  corner,  dressed 
in  a pea  over-coat,  and  carrying  a large  stick. 
He  wore  thick  shoes,  and  thick  leather  gaiters, 
and  thick  gloves  like  a hedger’s.  Both  as  to 
his  dress  and  to  himself,  he  was  of  an  overlap- 
ping rhinoceros  build,  with  folds  in  his  cheeks, 
and  his  forehead,  and  his  eyelids,  and  his  lips, 
and  his  ears ; but  with  bright,  eager,  childishly- 
inquiring,  grey  eyes,  under  his  ragged  eyebrows 
and  broad-brimmed  hat.  A very  odd-looking 
old  fellow  altogether. 

“ Here  you  are  again,”  repeated  Mr.  Wegg, 
musing.  “ And  what  are  you  now  ? Are  you 
in  the  Funns,  or  where  are  you?  Have  you 
lately  come  to  settle  in  this  neighborhood,  or  do 
you  own  to  another  neighborhood?  Are  you 
in  independent  circumstances,  or  is  it  wasting, 
the  motions  of  a bow  on  you?  Come;  I’ll 
speculate ! I’ll  invest  a bow  in  you.” 

Which  Mr.  Wegg,  having  replaced  his  tin  box, 
accordingly  did,  as  he  rose  to  bait  his  ginger- 
bread-trap for  some  other  devoted  infant. 

Our  Mutual  Friend^  Book  /.,  Chap.  5. 


HUCKSTER 


210 


HUMBUG3 


HUCKSTER- Mr.  Wegg  as  a. 

All  weathers  saw  the  man  at  the  post.  This 
is  to  be  accepted  in  a double  sense,  for  he  con- 
trived a back  to  his  wooden  stool,  by  placing  it 
against  the  lamp-post.  When  the  weather  was 
wet,  he  put  up  his  umbrella  over  his  stock  in 
trade,  not  over  himself ; when  the  weather  was 
dry,  he  furled  that  faded  article,  tied  it  round 
with  apiece  of  yarn,  and  laid  it  cross-wise  under 
the  trestles ; where  it  looked  like  an  unwhole- 
somely-forced  lettuce  that  had  lost  in  color  and 
crispness  what  it  had  gained  in  size. 

He  had  established  his  right  to  the  corner, 
by  imperceptible  prescription.  He  had  never 
varied  his  ground  an  inch,  but  had  in  the  begin- 
ning diffidently  taken  the  corner  upon  which  the 
side  of  the  house  gave.  A howling  corner  in 
the  winter  time,  a dusty  corner  in  the  summer 
time,  an  undesirable  corner  at  the  best  of  times. 
Shelterless  fragments  of  straw  and  paper  got  up 
revolving  storms  there,  when  the  main  street 
was  at  peace  ; and  the  water-cart,  as  if  it  were 
drunk  or  short-sighted,  came  blundering  and 
jolting  round  it,  making  it  muddy  when  all 
else  was  clean. 

Our  Mictual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  5. 

HUMAN  ILLS — “ The  world  full  of  wisita- 
tions.” 

“ Why,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Squeers,  “ I’m  pretty 
well.  So’s  the  family,  and  so’s  the  boys,  except 
for  a sort  of  rash  as  is  a running  through  the 
school,  and  rather  puts  ’em  off  their  feed.  But 
it’s  a ill  wind  as  blows  no  good  to  nobody; 
that’s  what  I always  say  when  them  lads  has  a 
wisitation.  A wisitation,  sir,  is  the  lot  of  mor- 
tality. Mortality  itself,  sir,  is  a wisitation.  The 
world  is  chock  full  of  wisitations  ; and  if  a boy 
repines  at  a wisitation  and  makes  you  uncom- 
fortable with  his  noise,  he  must  have  his  head 
punched.  That’s  going  according  to  the  scripter, 
that  is.” — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  56. 

HUMANITY— Its  extremes. 

Were  this  miserable  mother,  and  this  miser- 
able daughter,  only  the  reduction  to  their  lowest 
grade,  of  certain  social  vices  sometimes  prevail- 
ing  higher  up?  In  this  round  world  of  many 
circles  within  circles,  do  we  make  a weary  jour- 
ney from  the  high  grade  to  the  low,  to  find  at 
last  that  they  lie  close  together,  that  the  two  ex- 
tremes touch,  and  that  our  journey’s  end  is  but 
our  starting-place?  Allowing  for  great  difference 
of  stuff  and  texture,  was  the  pattern  of  this 
woof  repeated  among  gentle  blood  at  all  ? 

Dombey  6°  Son , Chap.  35. 

HUMAN  HELP— And  God’s  forgiveness. 

“ I have  been  where  convicts  go,”  she  added, 
looking  full  upon  her  entertainer.  “ I have  been 
one  myself.” 

“ Heaven  help  you  and  forgive  you  ! ” was  the 
gentle  answer. 

“ Ah  ! Heaven  help  me  and  forgive  me  ! ” she 
returned,  nodding  her  head  at  the  fire.  “ If  man 
would  help  some  of  us  a little  more,  God  would 
forgive  us  all  the  sooner  perhaps.” 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  33. 

HUMBUGS— Official. 

“And  the  invention?”  said  Clennam. 

“My  good  fellow,”  returned  Ferdinand,  “if 
you’ll  excuse  the  freedom  of  that  form  of  address, 


nobody  wants  to  know  of  the  invention,  and  no- 
body cares  twopence-halfpcnny  about  it.” 

“ Nobody  in  the  Office,  that  is  to  say  ? ” 

“ Nor  out  of  it.  Everybody  is  ready  to  dis- 
like and  ridicule  any  invention.  You  have  no 
idea  how  many  people  want  to  be  left  alone. 
You  have  no  idea  how  the  Genius  of  the  country 
(overlook  the  Parliamentary  nature  of  the  phrase, 
and  don’t  be  bored  by  it)  tends  to  being  left 
alone.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Clennam,”  said  the 
sprightly  young  Barnacle,  in  his  pleasantest 
manner,  “our  plate  is  not  a wicked  Giant  to  be 
charged  at  full  tilt ; but  only  a windmill,  show- 
ing you,  as  it  grinds  immense  quantities  of  chaff, 
which  way  the  country  wind  blows.” 

“If  I could  believe  that,”  said  Clennam,  “ it 
would  be  a dismal  prospect  for  all  of  us.” 

“Oh!  don’t  say  so!”  returned  Ferdinand. 
“ It's  all  right.  We  must  have  humbug,  we  all 
like  humbug,  we  couldn’t  get  on  without  hum- 
bug. A little  humbug,  and  a groove,  and  every 
thing  goes  on  admirably,  if  you  leave  it  alone.” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  If.,  Chap.  28. 

HUMBUGS— Social— Miss  Mowcher’s  opin- 
ion of. 

“Face  like  a peach!”  standing  on  tiptoe  to 
pinch  my  cheek  as  I sat.  “Quite  tempting! 
I’m  very  fond  of  peaches.  Happy  to  make  your 
acquaintance,  Mr.  Copperfield,  I’m  sure.” 

I said  that  I congratulated  myself  on  having 
the  honor  to  make  hers,  and  that  the  happiness 
was  mutual. 

“ Oh,  my  goodness,  how  polite  we  are  ! ” ex- 
claimed Miss  Mowcher,  making  a preposterous 
attempt  to  cover  her  large  face  with  her  morsel 
of  a hand.  “ What  a world  of  gammon  and 
spinnage  it  is,  though,  ain’t  it  ! ” 

This  was  addressed  confidentially  to  both  of 
us,  as  the  morsel  of  a hand  came  away  from  the 
face,  and  buried  itself,  arm  and  all,  in  the  bag 
again. 

“What  do  you  mean,  Miss  Mowcher?”  said 
Steerforth. 

“ Ha  ! ha  ! ha ! What  a refreshing  set  of  hum- 
bugs we  are,  to  be  sure,  ain’t  we,  my  sweet 
child  ? ” replied  that  morsel  of  a woman,  feeling 
in  the  bag  with  her  head  on  one  side  and  her 
eye  in  the  air.  “ Look  here  ! ” taking  something 
out.  “ Scraps  of  the  Russian  Prince’s  nails ! 
Prince  Alphabet  turned  topsy-turvy,  / call  him, 
for  his  name’s  got  all  the  letters  in  it,  higgledy- 
piggledy.” 

“ The  Russian  Prince  is  a client  of  yours,  is 
he  ? ” said  Steerforth. 

“ I believe  you,  my  pet,”  replied  Miss  Mow- 
cher. “ I keep  his  nails  in  order  for  him.  Twice 
a week  ! Fingers  and  toes.” 

“ He  pays  well,  I hope?  ” said  Steerforth. 

“ Pays  as  he  speaks,  my  dear  child — through 
the  nose,”  replied  Miss  Mowcher.  “None  of 
your  close  shavers  the  Prince  ain’t.  You’d  say 
so,  if  you  saw  his  moustachios.  Red  by  nature, 
black  by  art.” 

“ By  your  art,  of  course,”  said  Steerforth. 

Miss  Mowcher  winked  assent.  “Forced  to 
send  for  me.  Couldn’t  help  it.  The  climate 
affected  his  dye  ; it  did  very  well  in  Russia,  but 
it  was  no  go  here.  You  never  saw  such  a rusty 
Prince  in  all  your  born  days  as  he  was.  Like  old 
iron ! ” 

“ Is  that  why  you  called  him  a humbug,  just 
now?”  inquired  Steerforth. 


HUMILITY 


241 


HUMILITY 


“ Ob,  you’re  a broth  of  a boy,  ain’t  you  ? ” re- 
turn 2d  Miss  Movvcher, shaking  her  head  violently. 
“ I {.aid,  what  a set  of  humbugs  we  were  in  gen- 
eral, and  1 showed  you  the  scraps  of  the  Prince’s 
nails  to  prove  it.  The  Prince’s  nails  do  more  for 
me  in  private  families  of  the  genteel  sort,  than 
all  my  talents  put  together,  i always  carry  ’em 
about.  They’re  the  best  introduction.  If  Miss 
Movvcher  cuts  the  Prince’s  nails,  she  must  be  all 
right.  I give  ’em  away  to  the  young  ladies. 
They  put  ’em  in  albums,  I believe.  Ha  ! ha  ! 
ha  ! Upon  my  life,  ‘ the  whole  social  system’  (as 
the  men  call  it  when  they  make  speeches  in 
Parliament)  is  a system  of  Prince’s  nails  ! ” said 
this  least  of  women,  trying  to  fold  her  short 
arms,  and  nodding  her  large  head. 

David  Copper  field , Chap.  22. 

HUMILITY— Of  Uriah.  Keep. 

My  stool  was  such  a tower  of  observation, 
that  as  I watched  him  reading  on  again,  after 
this  rapturous  exclamation,  and  following  up  the 
lines  with  his  fore-finger,  I observed  that  his 
nostrils,  which  were  thin  and  pointed,  with  sharp 
dints  in  them,  had  a singular  and  most  uncom- 
fortable way  of  expanding  and  contracting  them- 
selves ; that  they  seemed  to  twinkle  instead  of 
his  eyes,  which  hardly  ever  twinkled  at  all. 

“I  suppose  you  are  quite  a great  lawyer?” 
I said,  after  looking  at  him  for  some  time. 

“ Me,  Master  Copperfield  ? ” said  Uriah.  “ Oh, 
no  ! I’m  a very  umble  person.” 

It  was  no  fancy  of  mine  about  his  hands,  I 
observed  ; for  he  frequently  ground  the  palms 
against  each  other  as  if  to  squeeze  them  dry  and 
warm,  besides  often  wiping  them,  in  a stealthy 
way,  on  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

“ I am  well  aware  that  I am  the  umblest  per- 
son going,”  said  Uriah  Heep,  modestly;  “let 
the  other  be  where  he  may.  My  mother  is  like 
wise  a very  umble  person.  We  live  in  a um- 
ble abode,  Master  Copperfield,  but  have  much 
to  be  thankful  for.  My  father’s  former  calling 
was  umble.  He  was  a sexton.” 

“ What  is  he  now?”  I asked. 

“ He  is  a partaker  of  glory  at  present,  Master 
Copperfield,”  said  Uriah  Heep.  “But  we  have 
much  to  be  thankful  for.  How  much  have  I to 
be  thankful  for  in  living  with  Mr.  Wickfield  !” 

***** 

“ Perhaps  you’ll  be  a partner  in  Mr.  Wick- 
field’s  business,  one  of  these  days,”  I said,  to 
make  myself  agreeable  ; “and  it  will  be  Wick- 
field and  Heep,  or  Heep  late  Wickfield.” 

“ Oh  no,  Master  Copperfield,”  returned  Uriah, 
shaking  his  head,  “ I am  much  too  umble  for 
that ! ” 

He  certainly  did  look  uncommonly  like  the 
carved  face  on  the  beam  outside  my  window, 
as  he  sat,  in  his  humility,  eying  me  sideways, 
with  his  mouth  widened,  and  the  creases  in  his 
cheeks. 

“ Mr.  Wickfield  is  a most  excellent  man,  Mas- 
ter Copperfield,”  said  Uriah.  “If  you  have 
known  him  long,  you  know  it,  I am  sure,  much 
better  than  I can  inform  you.” 

I replied  that  I was  certain  he  was  ; but  that 
I had  not  known  him  long  myself,  though  he 
was  a friend  of  my  aunt’s. 

“ Oh,  indeed,  Master  Copperfield,”  said  Uriah. 
“Your  aunt  is  a sweet  lady.  Master  Copper- 
field  ! ” 

He  had  a way  of  writhing  when  he  wanted  to 


express  enthusiasm,  which  was  very  ugly  ; and 
which  diverted  my  attention  from  the  compli- 
ment he  had  paid  my  relation,  to  the  snaky 
twistings  of  his  throat  and  body. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  16. 

“ I am  not  fond  of  professions  of  humility,”  I 
returned,  “ or  professions  of  anything  else.” 

“There  now!”  said  Uriah,  looking  flabby 
and  lead-colored  in  the  moonlight.  “ Didn’t  I 
know  it  ! But  how  little  you  think  of  the  right- 
ful umbleness  of  a person  in  my  station,  Master 
Copperfield  ! Father  and  me  was  both  brought 
up  at  a foundation  school  for  boys  ; and  mother, 
she  was  likewise  brought  up  at  a public,  sort  of 
charitable,  establishment.  They  taught  us  all  a 
deal  of  umbleness — not  much  else  that  I know 
of,  from  morning  to  night.  We  was  to  be  um- 
ble to  this  person,  and  umble  to  that ; and  to 
pull  off  our  caps  here,  and  to  make  bows  there  ; 
and  always  to  know  our  place,  and  abase  our- 
selves before  our  betters.  And  we  had  such  a 
lot  of  betters  ! Father  got  the  monitor-medal 
by  being  umble.  So  did  I.  Father  got  made 
a sexton  by  being  umble.  He  had  the  charac- 
ter, among  the  gentlefolks,  of  being  such  a well- 
behaved  man,  that  they  were  determined  to 
bring  him  in.  ‘Be  umble,  Uriah,’  says  father 
to  me,  ‘and  you’ll  get  on.  It  was  what  was 
always  being  dinned  into  you  and  me  at  school  ; 
it’s  what  goes  down  best.  Be  umble,’  ssys 
father,  ‘and  you’ll  do!’  And  really  it  ain’t 
done  bad  ! ” 

It  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  occurred  to 
me,  that  this  detestable  cant  of  false  humility 
might  have  originated  out  of  the  Heep  family. 
I had  seen  the  harvest,  but  had  never  thought 
of  the  seed. 

“ When  I was  quite  a young  boy,”  said  Uriah, 
“ I got  to  know  what  umbleness  did,  and  I took 
to  it.  I ate  umble  pie  with  an  appetite.  I 
stopped  at  the  umble  point  of  my  learning,  and 
says  I,  ‘ Hold  hard  !’  When  you  offered  to  teach 
me  Latin,  I knew  better.  ‘ People  like  to  be 
above  you,’  says  father ; * keep  yourself  down.’ 
I am  very  umble  to  the  present  moment,  Master 
Copperfield,  but  I've  got  a little  power!'” 

And  he  said  all  this — I knew,,  as  I saw  his  face 
in  the  moonlight — that  I might  understand  he 
was  resolved  to  recompense  himself  by  using  his 
power.  I had  never  doubted  his  meanness,  his 
craft  and  malice ; but  I fully  comprehended 
now,  for  the  first  time,,  what  a base,  unrelenting, 
and  revengeful  spirit  must  have  been  engen- 
dered by  this  early,  and  this  long,  suppression. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  39. 

HUMILITY— Description  of  Carker,  Jr. 

He  was  not  old,  but  his  hair  was  white  ; his 
body  was  bent,  or  bowed  as  if  by  the  weight 
of  some  great  trouble  ; and  there  were  deep 
lines  in  his  worn  and  melancholy  face.  The 
fire  of  his  eyes,  the  expression  of  his  features, 
the  very  voice  in  which  he  spoke,  were  all  sub- 
dued and  quenched,  as  if  the  spirit  within  him 
lay  in  ashes.  He  was  respectably,  though  very 
plainly  dressed,  in  black ; but  his  clothes* 
moulded  to  the  general  character  of  his  figure, 
seemed  to  shrink  and  abase  themselves  upon 
him,  and  to  join  in  the  sorrowful  solicitation 
which  the  whole  man  from  head  to  foot  ex 
pressed,  to  be  left  unnoticed,  and  alone  in  his 
humility. — Dombey  & Son , Chap.  6. 


HUNGER 


242 


HUNGER 


HUNftEE-In  an  English  workhouse. 

I wish  some  well-fed  philosopher,  whose 
meat  and  drink  turn  to  gall  within  him,  whose 
blood  is  ice,  whose  heart  is  iron,  could  have  seen 
Oliver  Twist  clutching  at  the  dainty  viands  that 
the  dog  had  neglected.  I wish  he  could  have 
witnessed  the  horrible  avidity  with  which  Oliver 
tore  the  bits  asunder  with  all  the  ferocity  of 
famine.  There  is  only  one  thing  I should  like 
better  ; and  that  would  be  to  see  the  philoso- 
pher making  the  same  sort  of  meal  himself, 
with  the  same  relish. — Oliver  Twist , Chap.  4. 


The  bowls  never  wanted  washing.  The  boys 
polished  them  with  their  spoons  till  they  shone 
again  ; and  when  they  had  performed  this  oper- 
ation (which  never  took  very  long,  the  spoons 
being  nearly  as  large  as  the  bowls),  they  would 
sit  staring  at  the  copper,  with  such  eager  eyes, 
as  if  they  could  have  devoured  the  very  bricks 
of  which  it  was  composed  ; employing  them- 
selves, meanwhile,  in  sucking  their  fingers  most 
assiduously,  with  a view  of  catching  up  any  stray 
splashes  of  gruel  that  might  have  been  cast 
thereon.  Boys  have  generally  excellent  appe- 
tites, Oliver  Twist  and  his  companions  suf- 
fered the  tortures  of  slow  starvation  for  three 
months  ; at  last  they  got  so  voracious  and  wild 
with  hunger,  that  one  boy,  who  was  tall  for  his 
age,  and  hadn’t  been  used  to  that  sort  of  thing 
(for  his  father  had  kept  a small  cook’s  shop), 
hinted  darkly  to  his  companions,  that  unless  he 
had  another  basin  of  gruel  per  diem , he  was 
afraid  he  might  some  night  happen  to  eat  the 
boy  who  slept  next  him,  who  happened  to  be  a 
weakly  youth  of  tender  age.  He  had  a wild, 
hungry  eye  ; and  they  implicitly  believed  him. 
A council  was  held  ; lots  were  cast  who  should 
walk  up  to  the  master  after  supper  that  even- 
ing:, and  ask  for  more;  and  it  fell  to  Oliver 
Twist. 

The  evening  arrived  ; the  boys  took  their 
places.  The  master,  in  his  cook’s  uniform,  sta- 
tioned himself  at  the  copper  ; his  pauper  assist- 
ants ranged  themselves  behind  him  ; the  gruel 
was  served  out ; and  a long  grace  was  said  over 
the  short  commons.  The  gruel  disappeared  ; the 
boys  whispered  each  other,  and  winked  at  Oli- 
ver ; while  his  next  neighbors  nudged  him.  Child 
as  he  was,  he  was  desperate  with  hunger,  and 
reckless  with  misery.  He  rose  from  the  table  ; 
and  advancing  to  the  master,  basin  and  spoon 
in  hand,  said,  somewhat  alarmed  at  his  own 
temerity, — 

“ Please,  sir,  I want  some  more.” 

The  master  was  a fat,  healthy  man  ; but  he 
turned  very  pale.  He  gazed  in  stupefied  aston- 
ishment on  the  small  rebel  for  some  seconds  ; 
and  then  clung  for  support  to  the  copper.  The 
assistants  were  paralyzed  with  wonder ; the 
boys  with  fear. 

“What!”  said  the  master  at  length,  in  a 
faint  voice. 

“Please,  sir,”  replied  Oliver,  “ I want  some 
more.” 

'['he  master  aimed  a blow  at  Oliver’s  head 
with  the  ladle  ; pinioned  him  in  his  arms  ; and 
shrieked  aloud  for  the  beadle. 

The  board  was  sitting  in  solemn  conclave, 

: < 1 Mi  Bumble  rushed  into  the  room  in 
great  excitement,  and  addressing  the  gentleman 
in  the  high  chair,  said, — 


“ Mr.  Limbkins,  I beg  your  pardon,  sir!  Oli- 
ver Twist  has  asked  for  more  ! 

There  was  a general  start.  Horror  was  de- 
picted on  every  countenance. 

“For  more!"  said  Mr.  Limbkins.  “Com- 
pose yourself,  Bumble,  and  answer  me  dis- 
tinctly. Do  I understand  that  he  asked  for 
more,  after  he  had  eaten  the  supper  allotted  by 
the  dietary?” 

“ lie  did,  sir,”  replied  Bumble. 

“That  boy  will  be  hung,”  said  the  gentle- 
man in  the  white  waistcoat.  “ I know  that  boy 
will  be  hung.” — Oliver  Twist , Chap.  2. 

HUNGER— Before  the  French  Revolution. 

And  now  that  the  cloud  settled  on  Saint  An- 
toine, which  a momentary  gleam  had  driven 
from  his  sacred  countenance,  the  darkness  of  it 
was  heavy — cold,  dirt,  sickness,  ignorance,  and 
want,  were  the  lords  in  waiting  on  the  saintly 
presence— nobles  of  great  power  all  of  them  ; 
but  most  especially  the  last.  Samples  of  a 
people  that  had  undergone  a terrible  grinding 
and  re-grinding  in  the  mill,  and  certainly  not 
in  the  fabulous  mill  which  ground  old  people 
young,  shivered  at  every  corner,  passed  in  and 
out  at  every  doorway,  looked  from  every  win- 
dow, fluttered  in  every  vestige  of  a garment 
that  the  wind  shook.  The  mill  which  had 
worked  them  down,  was  the  mill  that  grinds 
young  people  old ; the  children  had  ancient 
faces  and  grave  voices  ; and  upon  them,  and 
upon  the  grown  faces,  and  ploughed  into  every 
furrow  of  age  and  coming  up  afresh,  was  the 
sign,  Hunger.  It  was  prevalent  everywhere. 
Hunger  was  pushed  out  of  the  tall  houses,  in 
the  wretched  clothing  that  hung  upon  poles  and 
lines ; Hunger  was  patched  into  them  with 
straw  and  rag  and  wood  and  paper  ; Hunger 
was  repeated  in  every  fragment  of  the  small 
modicum  of  firewood  that  the  man  sawed  off  ; 
Hunger  stared  down  from  the  smokeless  chim- 
neys, and  started  up  from  the  filthy  street  that 
had  no  offal,  among  its  refuse,  of  anything  to 
eat.  Hunger  was  the  inscription  on  the  baker’s 
shelves,  written  in  every  small  loaf  of  his  scanty 
Mock  of  bad  bread  ; at  the  sausage  shop,  in 
every  dead-dog  preparation  that  was  offered  for 
sale.  Hunger  rattled  its  dry  bones  among  the 
roasting  chestnuts  in  the  turned  cylinder  ; Hun- 
ger was  shred  into  atomies  in  every  farthing 
porringer  of  husky  chips  of  potato,  fried  with 
some  reluctant  drops  of  oil. 

Its  abiding-place  was  in  all  things  fitted  to 
it.  A narrow,  winding  street,  full  of  offence  and 
stench,  with  other  narrow  winding  streets  di- 
verging, all  peopled  by  rags  and  nightcaps,  and 
all  smelling  of  rags  and  nightcaps,  and  all  visi- 
ble things  with  a brooding  look  upon  them  that 
looked  ill.  In  the  hunted  air  of  the  people  there 
was  yet  some  wild-beast  thought  of  the  possi-j 
bility  of  turning  at  bay.  Depressed  and  slink- 
ing though  they  were,  eyes  of  fire  were  nob 
wanting  among  them  ; nor  compressed  lips, 
white  with  what  they  suppressed,  nor  foreheads 
knitted  into  the  likeness  of  the  gallows-ropej 
they  mused  about  enduring,  or  inflicting.  The 
trade  signs  (and  they  were  almost  as  many  as  the 
shops)  were  all  grim  illustrations  of  Want,  'flic 
butcher  and  the  porkman  painted  up  only  the 
leanest  scrags  of  meat ; the  baker,  the  coarse sj 
of  meagre  loaves.  The  people  rudely  piCturrc| 
as  drinking  in  the  wine  shops,  croaked  ovd 


HUSBANDS 


243 


HYPOCRITE 


their  scanty  measures  of  thin  wine  and  beer, 
and  were  gloweringly  confidential  together. 
Nothing  was  represented  in  a flourishing  con- 
dition, save  tools  and  weapons  ; but  the  cutler’s 
knives  and  axes  were  sharp  and  bright,  the 
smith’s  hammers  were  heavy,  and  the  gun- 
maker’s  stock  was  murderous.  The  crippling 
stones  of  the  pavement,  with  their  many  little 
reservoirs  of  mud  and  water,  had  no  footways, 
but  broke  off  abruptly  at  the  doors.  The  ken- 
nel, to  make  amends,  ran  down  the  middle  of 
the  street— when  it  ran  at  all  ; which  was  only 
after  heavy  rains,  and  then  it  ran,  by  many 
eccentric  fits,  into  the  houses.  Across  the 
streets,  at  wide  intervals,  one  clumsy  lamp  was 
slung  by  a rope  and  pulley  ; at  night,  when  the 
lamplighter  had  let  these  down,  and  lighted, 
and  hoisted  them  again,  a feeble  grove  of  dim 
wicks  swung  in  a sickly  manner  overhead,  as  if 
they  were  at  sea.  Indeed,  they  were  at  sea,  and 
the  ship  and  crew  were  in  peril  of  tempest. 

For  the  time  was  to  come,  when  the  gaunt 
scarecrows  of  that  region  should  have  watched 
the  lamplighter,  in  their  idleness  and  hunger,  so 
long,  as  to  conceive  the  idea  of  improving  on 
his  method,  and  hauling  up  men  by  those  ropes 
and  pulleys,  to  flare  upon  the  darkness  of  then- 
condition.  But  the  time  was  not  come  vet  ; 
and  every  wind  that  blew  over  France  shook 
the  rags  of  the  scarecrows  in  vain,  for  the  birds, 
fine  of  song  and  feather,  took  no  warning. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  5. 

HUSBANDS— A tea-party  opinion  of. 

“ Before  I’d  let  a man  order  me  about  as 
Quilp  orders  her,”  said  Mrs.  George  ; “ before  I’d 
consent  to  stand  in  awe  of  a man  as  she  does  of 
him,  I’d— I’d  kill  myself,  and  write  a letter  first 
to  say  he  did  it ! "—Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  4. 

HUSBANDS— Mrs.  Jiniwin’s  treatment  of. 

All  the  ladies  then  sighed  in  concert,  shook 
their  heads  gravely,  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Quilp 
as  at  a martyr. 

Ah  ! ” said  the  spokeswoman,  “ I wish  you’d 
give  her  a little  of  your  advice,  Mrs.  Jiniwin,” — 
Mrs.  Quilp  had  been  a Miss  Jiniwin,  it  should 
be  observed — “ nobody  knows  better  than  you, 

1 ma  am,  what  us  women  owe  to  ourselves.” 

t Owe  indeed,  maam  !”  replied  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

1 “ When  my  poor  husband,  her  dear  father,  was 
alive,  if  he  had  ever  ventur’d  a cross  word  to 

me,  I’d  have ” the  good  old  lady  did  not 

finish  the  sentence,  but  she  twisted  off  the  head 
of  a shrimp  with  a vindictiveness  which  seemed 
to  imply  that  the  action  was  in  some  degree  a 
S substitute  for  words.  In  this  light  it  was  clearly 
understood  by  the  other  party,  who  immediately 
replied  with  great  approbation,  “ You  quite  enter 
into  my  feelings,  ma’am,  and  it’s  jist  what  I’d 
do  myself.” — Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  4. 

HUSBAND- A surly. 

1 ^ a billing  thing  to  have  one’s  husband 

sulking  and  falling  asleep  directly  he  comes 
■ home— to  have  him  freezing  all  one’s  warm- 
heartedness, and  throwing  cold  water  over  the 
fireside  ? ” — Barnahy  Budge,  Chap.  7. 

HUSBAND— Pott,  the  subjugated. 

“Upon  my  word,  sir,”  said  the  astonished 
; Mrs.  I ott,  stooping  to  pick  up  the  paper. 

I Upon  my  word,  sir  ! ” 


Mr.  Pott  winced  beneath  the  contemptuous 
gaze  of  his  wife.  He  had  made  a desperate 
struggle  to  screw  up  his  courage,  but  it  was  fist 
coming  unscrewed  again. 

There  appears  nothing  very  tremendous  in 
this  little  sentence,  “ Upon  my  word,  sir,”  when 
it  comes  to  be  read  ; but  the  tone  of  voice  in 
which  it  was  delivered,  and  the  look  that  ac- 
companied it,  both  seeming  to  bear  reference  to 
some  revenge  to  be  thereafter  visited  upon  the 
head  of  Pott,  produced  their  full  effect  upon 
him.  The  most  unskillful  observer  could  have 
detected  in  his  troubled  countenance,  a readi- 
ness to  resign  his  Wellington  boots  to  any  effi- 
cient substitute  who  would  have  consented  to 
stand  in  them  at  that  moment. 

Pott  looked  very  frightened.  It  was  time  to 
finish  him. 

“And  now,”  sobbed  Mrs.  Pott,  “ now,  after 
all,  to  be  treated  in  this  way  ; to  be  reproached 
and  insulted  in  the  presence  of  a third  party, 
and  that  party  almost  a stranger.  But  I will 
not  submit  to  it ! Goodwin,”  continued  Mrs. 
Pott,  raising  herself  in  the  arms  of  her  atten- 
dant, “my  brother,  the  Lieutenant,  shall  inter- 
fere. I’ll  be  separated,  Goodwin  ! ” 

It  would  certainly  serve  him  right,  ma’am,” 
said  Goodwin. 

Whatever  thoughts  the  threat  of  a separation 
might  have  awakened  in  Mr.  Pott’s  mind,  he 
forebore  to  give  utterance  to  them,  and  con- 
tented himself  by  saying,  with  great  humility  : 

“ My  dear,  will  you  hear  me  ? ” 

A fresh  train  of  sobs  was  the  only  reply,  as 
Mrs.  Pott  grew  more  hysterical,  requested  to  be 
informed  why  she  was  ever  born,  and  required 
sundry  other  pieces  of  information  of  a similar 
description. — Pickwick,  Chap.  18. 

HYPOCRITES — Their  moral  book-keeping. 

There  are  some  men  who,  living  with  the  one 
object  of  enriching  themselves,  no  matter  by 
what  means,  and  being  perfectly  conscious  of 
the  baseness  and  rascality  of  the  means  which 
they  will  use  every  day  towards  this  end,  affect 
nevertheless — even  to  themselves— a high  tone 
of  moral  rectitude,  and  shake  their  heads  and 
sigh  over  the  depravity  of  the  world.  Some  of 
the  craftiest  scoundrels  that  ever  walked  this 
earth,  or  rather— for  walking  implies,  at  least, 
an  erect  position  and  the  bearing  of  a man — 
that  ever  crawled  and  crept  through  life  by  its 
dirtiest  and  narrowest  ways,  will  gravely  jot 
down  in  diaries  the  events  of  every  day,  and 
keep  a regular  debtor  and  creditor  account  with 
Heaven,  which  shall  always  show  a floating  bal- 
ance in  their  own  favor.  Whether  this  is  a gra- 
tuitous (the  only  gratuitous)  part  of  the  falsehood 
and  trickery  of  such  men’s  lives,  or  whether  they 
really  hope  to  cheat  Heaven  itself,  and  lay  up 
treasuie  in  the  next  world  by  the  same  process 
which  has  enabled  them  to  lay  up  treasure  in 
this— not  to  question  how  it  is,  so  it  is.  And, 
doubtless,  such  book-keeping  (like  certain  auto- 
biographies which  have  enlightened  the  world) 
cannot  fail  to  prove  serviceable,  in  the  one  re- 
spect of  sparing  the  recording  Angel  some  time 
and  labor. — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  44. 

HYPOCRITE-The. 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  rose  with  the  lark, 
and  went  out  walking  in  the  summer  day.  His 


HYPOCRISY  AND  CONCEIT 


244 


HYPOCHONDRIACS 


meditations — and  he  meditated  with  contracted  I 
brows  while  he  strolled  along— hardly  seemed 
to  soar  as  high  as  the  lark,  or  to  mount  in  that 
direction  ; rather  they  kept  close  to  their  nest 
upon  the  earth,  and  looked  about,  among  the 
dust  and  worms.  But  there  was  not  a bird  in 
the  air,  singing  unseen,  farther  beyond  the  reach 
of  human  eye  than  Mr.  Carker’s  thoughts.  He  had  | 
his  face  so  perfectly  under  control,  that  few  could 
say  more,  in  distinct  terms,  of  its  expression, 
than  that  it  smiled  or  that  it  pondered.  It  pon- 
dered now,  intently.  As  the  lark  rose  higher, 
he  sank  deeper  in  thought.  As  the  lark  poured 
out  her  melody  clearer  and  stronger,  he  fell 
into  a graver  and  profounder  silence.  At  length 
when  the  lark  came  headlong  down,  with  an 
accumulating  stream  of  song,  and  dropped  among 
the  gieen  wheat  near  him,  rippling  in  the  breath 
of  the  morning  like  a river,  he  sprang  up  from 
his  reverie,  and  looked  around  with  a sudden 
smile,  as  coui'teous  and  as  soft  as  if  he  had  had 
numerous  observers  to  propitiate  : nor  did  he 
relapse,  after  being  thus  awakened  ; but  clear- 
ing his  face,  like  one  who  bethought  himself 
that  it  might  otherwise  wrinkle  and  tell  tales, 
went  smiling  on,  as  if  for  practice. 

Dombey  <Sr‘  Son,  Chap.  27. 

HYPOCRISY  AND  CONCEIT. 

Mere  empty-headed  conceit  excites  our  pity, 
but  ostentatious  hypocrisy  awakens  our  disgust. 

Sketches  of  Couples. 


HYPOCRITE  Pecksniff  as  a. 

It  was  a special  quality,  among  the  many 
admirable  qualities  possessed  by  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
that  the  more  he  was  found  out,  the  more  hypoc- 
risy he  practised.  Let  him  be  discomfited  in 
one  quarter,  and  he  refreshed  and  recompensed 
himself  by  carrying  the  war  into  another.  If 
his  workings  and  windings  were  detected  by  A, 
so  much  the  greater  reason  was  there  for  prac- 
tising without  loss  of  time  on  B,  if  it  were  only 
to  keep  his  hand  in.  He  had  never  been  such 
a saintly  and  improving  spectacle  to  all  about 
him,  as  after  his  detection  by  1 homas  Pinch. 
He  had  scarcely  ever  been  at  once  so  tender  in 
his  humanity,  and  so  dignified  and  exalted  in 
his  virtue,  as  when  young  Martin’s  scorn  was 
fresh  and  hot  upon  him. 

Having  this  large  stock  of  superfluous  senti- 
ment and  morality  on  hand,  which  must  posi- 
tively be  cleared  off  at  any  sacriiice,  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff no  sooner  heard  his  son-in-law  announced, 
than  he  regarded  him  as  a kind  of  wholesale 
or  general  order,  to  be  immediately  executed. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  44. 


It  would  be  no  description  of  Mr.  Pecksniff’s 
gentleness  of  manner  to  adopt  the  common  par- 
lance, and  say,  that  he  looked  at  this  moment  as 
if  butter  wouldn’t  melt  in  his  mouth.  He  ra-  I 
ther  looked  as  if  any  quantity  of  butter  might 
have  been  made  out  of  him,  by  churning  the 
milk  of  human  kindness,  as  it  spouted  upwards 
from  his  heart. — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  3. 


HYPOCRISY. 

“ You  see,”  he  continued,  with  a smile,  and 
softly  laying  his  velvet  hand,  as  a cat  might  have 
laid  its  sheathed  claws,  on  Mr.  Dombey’s  arm. 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  his  head,  and  rising  from 
the  table,  and  standing  thoughtfully  before  the 
tire,  with  his  hands  to  his  smooth  chin,  looked 
down  at  Mr.  Dombey  with  the  evil  slyness  of 
some  monkish  carving,  half  human  and  half 
brute  ; or  like  a leering  face  on  an  old  water- 
spout.— Dombey  Son,  Chap.  42. 

HYPOCRITES— Mr.  Weller’s  opinion  of 
clerical. 

Mr.  Weller  smoked  for  some  minutes  in  si- 
lence, and  then  resumed  : 

“ The  worst  o’  these  here  shepherds  is,  my 
boy,  that  they  reg’larly  turns  the  heads  of  all  the 
young  ladies  about  here.  Lord  bless  their  lit- 
tle hearts,  they  thinks  it  s all  right,  and  don  t 
know  no  better  ; but  they’re  the  wictims  o'  gam- 
mon, Samivel,  they’re  the  wictims  o’  gammon.” 

“ I s’ pose  they  are,”  said  Sam. 

« Nothin’  else,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  shaking  his 
head  gravely  ; “ and  wot  aggrawates  me, 

Samivel,  is  to  see  ’em  a wastin’  all  their  time 
and  labor  in  making  clothes  for  copper-colored 
people  as  don’t  want  ’em,  and  taking  no  notice 
of  flesh-colored  Christians  as  do.  If  I’d  my  vay, 
Samivel,  I’d  just  stick  some  o’  these  here  lazy 
shepherd » behind  a heavy  wheelbarrow , and  1 un 
'em  up  and  down  a fourteen-inch-wide  plank  all 
day.  That  ’ud  shake  the  nonsense  out  of  ’em, 
if  anythin’  vould.” 

Mr.  Weller  having  delivered  this  gentle  re- 
cipe wdth  strong  emphasis,  eked  out  by  a va- 
rieiy  of  nods  and  contortions  of  the  eye,  emp- 
tied his  glass  at  a draught,  and  knocked  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  with  native  d’gnity. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  27. 


HYPOCRITE— Q,uilp’s  description  of  a. 

“ This  Kit  is  one  of  your  honest  people  ; one 
of.  your  fair  characters;  a prowling,  prying 
hound  ; a hypocrite  ; a double-faced,  white- 
livered,  sneaking  spy  ; a crouching  cur  10  those 
that  feed  and  coax  him,  and  a barking,  yelping 
dog  to  all  besides.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  51. 

HYPOCHONDRIACS. 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merrywinkle  wear  an  ex- 
traordinary quantity  of  flannel,  and  have  a habit 
of  putting  their  feet  in  hot  water  to  an  unilate- 
ral extent.  They  indulge  in  chamomile  tea 
and  such-like  compounds,  and  rub  themselves 
on  the  slightest  provocation  with  camphorated 
spirits  and  other  lotions  applicable  to  mumps, 
sore-throat,  rheumatism,  or  lumbago. 

Mr.  Merry  winkle’s  leaving  home  to  go  to 
business  on  a damp  or  wet  morning  is  a very 
elaborate  affair.  He  puts  on  wash  leather  socks 
over  his  stockings,  and  India-rubber  shoes  above 
his  boots,  and  wears  under  his  waistcoat  a cui-l 
rass  of  hare-skin.  Besides  these  precautions,  he 
winds  a thick  shawl  round  his  throat,  and  blocks 
up  his  mouth  with  a large  silk  handkerchief. 
Thus  accoutred,  and  furnished  besides  with  a 
great-coat  and  umbrella,  he  braves  the  dangers 
of  the  streets ; travelling  in  severe  weather  at  a 
gentle  trot,  the  better  to  preserve  the  circulation, 
and  bringing  his  mouth  to  the  surface  to  take 
breath  but  very  seldom,  and  with  the  utmost 
caution.  1 1 is  office  door  opened,  he  shoots  past 
his  clerk  at  the  same  pace,  and  diving  into  his 
own  private  room,  closes  the  door,  examines  the 
window-fastenings,  and  gradually  unrobes  him- 
self; hanging  his  pocket-handkerchief  on  the 
fender  to  air,  and  determining  to  write  to  the 
newsp  tpers  about  the  fog,  which,  he  says,  “has 


HYPOCHONDRIAC 


245 


IDLERS 


really  got  to  that  pitch  that  it  is  quite  unbear- 
able.” 


Our  readers  may  rest  assured  of  the  accuracy 
of  these  general  principles : — that  all  couples 
who  coddle  themselves  are  selfish  and  slothful — 
that  they  charge  upon  every  wind  that  blows, 
every  rain  that  falls,  and  every  vapor  that  hangs 
in  the  air,  the  evils  which  arise  from  their  own 
imprudence  or  the  gloom  which  is  engendered 
in  their  own  tempers— and  that  all  men  and 
women,  in  couples  or  otherwise,  who  fall  into 
exclusive  habits  of  self-indulgence,  and  forget 
their  natural  sympathy  and  close  connection 
with  everybody  and  everything  in  the  world 
around  them,  not  only  neglect  the  first  duty  of 
life,  but,  by  a happy  retributive  justice,  deprive 
themselves  of  its  truest  and  best  enjoyment. 

Sketches  of  Couples . 

HYPOCHONDRIAC-Mr.  Gobler,  the. 

“It’s  rather  singular,”  continued  Mrs.  Tibbs, 
with  what  was  meant  for  a most  bewitching 
smile,  “ that  we  have  a gentleman  now  with  us, 
who  is  in  a very  delicate  state  of  health — a Mr. 
Gobler — His  apartment  is  the  back  drawing- 
room.” 

“The  next  room?”  inquired  Mrs.  Bloss. 

“ The  next  room,”  repeated  the  hostess. 

“ How  very  promiscuous  ! ” ejaculated  the 
widow. 

“ He  hardly  ever  gets  up,”  said  Mrs.  Tibbs  in 
a whisper. 

“ Lor  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Bloss,  in  an  equally  low 
tone. 

“ And  when  he  is  up,”  said  Mrs.  Tibbs,  “ we 
never  can  persuade  him  to  go  fo  bed  again.” 

“ Dear  me  ! ” said  the  astonished  Mrs.  Bloss, 
drawing  her  chair  nearer  Mrs.  Tibbs.  “ What  is 
his  complaint  ? ” 

“ Why,  the  fact  is,”  replied  Mrs.  Tibbs,  with 
a most  communicative  air,  “ he  has  no  stomach 
whatever.” 

“ No  what  ? ” inquired  Mrs.  Bloss,  with  a look 
of  the  most  indescribable  alarm. 

“ No  stomach,”  repeated  Mrs.  Tibbs,  with  a 
shake  of  the  head. 

Lord  bless  us  ! what  an  extraordinary  case  ! ” 
gasped  Mrs.  Bloss,  as  if  she  understood  the  com- 
munication in  its  literal  sense,  and  was  astonish- 
ed at  a gentleman  without  a stomach  finding  it 
necessary  to  board  anywhere. 

“ When  I say  he  has  no  stomach,”  explained 
the  chatty  little  Mrs.  Tibbs,  “ I mean  that  his 
digestion  is  so  much  impaired,  and  his  interior 
so  deranged,  that  his  stomach  is  not  of  the  least 
use  to  him — in  fact,  it’s  an  inconvenience.” 

“ Never  heard  such  a case  in  my  life  ! ” ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Bloss.  “ Why,  he’s  worse  than  I 
am.” — Tales , Chap.  I. 


I 

IDEAS— A flow  of. 

“ Ah,”  said  Sam,  “ what  a pleasant  chap  he 

“ Ain’t  he?”  replied  Mr.  Muzzle. 

“ So  much  humor,”  said  Sam. 


“And  such  a man  to  speak,”  said  Mr.  Muzzle. 
“How  his  idefis  flow,  don’t  they?” 

“ Wonderful,”  replied  Sam  ; “ they  comes  a 
pouring  out,  knocking  each  other’s  heads  so  fast, 
that  they  seems  to  stun  one  another  ; you  hardly 
know  what  he’s  arter,  do  you  ? ” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  25. 

IDEAS— Mr.  Willet’s  cooking1  process. 

Although  it  was  hot  simnmer  weather,  Mr. 
Willet  sat  close  to  the  fire.  He  was  in  a state 
of  profound  cogitation,  with  his  own  thoughts, 
and  it  was  his  custom  at  such  times  to  stew  him- 
self slowly,  under  the  impression  that  that  pro- 
cess of  cookery  was  favorable  to  the  melting  out 
of  his  ideas,  which,  when  he  began  to  simmer, 
sometimes  oozed  forth  so  copiously  as  to  aston- 
ish even  himself. 

% * * * * 

And  this  dim  ray  of  light  did  so  diffuse  itself 
within  him,  and  did  so  kindle  up  and  shine, 
that  at  last  he  had  it  as  plainly  and  visibly  be- 
fore him  as  the  blaze  by  which  he  sat:  and  fully 
persuaded  that  he  was  the  first  to  make  the  dis- 
covery, and  that  he  had  started,  hunted  down, 
fallen  upon,  and  knocked  on  the  head,  a per- 
fectly original  idea,  which  had  never  presented 
itself  to  any  other  man,  alive  or  dead,  he  laid 
down  his  pipe,  rubbed  his  hands,  and  chuckled 
audibly. — Barnaby  Pudge,  Chap.  78. 

IDEA— A “ penned  up.” 

But  her  abiding  reliance  was  on  Mr.  Dick. 
That  man  had  evidently  an  idea  in  his  head,  she 
said  ; and  if  he  could  once  pen  it  up  into  a cor- 
ner, which  was  his  great  difficulty,  he  would  dis- 
tinguish himself  in  some  extraordinary  manner. 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  45. 

IDEAS— The  association  of. 

We  have  all  some  experience  of  a feeling,  that 
comes  over  us  occasionally,  of  what  we  are  say- 
ing and  doing  having  been  said  and  done  be- 
fore, in  a remote  time — of  our  having  been 
surrounded,  dim  ages  ago,  by  the  same  faces, 
objects,  and  circumstances — of  our  knowing 
perfectly  what  will  be  said  next,  as  if  we  sud- 
denly remembered  it ! 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  39. 

IDLE  LIFE-An. 

Sir  Leicester  is  content  enough  that  the  iron- 
master should  feel  that  there  is  no  hurry  there  ; 
there,  in  that  ancient  house,  rooted  in  that  quiet 
park,  where  the  ivy  and  the  moss  have  had  time 
to  mature,  and  the  gnarled  and  warted  elms, 
and  the  umbrageous  oaks,  stand  deep  in  the 
fern  and  leaves  of  a hundred  years  ; and  where 
the  sun-dial  on  the  terrace  has  dumbly  recorded 
for  centuries  that  Time,  which  was  as  much  the 
property  of  every  Dedlock — while  he  lasted — as 
the  house  and  lands. — Bleak  House , Chap.  28. 

IDLERS-City. 

We  never  were  able  to  agree  with  Sterne  in 
pitying  the  man  who  could  travel  from  Dan  to 
Beersheba,  and  say  that  all  was  barren  ; we 
have  not  the  slightest  commiseration  for  the 
man  who  can  take  up  his  hat  and  stick,  and 
walk  from  Coven t Garden  to  St.  Paul’s  Church- 
yard, and  back,  into  the  bargain,  without  de- 
riving some  amusement — we  had  almost  said 
instruction — from  his  perambulation.  And  yet 


IMAGINATION 


248 


INDECISION 


there  are  such  beings  : we  meet  them  every  day. 
Large  black  stocks  and  light  waistcoats,  jet 
canes  and  discontented  countenances,  are  the 
characteristics  of  the  race  ; other  people  brush 
quickly  by  you,  steadily  plodding  on  to  busi- 
ness, or  cheerfully  running  after  pleasure.  These 
men  linger  listlessly  past,  looking  as  happy  and 
animated  as  a policeman  on  duty.  Nothing 
seems  to  make  an  impression  on  their  minds  : 
nothing  short  of  being  knocked  down  by  a por- 
ter, or  run  over  by  a cab,  will  disturb  their  equa- 
nimity. You  will  meet  them  on  a fine  day  in 
any  of  the  leading  thoroughfares  : peep  through 
the  window  of  a west-end  cigar-shop  in  the 
evening,  if  you  can  manage  to  get  a glimpse 
between  the  blue  curtains  which  intercept  the 
vulgar  gaze,  and  you  see  them  in  their  only  en- 
joyment of  existence.  There  they  are,  lounging 
about,  on  round  tubs  and  pipe-boxes,  in  all  the 
dignity  of  whiskers  and  gilt  watch-guards  ; whis- 
pering soft  nothings  to  the  young  lady  in  amber, 
with  the  large  ear  rings,  who,  as  she  sits  behind 
the  counter  in  a blaze  of  adoration  and  gas-light, 
is  the  admiration  of  all  the  female  servants  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  the  envy  of  every  milli- 
ner’s apprentice  within  two  miles  round. 

Sketches  ( Scenes ),  Chap.  3. 

IMAGINATION  A starved. 

Struggling  through  the  dissatisfaction  of  her 
face,  there  was  a light  with  nothing  to  rest  upon, 
a fire  with  nothing  to  burn,  a starved  imagina- 
tion keeping  life  in  itself  somehow,  which  bright- 
ened its  expression.  Not  with  the  brightness 
natural  to  cheerful  youth,  but  with  uncertain, 
eager,  doubtful  flashes,  which  had  something 
painful  in  them,  analogous  to  the  changes  on  a 
blind  face  groping  its  way. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

IMPERTINEN  CE— Rebuked. 

“ He  is  a runaway  rogue  and  a vagabond, 
that’s  what  he  is,  in  English.” 

“ It’s  all  the  same  to  me  what  he  is  or  what 
he  is  not,  whether  in  English  or  whether  in 
French,”  retorted  Mr.  E.  W.  B.  Childers,  facing 
about.  “ I am  telling  your  friend  what’s  the 
fact ; if  you  don’t  like  to  hear  it,  you  can  avail 
yourself  of  the  open  air.  You  give  it  mouth 
enough,  you  do  ; but  give  it  mouth  in  your  own 
building  at  least,”  remonstrated  E.  W.  B.,  with 
stern  irony.  “ Don’t  give  it  mouth  in  this  build- 
ing, till  you’re  called  upon.  You  have  got  some 
building  of  your  own,  l dare  say,  now  ? ” 

“ Perhaps  so,”  replied  Mr.  Bounderby,  rat- 
tling his  money  and  laughing, 

“ Then  give  it  mouth  in  your  own  building, 
will  you,  if  you  please  ? ” said  Childers.  “ Be- 
cause this  isn’t  a strong  building,  and  too  much 
of  you  might  bring  it  down  !” 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  6. 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  PEOPLE -The  first. 

In  real  life  the  peculiarities  and  oddities  of  a 
man  who  has  anything  whimsical  about  him, 
generally  impress  us  first,  and  it  is  not  until  we 
are  belter  acquainted  with  him  that  we  usually 
begin  to  look  below  these  superficial  traits,  and 
to  know  the  better  part  of  him. 

Pickwick , Preface. 

IMPOSTORS  Social. 

“ You  are  genuine  also.” 


“ Thank  you  for  the  compliment,”  said  Clen- 
nam,  ill  at  ease  ; “you  are  too,  I hope?” 

“ So,  so,”  rejoined  the  other.  “ To  be  candiil 
with  you,  tolerably.  I am  not  a great  impostor. 
Buy  one  of  my  picture:?,  and  I assure  you,  in 
confidence,  it  will  not  be  worth  the  money.  Buy 
one  of  another  man’s — any  great  professor  who 
beats  me  hollow — and  the  chances  are  that  the 
more  you  give  him,  the  more  he'll  impose  upon 
you.  They  all  do  it.” 

“ All  painters  ? ” 

“Painters,  writers,  patriots,  all  the  rest  who 
have  stands  in  the  market.  Give  almost  any 
man  I know,  ten  pounds,  and  he  will  impose 
upon  you  to  a corresponding  extent  ; a thousand 
pounds — to  a corresponding  extent ; ten  thou- 
sand pounds — to  a corresponding  extent.  So 
great  the  success,  so  great  the  imposition.  But 
what  a capital  world  it  is  !”  cried  Gowan  with 
warm  enthusiasm.  “ What  a jolly,  excellent 
loveable  world  it  is!” 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  26. 

IMPUDENCE  AND  CREDULITY  As 

passports. 

Impudence  and  the  marvellous  are  pretty  sure 
passports  to  any  society. — Tales , Chap.  7. 

INCOMPREHENSIBILITY  — The  com- 
pound interest  of. 

As  nobody  on  the  face  of  the  earth  could  be 
more  incapable  of  explaining"  any  single  item 
in  the  heap  of  confusion  than  the  debtor  him- 
self, nothing  comprehensible  could  be  made  of 
his  case.  To  question  him  in  detail,  and  en- 
deavor to  reconcile  his  answers  ; to  closet  hiir, 
with  accountants  and  sharp  practitioners,  learn- 
ed in  the  wiles  of  insolvency  and  bankruptcy ; 
was  only  to  put  the  case  out  at  compound  inter- 
est of  incomprehensibility. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  6. 

INDECISION — Of  character. 

To  be  in  the  halting  state  of  Mr.  Henry 
Gowan  ; to  have  left  one  of  two  Powers  in  dis- 
gust, to  want  the  necessary  qualifications  for 
finding  promotion  with  another,  and  to  be  loi- 
tering moodily  about  on  neutral  ground,  curs- 
ing both  ; is  to  be  in  a situation  unwholesome 
for  the  mind,  which  time  is  not  likely  to  im- 
prove. The  worst  class  of  sum  worked  in  the 
every-day  world,  is  cyphered  by  the  diseased 
arithmeticians  who  are  always  in  the  rule  of 
Subtraction  as  to  the  merits  and  successes 
of  others,  and  never  in  Addition  as  to  their 
own. 

The  habit,  too,  of  seeking  some  sort  of  recom- 
pense in  the  discontented  boast  of  being  disap- 
pointed, is  a habit  fraught  with  degeneracy. 
A certain  idle  carelessness  and  recklessness  of 
consistency  soon  comes  of  it.  To  bring  de- 
serving tilings  down  by  setting  undeserving 
things  up,  is  one  of  its  perverted  delights  ; and 
there  is  no  playing  fast  and  loose  with  the 
truth,  in  any  game,  without  growing  the  worse 
for  it. — Little  Dorr  it , Book  II.,  Chap.  6. 

INDECISION — Of  character  (Sparkler). 

He  had  no  greater  will  of  his  own  than  a 
boat  has  when  it  is  towed  by  a steam-ship  ; and 
he  followed  his  cruel  mistress  through  rough 
and  smooth,  on  equally  strong  compulsion. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  14. 


INDIFFERENCE 


247 


INNS 


INDIFFERENCE. 

A display  of  indifference  to  all  the  actions 
and  passions  of  mankind  was  not  supposed  to 
be  such  a distinguished  quality  at  that  time,  I 
think,  as  I have  observed.it  to  be  considered 
since.  I have  known  it  very  fashionable  in- 
deed. I have  seen  it  displayed  with  such  suc- 
cess, that  I have  encountered  some  fine  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  might  as  well  have  been 
born  caterpillars. — David  Copperjield , Chap.  36. 

INFLUENCES-Kind. 

It  is  not  possible  to  know  how  far  the  influ- 
ence of  any  amiable,  honest-hearted,  duty-do- 
ing man  flies  out  into  the  world  ; but  it  is  very 
possible  to  know  how  it  has  touched  one’s  self 
in  going  by,  and  I know  right  well  that  any 
good  that  intermixed  itself  with  my  apprentice- 
ship came  of  plain,  contented  Joe,  and  not  of 
restless,  aspiring,  discontented  me. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  14. 

INTEREST  AND  CONVENIENCE. 

“Our  interest  and  convenience  commonly 
oblige  many  of  us  to  make  professions  that  we 
cannot  feel.  We  have  partnerships  of  interest 
and  convenience,  friendships  of  interest  and 
convenience,  dealings  of  interest  and  conveni- 
ence, marriages  of  interest  and  convenience, 
every  day.” — Dombey  6°  Son , Chap.  45. 

INN-An  English. 

The  Six  Jolly  Fellowship-Porters,  already 
mentioned  as  a tavern  of  a dropsical  appearance, 
had  long  settled  down  into  a state  of  hale  in- 
firmity. In  its  whole  constitution  it  had  not  a 
straight  floor,  and  hardly  a straight  line  ; but  it 
had  outlasted,  and  clearly  would  yet  outlast, 
many  a better-trimmed  building,  many  a spru- 
cer  public-house.  Externally,  it  was  a narrow, 
lopsided  jumble  of  corpulent  windows,  heaped 
one  upon  another  as  you  might  heap  as  many 
toppling  oranges,  with  a crazy  wooden  verandah 
impending  over  the  water  ; indeed,  the  whole 
house,  inclusive  of  the  complaining  flagstaff  on 
the  roof,  impended  over  the  water,  but  seemed 
to  have  got  into  the  condition  of  a faint-hearted 
diver,  who  has  paused  so  long  on  the  brink  that 
he  will  never  go  in  at  all. 

* * * * * 

The  wood  forming  the  chimney-pieces,  beams, 
partitions,  floors,  and  doors  of  the  Six  Jolly  Fel- 
lowship-Porters, seemed  in  its  old  age  fraught 
with  confused  memories  of  its  youth.  In  many 
places  it  had  become  gnarled  and  riven,  accord- 
ing to  the  manner  of  old  trees  ; knots  started 
out  of  it ; and  here  and  there  it  seemed  to  twist 
itself  into  some  likeness  of  boughs.  In  this 
state  of  second  childhood,  it  had  an  air  of  being 
in  its  own  way  garrulous  about  its  early  life. 
Not  without  reason  was  it  often  asserted  by  the 
regular  . frequenters  of  the  Porters,  that  when 
the  light  shone  full  upon  the  grain  of  certain 
panels,  and  particularly  upon  an  old  corner  cup- 
board of  walnut-wood  in  the  bar,  you  might 
trace  little  forests  there,  and  tiny  trees  like  the 
parent-tree,  in  full  umbrageous  leaf. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  /.,  Chap.  6. 

INN-An  old  (The  Maypole). 

Whether  these,  and  many  other  stories  of  the 
like  nature,  were  true  or  untrue,  the  Maypole 
was  really  an  old  house,  a very  old  house,  per- 


haps as  old  as  it  claimed  to  be,  and  perhaps 
older,  which  will  sometimes  happen  with  houses 
of  an  uncertain,  as  with  ladies  of  a certain,  age. 
Its  windows  were  old  diamond-pane  lattices,  its 
floors  were  sunken  and  uneven,  its  ceilings 
blackened  by  the  hand  of  time,  and  heavv  with 
massive  beams.  Over  the  door-way  w:as  an 
ancient  porch,  quaintly  and  grotesquely  carved  ; 
and  here  on  summer  evenings  the  more  favored 
customers  smoked  and  drank — ay,  and  sang 
many  a good  song  too,  sometimes — reposing  on 
two  grim-looking,  high-backed  settles,  which, 
like  the  twin  dragons  of  some  fairy  tale,  guarded 
the  entrance  to  the  mansion. 

In  the  chimneys  of  the  disused  rooms,  swal- 
lows had  built  their  nests  for  many  a long  year, 
and  from  earliest  spring  to  latest  autumn  whole 
colonies  of  sparrows  chirped  and  twittered  in 
the  eaves.  There  were  more  pigeons  about  the 
dreary  stable-yard  and  out-buildings  than  any- 
body but  the  landlord  could  reckon  up.  The 
wheeling  and  circling  flights  of  runts,  fantails, 
tumblers,  and  pouters,  were  perhaps  not  quite 
consistent  with  the  grave  and  sober  character  ot 
the  building,  but  the  monotonous  cooing,  which 
never  ceased  to  be  raised  by  some  among  them 
all  day  long,  suited  it  exactly,  and  seemed  to 
lull  it  to  rest.  With  its  overhanging  stories, 
drowsy  little  panes  of  glass,  and  front  bulging 
out  and  projecting  over  the  pathway,  the  old 
house  looked  as  if  it  were  nodding  in  its  sleep. 
Indeed,  it  needed  no  very  great  stretch  of  fan- 
cy to  detect  in  it  other  resemblances  to  hu- 
manity. The  bricks  of  which  it  was  built  had 
originally  been  a deep  dark  red,  but  had  grown 
yellow  and  discolored,  like  an  old  man’s  skin  ; 
the  sturdy  timbers  had  decayed  like  teeth  ; and 
here  and  there  the  ivy,  like  a warm  garment  to 
comfort  it  in  its  age,  wrapped  its  green  leaves 
closely  round  the  time-worn  walls. 

It  was  a hale  and  hearty  age  though,  still : 
and  in  the  summer  or  autumn  evenings,  when 
the  glow  of  the  setting  sun  fell  upon  the  oak 
and  chestnut  trees  of  the  adjacent  forest,  the 
old  house,  partaking  of  its  lustre,  seemed  their 
fit  companion,  and  to  have  many  good  years  of 
life  in  him  yet. — Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  1. 

INN— A roadside. 

Indeed,  The  Tilted  Wagon — as  a cool  establish- 
ment on  the  top  of  a hill,  where  the  ground  be- 
fore the  door  was  puddled  with  damp  hoofs  and 
trodden  straw  ; where  a scolding  landlady 
slapped  a moist  baby  (with  one  red  sock  on  and 
one  wanting)  in  the  bar ; where  the  cheese  was 
cast  aground  upon  a shelf,  in  company  with  a 
mouldy  tablecloth  and  a green-handled  knife, 
in  a sort  of  cast-iron  canoe  ; where  the  pale-faced 
bread  shed  tears  of  crumb  over  its  shipwreck,  in 
another  canoe  ; where  the  family  linen,  half 
washed  and  half  dried,  led  a public  life  of 
lying  about  ; where  everything  to  drink  was 
drunk  out  of  mugs,  and  everything  else  was 
suggestive  of  a rhyme  to  mugs — The  Tilted 
Wagon,  all  these  things  considered,  hardly  kept 
its  painted  promise  of  providing  good  entertain- 
ment for  Man  and  Beast. 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  15. 

INNS— Of  Europe. 

Next  to  the  provincial  Inns  of  France,  with 
the  great  church-tower  rising  above  the  court- 
yard, the  horse-bells  jingling  merrily  up  and 


INNS 


248 


INN 


down  the  street  beyond,  and  the  clocks  of  all 
descriptions  in  all  the  rooms,  which  are  never 
right,  unless  taken  at  the  precise  minute  when, 
by  getting  exactly  twelve  hours  too  fast  or  too 
slow,  they  unintentionally  become  so.  Away  I 
went,  next,  to  the  lesser  roadside  Inns  of  Italy  ; 
where  all  the  dirty  clothes  in  the  house  (not  in 
wear)  are  always  lying  in  your  ante-room  ; where 
the  mosquitoes  make  a raisin  pudding  of  your 
face  in  summer,  and  the  cold  bites  it  blue  in 
winter  ; where  you  get  what  you  can,  and  for- 
get what  you  can’t  ; where  I should  again  like 
to  be  boiling  my  tea  in  a pocket-handkerchief 
dumpling,  for  want  of  a teapot.  So  to  the  old 
palace  Inns  and  old  monastery  Inns,  in  towns 
and  cities  of  the  same  bright  country  ; with  their 
massive  quadrangular  staircases,  whence  you 
may  look  from  among  clustering  pillars  high 
into  the  blue  vault  of  Heaven  ; with  their  stately 
banqueting-rooms,  and  vast  refectories  ; with 
their  labyrinths  of  ghostly  bedchambers,  and 
their  glimpses  into  gorgeous  streets  that  have  no 
appearance  of  reality  or  possibility.  So  to  the 
close  little  Inns  of  the  Malaria  districts,  with 
their  pale  attendants,  and  their  peculiar  smell  of 
never  letting  in  the  air.  So  to  the  immense 
fantastic  Inns  of  Venice,  with  the  cry  of  the 
gondolier  below,  as  he  skims  the  corner  ; the 
grip  of  the  watery  odors  on  one  particular  little 
bit  of  the  bridge  of  your  nose  (which  is  never 
released  while  you  stay  there)  ; and  the  great 
bell  of  St.  Mark’s  Cathedral  tolling  midnight. 
Next  I put  up  for  a minute  at  the  restless  Inns 
upon  the  Rhine,  where  your  going  to  bed,  no 
matter  at  what  hour,  appears  to  be  the  tocsin 
for  everybody  else’s  getting  up  ; and  where,  in 
the  table  d’hote  room,  at  the  end  of  the  long 
table  (with  several  Towers  of  Babel  on  it  at  the 
other  end,  all  made  of  white  plates),  one  knot  of 
stoutish  men,  entirely  dressed  in  jewels  and 
dirt,  and  having  nothing  else  upon  them,  will 
remain  all  night,  clinking  glasses,  and  singing 
about  the  river  that  flows  and  the  grape  that 
grows,  and  Rhine  wine  that  beguiles,  and  Rhine 
woman  that  smiles,  and  hi  drink  drink  my  friend 
and  ho  drink  drink  my  brother,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  I departed  thence  as  a matter  of  course, 
to  other  German  Inns,  where  all  the  eatables  are 
sodden  down  to  the  same  flavor,  and  where  the 
mind  is  disturbed  by  the  apparition  of  hot  pud- 
dings, and  boiled  cherries,  sweet  and  slab,  at 
awfully  unexpected  periods  of  the  repast.  After 
a draught  of  sparkling  beer  from  a foaming 
glass  jug,  and  a glance  of  recognition  through 
the  windows  of  the  student  beer-houses  at  Hei- 
delberg and  elsewhere,  I put  out  to  sea  for  the 
Inns  of  America,  with  their  four  hundred  beds 
apiece,  and  their  eight  or  nine  hundred  ladies 
and  gentlemen  at  dinner  every  day.  Again  I 
stood  in  the  bar  rooms  thereof,  taking  my  even- 
ing cobbler,  julep,  sling,  or  cocktail.  Again  I 
listened  to  my  friend  the  General — whom  I had 
known  for  five  minutes,  in  the  course  of  which 
period  he  had  made  me  intimate  for  life  with 
two  Majors,  who  again  had  made  me  intimate 
for  life  with  three  Colonels,  who  again  had  made 
me  brother  to  twenty-two  civilians — again,  I say, 
I listened  to  my  friend  the  General,  leisurely 
expounding  the  resources  of  the  establishment, 
as  to  gentlemen’s  morning-room,  sir  ; ladies’ 
morning-room,  sir  ; gentlemen’s  evening-room, 
sir  ; ladies’  evening-room,  sir  ; ladies’ ami  gentle- 
men’s evening  reuniling-rooin,  sir  ; music-room, 


sir;  reading-room,  sir:  over  four  hi  ndred  sleep- 
ing-rooms, sir  ; and  the  entire  planned  and  finited 
within  twelve  calendar  months  from  the  first  clear- 
ing off  of  the  old  encumbrances  on  the  plot,  at  a 
cost  of  five  hundred  thousand  dollars,  sir. 
Again  I found,  as  to  my  individual  way  of  think- 
ing, that  the  greater,  the  more  gorgeous,  and 
the  more  dollarous  the  establishment  was,  the 
less  desirable  it  was.  Nevertheless,  again  I 
drank  my  cobbler,  julep,  sling,  or  cocktail,  in 
all  good-will,  to  my  friend  the  General,  and  my 
friends  the  Majors,  Colonels,  and  civilians  all  ; 
full  well  knowing  that,  whatever  little  motes  my 
beamy  eyes  may  have  descried  in  theirs,  they 
belong  to  a kind,  generous,  large-hearted,  and 
great  people. — The  Holly  Tree. 


INN  -Memories  of  an  old. 

Or  take  any  other  of  the  numerous  travelling 
instances  in  which,  with  more  time  at  your  dis- 
posal, you  are,  have  been,  or  may  be.  equally  ill- 
served.  Take  the  old  established  Bull’s  Head, 
with  its  old-established  knife-boxes  on  its  old- 
established  side-boards,  its  old-established  flue 
under  its  old-established  four-post  bedsteads  in 
its  old-established  airless  rooms,  its  old-estab- 
lished frowziness  up-stairs  and  down-stairs,  its 
old-established  cookery,  and  its  old-established 
principles  of  plunder.  Count  up  your  injuries, 
in  its  side-dishes  of  ailing  sweetbreads  in  white 
poultices,  of  apothecaries’  powders  in  rice  for 
curry,  of  pale  stewed  bits  of  calf  ineffectually 
relying  for  an  adventitious  interest  on  forcemeat 
balls.  You  have  had  experience  of  the  old- 
established  Bull’s  Head’s  stringy  fowls,  with 
lower  extremities  like  wooden  legs  sticking  up 
out  of  the  dish  ; of  its  cannibalic  boiled  mutton, 
gushing  horribly  among  its  capers,  when  carved  ; 
of  its  little  dishes  of  pastry, — roofs  of  spermaceti 
ointment  erected  over  half  an  apple  or  four 
gooseberries.  Well  for  you  if  you  have  yet  for- 
gotten the  old  established  Bull’s  Head’s  fruity 
port ; whose  reputation  was  gained  solely  by  the 
old-established  price  the  Bull’s  Head  put  upon 
it,  and  by  the  old-established  air  with  which  the 
Bull’s  Head  set  the  glasses  and  D’Oyleys  on,  and 
held  that  Liquid  Gout  to  the  three-and-sixpenny 
wax-candle,  as  if  its  old-established  color  hadn’t 
come  from  the  dyer’s. 

Uncojnmercial  Traveller,  Chap.  6. 


INN— Scenes  in  an. 

If  the  Dodo  were  only  a gregarious  bird — if  it 
had  only  some  confused  idea  of  making  a com- 
fortable nest — I could  hope  to  get  through  the 
hours  between  this  and  bed-time,  without  being 
consumed  by  devouring  melancholy.  But  the 
Dodo’s  habits  are  all  wrong.  It  provides  me 
with  a trackless  desert  of  sitting-room,  with  a 
chair  for  every  day  in  the  year,  a table  for  every 
month,  and  a waste  of  sideboard  where  a lonely 
China  vase  pines  in  a corner  for  its  mate  long 
departed,  and  will  never  make  a match  with  the 
candlestick  in  the  opposite  corner  if  it  live  till 
Doomsday.  The  Dodo  has  nothing  in  the 
larder.  Even  now,  I behold  the  boots  return- 
ing with  my  sole  in  a piece  of  paper;  and  with 
that  portion  of  my  dinner,  the  Boots,  perceiving 
me  at  the  blank  bow  window,  slaps  his  leg  as  he 
comes  across  the  road,  pretending  it  is  some- 
thing else.  The  Dodo  excludes  the  outer  air. 
When  I mount  up  to  my  bed-room,  a smell  of 
closeness  and  flue  gets  lazily  up  my  nose  like 


inn 


213 


INNOCENCE 


sleepy  snuff.  The  loose  little  bits  of  carpet 
writhe  under  my  tread,  and  take  wormy  shapes. 
I don’t  know  the  ridiculous  man  in  the  looking- 
glass,  beyond  having  met  him  once  or  twice  in 
a dish-cover — and  I can  never  shave  him  to- 
morrow morning  ! The  Dodo  is  narrow  minded 
as  to  towels  ; expects  me  to  wash  on  a freenia- 
son’s  apron  without  the  trimming : when  I ask 
for  soap,  gives  me  a stony-hearted  something 
white,  with  no  more  lather  in  it  than  the  Elgin 
marbles.  The  Dodo  has  seen  better  days,  and 
possesses  interminable  stables  at  the  back — si- 
lent, grass-grown,  broken  windowed,  horseless. 

This  mournful  bird  can  fry  a sole,  however, 
which  is  much.  Can  cook  a steak,  too,  which  is 
more.  I wonder  where  it  gets  its  Sherry  ! If  I 
were  to  send  my  pint  of  wine  to  some  famous 
chemist  to  be  analyzed,  what  would  it  turn  out 
to  be  made  of?  It  tastes  of  pepper,  sugar,  bit- 
ter almonds,  vinegar,  warm  knives,  any  flat 
drink,  and  a little  brandy.  Would  it  unman  a 
Spanish  exile  by  reminding  him  of  his  native 
land  at  all?  1 think  not.  If  there  really  be 
any  townspeople  out  of  the  churchyards,  and  if 
a caravan  of  taem  ever  do  dine,  with  a bottle  of 
wine  per  man,  in  this  desert  of  the  Dodo,  it 
must  make  good  for  the  doctor  next  day  ! 

Where  was  the  waiter  born?  llow  did  he 
come  here?  Has  he  any  hope  of  getting  away 
from  here?  Does  he  ever  receive  a letter,  or 
take  a ride  upon  the  railway,  or  see  anything 
but  the  Dodo?  Perhaps  he  has  seen  the  Berlin 
Wool.  He  appears  to  have  a silent  sorrow  on 
him,  and  it  may  be  that.  He  clears  the  table  ; 
draws  the  dingy  curtains  of  the  great  bow  win- 
dow, which  so  unwillingly  consent  to  meet,  that 
they  must  be  pinned  together  ; leaves  me  by  the 
fire  with  my  pint  decanter,  and  a little  thin 
funnel-shaped  wine  glass,  and  a plate  of  pale 
biscuits — in  themselves  engendering  despera- 
tion. 

No  book,  no  newspaper!  I left  the  Arabian 
Nights  in  the  railway  carriage,  and  have  nothing 
to  read  but  Bradshaw,  and  “ that  way  madness 
lies.”  Remembering  what  prisoners  and  ship- 
wrecked mariners  have  done  to  exercise  their 
minds  in  solitude,  I repeat  the  multiplication 
table,  the  pence  table,  and  the  shilling  table  : 
which  are  all  the  tables  I happen  to  know. 
What  if  I write  something?  The  Dodo  keeps 
no  pens  but  steel  pens  ; and  those  I always  stick 
through  the  paper,  and  can  turn  to  no  other 
account. — A Plated  Article.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

INN— An  unwholesome. 

“ I meantersay,  you  two  gentlemen,  which  I 
hope  as  you  gets  your  elths  in  this  close  spot? 
For  the  present  may  be  awery  good  inn,  accord- 
ing to  London  opinions,”  said  Joe,  confidential- 
ly, “ and  I believe  its  character  do  stand  i ; but  I 
wouldn’t  keep  a pig  in  it  myself — not  in  the 
case  that  I wished  him  to  fatten  wholesome,  and 
to  eat  with  a meller  flavor  on  him.” 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  27. 

INN— An  ancient  apartment. 

It  had  such  a prescriptive,  stiff-necked,  long- 
established,  solemn,  elderly  air.  I glanced 
about  the  room,  which  had  had  its  sanded  floor 
sanded,  no  doubt,  in  exactly  the  same  manner 
when  the  chief  waiter  was  a boy — if  he  ever 
was  a boy,  which  appeared  improbable — and  at 
the  shining  tables,  where  I saw  myself  reflected, 


in  unruffled  depths  of  old  mahogany — and  at 
the  lamps,  without  a flaw  in  their  trimming  or 
cleaning  ; and  at  the  comfortable  green  curtains, 
with  their  pure  brass  rods,  snugly  enclosing  the 
boxes  ; and  at  the  two  large  coal  fires,  brightly 
burning  ; and  at  the  rows  of  decanters,  burly  as 
if  with  the  consciousness  of  pipes  of  expensive 
old  port  wine  below  ; and  both  England,  and 
the  law,  appeared  to  me  to  be  very  difficult 
indeed  to  b - taken  by  storm.  I went  up  to  my 
bed-room  to  change  my  wet  clothes  ; and  the 
vast  extent  of  that  old  wainscotted  apartment 
(which  was  over  the  archway  leading  to  the  inn, 
I remember),  and  the  sedate  immensity  of  the 
four-post  bedstead,  and  the  indomitable  gravity 
of  the  chests  of  drawers,  all  seemed  to  unite  in 
sternly  frowning  on  the  fortunes  of  Traddles,  01 
on  any  such  daring  youth. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  59. 

INN— Room  in  an. 

The  Concord  bed-chamber  being  always  as- 
signed to  a passenger  by  the  mail,  and  passen- 
gers by  the  mail  being  always  heavily  wrapped 
up  from  head  to  foot,  the  room  had  the  odd  in- 
terest for  the  establishment  of  the  Royal  George, 
that  although  but  one  kind  of  man  was  seen  to 
go  into  it,  all  kinds  and  varieties  of  men  came 
out  of  it.  — Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  4. 

Inn— A wayside. 

At  such  a time,  one  little  roadside  inn,  snugly 
sheltered  behind  a great  elm-tree,  with  a rare 
seat  for  idlers  encircling  its  capacious  bole,  ad- 
dressed a cheerful  front  towards  the  traveller,  as 
a house  of  entertainment  ought,  and  tempted 
him  with  many  mute  but  significant  assurances 
of  a comfortable  welcome.  The  ruddy  sign- 
board perched  up  in  the  tree,  with  its  golden 
letters  winking  in  the  sun,  ogled  the  passer  by, 
from  among  the  green  leaves,  like  a jolly  face, 
and  promised  good  cheer.  The  horse-trough, 
full  of  clear  fresh  water,  and  the  ground  below 
it  sprinkled  with  droppings  of  fragrant  hay, 
made  every  horse  that  passed  prick  up  his  ears. 
The  crimson  curtains  in  the  lower  rooms,  and 
the  pure  white  hangings  in  the  little  bed-cham- 
bers above,  beckoned,  Come  in  ! with  every 
breath  of  air.  Upon  the  bright  green  shut- 
ters, there  were  golden  legends  about  beer 
and  ale,  and  neat  wines,  and  good  beds  ; and  an 
affecting  picture  of  a brown  jug  frothing  over 
at  the  top.  Upon  the  window-sills  were  flower- 
ing plants  in  bright  red  pots,  which  made  a 
lively  show  against  the  white  front  of  the  house  ; 
and  in  the  darkness  of  the  doorway  there  were 
streaks  of  light,  which  glanced  off  from  the 
surfaces  of  bottles  and  tankards. 

Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  3. 

INNOCENCE -The  affectation  of  advice  of 
Mr.  Bucket. 

“ Now,  Miss  Summerson,  I’ll  give  you  a piece 
of  advice  that  your  husband  will  find  useful 
when  you  are  happily  married  and  have  got  a 
family  about  you.  Whenever  a person  says  to 
you  that  they  are  as  innocent  as  can  be  in  all 
concerning  money,  look  well  after  your  own 
money,  for  they  are  dead  certain  to  collar  it,  if 
they  can.  Whenever  a person  proclaims  to  you 
‘ In  worldly  matters  I’m  a child,’  you  consider 
that  that  person  is  only  a-crying  off  from  being 
held  accountable,  and  that  you  have  got  that  per- 


INNOCENCE 


250 


INQUISITION 


son’s  number,  and  it’s  Number  One.  Now,  I 
am  not  a poetical  man  myself,  except  in  a vocal 
way,  when  it  goes  round  a company,  but  I’m  a 
practical  one,  and  that’s  my  experience.  So’s 
this  rule.  Fast  and  loose  in  one  thing,  Fast  and 
loose  in  everything.  I never  knew  it  fail.” 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  57. 

INNOCENCE- And  guilt. 

It  was  a curious  contrast  to  see  how  the  timid 
country  girl  shrunk  through  the  crowd  that  hur- 
ried up  and  down  the  streets,  giving  way  to  the 
press  of  people,  and  clinging  closely  to  Ralph, 
as  though  she  feared  to  lose  him  in  the  throng  ; 
and  how  the  stern  and  hard-featured  man  of 
business  went  doggedly  on,  elbowing  the  pas- 
sengers aside,  and  now  and  then  exchanging  a 
gruff  salutation  with  some  passing  acquaintance, 
who  turned  to  look  back  upon  his  pretty  charge, 
with  looks  expressive  of  surprise,  and  seemed 
to  wonder  at  the  ill-assorted  companionship. 
But  it  would  have  been  a stranger  contrast  still, 
to  have  read  the  hearts  that  were  beating  side 
by  side  ; to  have  laid  bare  the  gentle  innocence 
of  the  one,  and  the  rugged  villany  of  the  other  ; 
to  have  hung  upon  the  guileless  thoughts  of  the 
affectionate  girl,  and  been  amazed  that,  among 
all  the  wily  plots  and  calculations  of  the  old 
man,  there  should  not  be  one  word  or  figure  de 
noting  thought  of  death  or  of  the  grave.  But 
so  it  was  ; and  stranger  still — though  this  is  a 
thing  of  every  day — the  warm  young  heart  pal- 
pitated with  a thousand  anxieties  and  apprehen- 
sions, while  that  of  the  old  worldly  man  lay 
rusting  in  its  cell,  beating  only  as  a piece  of  cun- 
ning mechanism,  and  yielding  no  one  throb  of 
hope,  or  fear,  or  love,  or  care,  for  any  living  thing. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  10. 

INNOCENT  OFFENDERS— Public  injustice 
to. 

Let  moralists  and  philosophers  say  what  they 
may,  it  is  very  questionable  whether  a guilty  man 
would  have  felt  half  as  much  misery  that  night, 
as  Kit  did,  being  innocent.  The  world,  being 
in  the  constant  commission  of  vast  quantities 
of  injustice,  is  a little  too  apt  to  comfort  itself 
with  the  idea  that  if  the  victim  of  its  falsehood 
and  malice  have  a clear  conscience,  he  cannot 
fail  to,  be  sustained  under  his  trials,  and  some- 
how or  other  to  come  right  at  last ; “in  which 
case,”  say  those  who  have  hunted  him  down, 
“ — though  we  certainly  don’t  expect  it— nobody 
will  be  better  pleased  than  we.”  Whereas,  the 
world  would  do  well  to  reflect,  that  injustice  is 
in  itself,  to  every  generous  and  properly  consti- 
tuted mind,  an  injury,  of  all  others  the  most 
insufferable,  the  most  torturing,  and  the  most 
hard  to  bear  ; and  that  many  clear  consciences 
have  gone  to  their  account  elsewhere,  and  many 
sound  hearts  have  broken,  because  of  this  very 
reason  ; the  knowledge  of  their  own  deserts 
only  aggravating  their  sufferings,  and  rendering 
them  the  less  endurable. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  61. 

INNOCENT  Hasty  judgment  of  the. 

To  this  indictment,  Christopher  Nubbles,  in 
a low  and  trembling  voice,  pleaded  Not  Guilty: 
and  here,  let  those  who  are  in  the  habit  of  form- 
ing hasty  judgments  from  appearances,  and  who 
would  have  had  Christopher,  if  innocent,  speak 
out  very  strong  and  loud,  observe,  that  confine-  ' 


mcnt  and  anxiety  will  subdue  the  stoutest 
hearts  ; and  that  to  one  who  has  been  close 
shut  up,  though  it  be  only  for  ten  or  eleven 
days,  seeing  but  stone  walls  and  a very  few 
stony  faces,  the  sudden  entrance  into  a great 
hall  filled  with  life,  is  a rather  disconcerting 
and  startling  circumstance.  To  this  it  must  be 
added,  that  life  in  a wig  is,  to  a large  class  of 
people,  much  more  terrifying  and  impressive 
than  life  with  its  own  head  of  hair. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  63. 

INQUISITIVENESS  A cure  for  spasms. 

“ Well,  sir,”  returns  Mr.  Snagsby,  “you  see 
my  little  woman  is — not  to  put  too  fine  a point 
upon  it — inquisitive.  She’s  inquisitive.  Poor 
little  thing,  she’s  liable  to  spasms,  and  it’s  good 
for  her  to  have  her  mind  employed.  In  conse- 
quence of  which  she  employs  it — I should  say 
upon  every  individual  thing  she  can  lay  hold  of, 
.whether  it  concerns  her  or  not — especially  not. 
My  little  woman  has  a very  active  mind,  sir.” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  22. 

INQUISITION— The  tortures  of  the. 

A few  steps  brought  us  to  the  Cachots,  in 
which  the  prisoners  of  the  Inquisition  were  con- 
fined for  forty-eight  hours  after  their  capture, 
without  food  or  drink,  that  their  constancy 
might  be  shaken,  even  before  they  were  con- 
fronted with  their  gloomy  judges.  The  day  has 
not  got  in  there  yet.  They  are  still  small 
cells,  shut  in  by  four  unyielding,  close,  hard 
walls ; still  profoundly  dark ; still  massively 
doored  and  fastened,  as  of  old. 

Goblin,  looking  back  as  I have  described, 
went  softly  on  into  a vaulted  chamber,  now 
used  as  a store-room  : once  the  chapel  of  the 
Holy  Office.  The  place  where  the  tribunal  sat 
was  plain.  The  platform  might  have  been  re- 
moved but  yesterday.  Conceive  the  parable  of 
the  Good  Samaritan  having  been  painted  on  the 
wall  of  one  of  these  Inquisition  chambers  ! But 
it  was,  and  may  be  traced  there  yet. 

High  up  in  the  jealous  wall,  are  niches  where 
the  faltering  replies  of  the  accused  were  heard 
and  noted  down.  Many  of  them  had  been 
brought  out  of  the  very  cell  we  had  just  looked 
into,  so  awfully  ; along  the  same  stone  passage. 
We  had  trodden  in  their  very  footsteps. 

I am  gazing  round  me,  with  the  horror  that 
the  place  inspires,  when  Goblin  clutches  me  by 
the  wrist,  and  lays,  not  her  skinny  finger,  but 
the  handle  of  a key,  upon  her  lip.  She  invites 
me,  with  a jerk,  to  follow  her.  I do  so.  She 
leads  me  out  into  a room  adjoining — a rugged 
room,  with  a funnel-shaped,  contracting  roof, 
open  at  the  top,  to  the  bright  day.  I ask  her 
what  it  is.  She  folds  her  arms,  leei’s  hideously, 
and  stares.  I ask  again.  She  glances  round, 
to  see  that  all  the  little  company  are  there  ; sits 
down  upon  a mound  of  stones  ; throws  up  her 
arms,  and  yells  out,  like  a fiend,  “ La  Salle  de 
la  Question  ! ” 

The  Chamber  of  Torture  ! And  the  roof  was 
made  of  that  shape  to  stifle  the  victim’s  cries  ! 
Oh  Goblin,  Goblin,  let  us  think  of  this  awhile, 
in  silence.  Peace,  Goblin  ! Sit  with  your  short 
arms  crossed  on  your  short  legs,  upon  that  heap 
of  stones,  for  only  five  minutes,  and  then  flame 
out  again. 

Minutes  ! Seconds  are  not  marked  upon  the 
Palace  clock,  when,  with  her  eyes  flashing  fire, 


INQUISITION 


251 


INVALID 


Goblin  is  up,  in  the  middle  of  the  chamber,  de- 
scribing, with  her  sunburnt  arms,  a wheel  of 
heavy  blows.  Thus  it  ran  round  ! cries  Gob- 
lin. Mash,  mash,  mash ! An  endless  routine 
of  heavy  hammers.  Mash,  mash,  mash  ! upon 
the  sufferer’s  limbs.  See  the  stone  trough ! 
says  Goblin.  For  the  water  torture  ! Gurgle, 
swill,  bloat,  burst,  for  the  Redeemer’s  honor  ! 
Suck  the  bloody  rag,  deep  down  into  your  un- 
believing body,  Heretic,  at  every  breath  you 
draw ! And  when  the  executioner  plucks  it 
out,  reeking  with  the  smaller  mysteries  of  God’s 
own  Image,  know  us  for  His  chosen  servants, 
true  believers  in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount, 
elect  disciples  of  Him  who  never  did  a miracle 
but  to  heal : who  never  struck  a man  with  pal- 
sy, blindness,  deafness,  dumbness,  madness,  or 
any  one  affliction  of  mankind ; and  never 
stretched  His  blessed  hand  out,  but  to  give  re- 
lief and  ease. 

See  ! cries  Goblin.  There  the  furnace  was. 
There  they  made  the  irons  red-hot.  Those 
holes  supported  the  sharp  stake,  on  which  the 
tortured  persons  hung  poised ; dangling  with 
their  whole  weight  from  the  roof.  “ But ; ” and 
Goblin  whispers  this  ; “ Monsieur  has  heard  of 
this  tower?  Yes?  Let  Monsieur  look  down, 
then ! ” 

A cold  air,  laden  with  an  earthy  smell,  falls 
upon  the  face  of  Monsieur  ; for  she  has  opened, 
while  speaking,  a trap-door  in  the  wall.  Mon- 
sieur looks  in.  Downward  to  the  bottom,  up- 
ward to  the  top,  of  a steep,  dark,  lofty  tower: 
very  dismal,  very  dark,  very  cold.  The  Execu- 
tioner of  the  Inquisition,  says  Goblin,  edging  in 
her  head  to  look  down  also,  flung  those  who 
were  past  all  further  torturing,  down  here. 

“ But  look  ! does  Monsieur  see  the  black  stains 
on  the  wall  ? ” A glance,  over  his  shoulder,  at 
Goblin’s  keen  eye,  shows  Monsieur — and  would, 
without  the  aid  of  the  directing-key — where 
they  are.  “ What  are  they?  ” “ Blood  ! ” 

In  October,  1791,  when  the  Revolution  was  at 
its  height  here,  sixty  persons  ; men  and  women 
(“and  priests,”  says  Goblin,  “priests”),  were 
murdered,  and  hurled,  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
into  this  dreadful  pit,  where  a quantity  of  quick- 
lime was  tumbled  down  upon  their  bodies. 
Those  ghastly  tokens  of  the  massacre  were  soon 
no  more  ; but  while  one  stone  of  the  strong 
building  in  which  the  deed  was  done,  remains 
upon  another,  there  they  will  lie  in  the  memo- 
ries of  men,  as  plain  to  see  as  the  splashing  of 
their  blood  upon  the  wall  is  now. 

Was  it  a portion  of  the  great  scheme  of  Retri- 
bution, that  the  cruel  deed  should  be  committed 
in  this  place  ! That  a part  of  the  atrocities  and 
monstrous  institutions,  which  had  been,  for 
scores  of  years,  at  work,  to  change  men’s  na- 
ture, should,  in  its  last  service,  tempt  them  with 
the  ready  means  of  gratifying  their  furious  and 
beastly  rage  ! Should  enable  them  to  show  them- 
selves, in  the  height  of  their  frenzy,  no  worse 
than  a great,  solemn,  legal  establishment,  in  the 
height  of  its  power!  No  worse  ! Much  better. 
They  used  the  Tower  of  the  Forgotten,  in  the 
name  of  Liberty — their  liberty  ; an  earth-born 
creature,  nursed  in  the  black  mud  of  the  Bastile 
moats  and  dungeons,  and  necessarily  betraying 
many  evidences  of  its  unwholesome  bringing-up 
— but  the  Inquisition  used  it  in  the  name  of 
Heaven. 

Goblin’s  finger  is  lifted  ; and  she  steals  out 


again,  into  the  Chapel  of  the  Holy  Office.  She 
stops  at  a certain  part  of  the  flooring.  Her 
great  effect  is  at  hand.  She  waits  for  the  rest. 
She  darts  at  the  brave  Courier,  who  is  explain- 
ing something  ; hits  him  a sounding  rap  on  the 
hat  with  the  largest  key ; and  bids  him  be  si- 
lent. She  assembles  us  all  round  a little  trap- 
door in  the  floor,  as  round  a grave.  “Voila!” 
she  darts  down  at  the  ring,  and  flings  the  door 
open  with  a crash,  in  her  goblin  energy,  though 
it  is  no  light  weight.  “ Voila  les  oubliettes  ! 
Voila  les  oubliettes  ! Subterranean  ! Frightful ! 
Black  ! Terrible  ! Deadly  ! Les  oubliettes  de 
l’lnquisition  !” 

My  blood  ran  cold,  as  I looked  from  Goblin, 
down  into  the  vaults,  where  these  forgotten 
creatures,  with  recollections  of  the  world  out- 
side— of  wives,  friends,  children,  brothers — 
starved  to  death,  and  made  the  stones  ring  with 
their  unavailing  groans.  But  the.  thrill  I felt  on 
seeing  the  accursed  wall  below,  decayed  and 
broken  through,  and  the  sun  shining  in  through 
its  gaping  wounds,  was  like  a sense  of  victory 
and  triumph.  I felt  exalted  with  the  proud  de- 
light of  living,  in  these  degenerate  times,  to  see 
it.  As  if  I were  the  hero  of  some  high  achieve- 
ment ! The  light  in  the  doleful  vaults  was  typi- 
cal of  the  light  that  has  streamed  in  on  all  per- 
secution in  God’s  name,  but  which  is  not  yet  at 
its  noon  ! It  cannot  look  more  lovely  to  a blind 
man  newly  restored  to  sight,  than  to  a traveller 
who  sees  it,  calmly  and  majestically,  treading 
down  the  darkness  of  that  Infernal  Well. 

Pictures  from  Italy. 

INTELLECT— Blighted  by  cruelty. 

To  prepare  the  mind  for  such  a heavy  sleep, 
its  growth  must  be  stopped  by  rigor  and  cruelty 
in  childhood  ; there  must  be  years  of  misery  and 
suffering,  lightened  by  no  ray  of  hope  ; the 
chords  of  the  heart,  which  beat  a quick  response 
to  the  voice  of  gentleness  and  affection,  must 
have  rusted  and  broken  in  their  secret  places, 
and  bear  the  lingering  echo  of  no  old  word  of 
love  or  kindness.  Gloomy,  indeed,  must  have 
been  the  short  day,  and  dull  the  long,  long  twi- 
light, preceding  such  a night  of  intellect  as  his. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  38. 

INVALID— Philosophy  of  an. 

“ I see  more  of  the  world,  I can  assure  you,” 
said  Mr.  Omer,  “ in  this  chair,  than  ever  I see 
out  of  it.  You’d  be  surprised  at  the  number  of 
people  that  looks  in  of  a day  to  have  a chat. 
You  really  would!  There’s  twice  as  much  in 
the  newspaper,  since  I’ve  taken  to  this  chair,  as 
there  used  to  be.  As  to  general  reading,  dear 
me,  what  a lot  of  it  I do  get  through  ! That’s 
what  I feel  so  strong,  you  know  ! If  it  had  been 
my  eyes,  what  should  I have  done  ? If  it  had 
been  my  ears,  what  should  I have  done  ? Being 
my  limbs,  what  does  it  signify  ? Why,  my  limbs 
only  made  my  breath  shorter  when  I used  ’em. 
And  now,  if  I want  to  go  out  into  the  street  or 
down  to  the  sands,  I’ve  only  got  to  call  Dick, 
Joram’s  youngest  ’prentice,  and  away  I go  in 
my  own  carriage,  like  the  Lord  Mayor  of  Lon- 
don.” 

He  half  suffocated  himself  with  laughing  here. 

“ Lord  bless  you  !”  said  Mr.  Omer,  resuming 
his  pipe,  “ a man  must  take  the  fat  with  the  lean  ; 
that’s  what  he  must  make  up  his  mind  to,  in  this 
life.” — David  Copperfeld , Chap.  51. 


INVALID 


262  INVENTION  AND  DISCOVERY 


INVALID— Tim  Linkin  water’s  friend. 

“ It  is  a good  heart,”  said  Nicholas,  “ that  dis- 
entangles itself  from  the  close  avocations  of 
every  day,  to  heed  such  things.  You  were  say- 
ing-  ” 

“ That  the  flowers  belonged  to  this  poor  boy,” 
said  Tim,  “ that’s  all.  When  it  is  fine  weather, 
and  he  can  crawl  out  of  bed,  he  draws  a chair 
close  to  the  window,  and  sits  there,  looking  at 
them  and  arranging  them,  all  day  long.  We 
used  to  nod,  at  first,  and  then  we  came  to  speak. 
Formerly,  when  I called  to  him,  of  a morning, 
and  asked  him  how  he  was,  he  would  smile,  and 
say,  ‘ better  but  now  he  shakes  his  head,  and 
only  bends  more  closely  over  his  old  plants.  It 
must  be  dull  to  watch  the  dark  house-tops  and 
the  flying  clouds,  for  so  many  months  ; but  he 
is  very  patient.” 

“ Is  there  nobody  in  the  house  to  cheer  or  help 
him?”  asked  Nicholas. 

“His  father  lives  there,  I believe,”  replied 
Tim,  “and  other  people  too  ; but  no  one  seems 
to  care  much  for  the  poor  sickly  cripple.  I have 
asked  him,  very  often,  if  I can  do  nothing  for 
him;  his  answer  is  always  the  same,  ‘Nothing.’ 
His  voice  is  growing  weak  of  late,  but  I can  see 
that  he  makes  the  old  reply.  He  can’t  leave  his 
bed  now,  so  they  have  moved  it  close  beside  the 
window,  and  there  he  lies  all  day  ; now  looking 
at  the  sky,  and  now  at  his  flowers,  which  he  still 
makes  shift  to  trim  and  water,  with  his  own  thin 
hands.  At  night,  when  he  sees  my  candle,  he 
draws  back  his  curtain,  and  leaves  it  so,  till  I am 
in  bed.  It  seems  such  company  to  him  to  know 
that  I am  there,  that  I often  sit  at  my  window 
for  an  hour  or  more,  that  he  may  see  that  I am 
still  awake  ; and  sometimes  I get  up  in  the  night 
to  look  at  the  dull  melancholy  light  in  his  little 
room,  and  wonder  whether  he  is  awake  or  sleep- 
ing- 

“ The  night  will  not  be  long  coming,”  said 
Tim,  “ when  he  will  sleep,  and  never  wake 
again  on  earth.  We  have  never  so  much  as 
shaken  hands  in  all  our  lives,  and  yet  I shall 
miss  him  like  an  old  friend.  Are  there  any 
country  flowers  that  could  interest  me  like  these, 
do  you  think?  Or  do  you  suppose  that  the 
withering  of  a hundred  kinds  of  the  choicest 
flowers  that  blow,  called  by  the  hardest  Latin 
names  that  were  ever  invented,  would  give  me 
one  fraction  of  the  pain  that  I shall  feel  when 
those  old  jugs  and  bottles  are  swept  away  as 
lumber!  Country!”  cried  Tim,  with  a con- 
temptuous emphasis;  “don’t  you  know  that  I 
couldn’t  have  such  a court  under  my  bed-room 
window,  anywhere,  but  in  London  ? ” 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  40. 

INVALIDS— Their  reveries. 

Morning,  noon,  and  night,  morning,  noon, 
and  night,  each  recurring  with  its  accompanying 
monotony,  always  the  same  reluctant  return  of 
the  same  sequences  of  machinery,  like  a drag- 
ging piece  of  clock-work. 

The  wheeled  chair  had  its  associated  remem- 
brances and  reveries,  one  may  suppose,  as  every 
place  that  is  made  the  station  of  a human  being 
has.  Pictures  of  demolished  streets  and  altered 
houses,  as  they  formerly  were  when  the  occu- 
pant of  the  chair  was  familiar  with  them  ; images 
of  people  as  they  too  used  to  be,  with  little  or  no 
allowance  made  for  the  lapse  of  time  since  they 
were  seen  ; of  these,  there  .must  have  been 


many  in  the  long  routine  of  gloomy  days.  To 
stop  the  clock  of  busy  existence,  at  the  hour 
when  we  were  personally  sequestered  from  it  ; 
to  suppose  mankind  stricken  motionless,  when 
we  were  brought  to  a stand-still  ; to  be  unable 
to  measure  the  changes  beyond  our  view,  by 
any  larger  standard  than  the  shrunken  one  of 
our  own  uniform  and  contracted  existence,  is 
the  infirmity  of  many  invalids,  and  the  mental 
unhealthiness  of  almost  all  recluses. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  29. 

ITALY-  Its  lessons  to  the  world. 

What  light  is  shed  upon  the  world,  at  this 
day,  from  amidst  these  rugged  Palaces  of  Flor- 
ence ! Here,  open  tcf  all  comers,  in  their  beau- 
tiful and  calm  retreats,  the  ancient  Sculptors 
are  immortal,  side  by  side  with  Michael  Angelo, 
Canova,  Titian,  Rembrandt,  Raphael,  Poets, 
Historians,  Philosophers — those  illustrious  men 
of  history,  beside  whom  its  crowned  heads  and 
harnessed  warriors  show  so  poor  and  small,  and 
are  so  soon  forgotten.  Here,  the  imperishable 
part  of  noble  minds  survives,  placid  and  equal, 
when  strongholds  of  assault  and  defence  are 
overthrown  ; when  the  tyranny  of  the  many,  or 
the  few,  or  both,  is  but  a tale  ; when  Pride  and 
Power  are  so  much  cloistered  dust.  The  fire 
within  the  stern  streets,  and  among  the  massive 
Palaces  and  Towers,  kindled  by  rays  from 
Heaven,  is  still  burning  brightly,  when  the  flick- 
ering of  war  is  extinguished  and  the  household 
fires  of  generations  have  decayed  ; as  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  faces,  rigid  with  the  strife 
and  passion  of  the  hour,  have  faded  out  of  the 
old  Squares  and  public  haunts,  while  the  name- 
less Florentine  Lady,  preserved  from  oblivion 
by  a Painter’s  hand,  yet  lives  on,  in  enduring 
grace  and  youth. 

***** 

And  let-  us  not  remember  Italy  the  less  re- 
gardfully,  because,  in  every  fragment  of  her 
fallen  Temples,  and  every  stone  of  her  deserted 
palaces  and  prisons,  she  helps  to  inculcate  the 
lesson  that  the  wheel  of  Time  is  rolling  for  an 
end,  and  that  the  world  is,  in  all  great  essentials, 
better,  gentler,  more  forbearing,  and  more 
hopeful,  as  it  rolls  ! — Pictures  from  Italy. 

INVENTION  AND  DISCOVERY-The  men- 
tal property  in. 

And  so  at  home  he  had  established  himself  in 
business,  and  had  invented  and  executed,  and 
worked  his  way  on,  until,  after  a dozen  years  of 
constant  suit  and  service,  he  had  been  enrolled 
in  the  Great  British  Legion  of  Honor,  the  Legion 
of  the  Rebuffed  of  the  Circumlocution  Office, 
and  had  been  decorated  with  the  Great  British 
Order  of  Merit,  the  Order  of  the  Disorder  of 
the  Barnacles  and  Stiltstalkings. 

“It  is  much  to  be  regretted,” said  Clennam, 
“ that  you  ever  turned  your  thoughts  that  way, 
Mr.  Doyce.” 

“ True,  sir,  true  to  a certain  extent.  But 
what  is  a man  to  do?  If  he  has  the  misfortune 
to  strike  out  something  serviceable  to  the  nation, 
he  must  follow  where  it  leads  him.” 

“ Hadn't  he  better  let  it  go  ? ” asked  Clen- 
nam. 

“ He  can’t  do  it,”  said  Doyce,  shaking  his  head 
with  a thoughtful  smile.  “ It’s  not  put  into  his 
head  to  be  buried  ; it’s  put  into  his  head  to  be 
made  useful.  You  hold  your  life  on  the  cmdi- 


INVENTORS 


253 


JEALOUSY 


tion  that  to  the  last  you  shall  struggle  hard  for 
it.  Every  man  holds  a discovery  on  the  same 
terms.” 

* * * * * 

A composed  and  unobtrusive  self-sustainment 
was  noticeable  in  Daniel  Doyce — a calm  know- 
ledge that  what  was  true  must  remain  true,  in 
spite  of  all  the  Barnacles  in  the  family  ocean,  and 
would  be  just  the  truth,  and  neither  more  nor 
less,  when  even  that  sea  had  run  dry — which 
had  a kind  of  greatness  in  it,  though  not  of  the 
official  quality. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  16. 

INVENTORS— Their  encouragement  by  bar- 
baric powers. 

A certain  barbaric  Power,  with  valuable  pos- 
sessions on  the  map  of  the  world,  had  occasion 
for  the  services  of  one  or  two  engineers,  quick 
in  invention  and  determined  in  execution  ; prac- 
tical men,  who  could  make  the  men  and  means 
their  ingenuity  perceived  to  be  wanted,  out  of 
the  best  materials  they  could  find  at  hand  ; and 
who  were  as  bold  and  fertile  in  the  adaptation 
of  such  materials  to  their  purpose,  as  in  the  con- 
ception of  their  purpose  itself.  This  Power, 
being  a barbaric  one,  had  no  idea  of  stowing 
away  a great  national  object  in  a Circumlocution 
Office,  as  strong  wine  is  hidden  from  the  light 
in  a cellar,  until  its  fire  and  youth  are  gone,  and 
the  laborers  who  worked  in  the  vineyard  and 
pressed  the  grapes  are  dust.  With  characteris- 
tic ignorance,  it  acted  on  the  most  decided  and 
energetic  notions  of  How  to  do  it ; and  never 
showed  the  least  respect  for,  or  gave  any  quarter 
to,  the  great  political  science  How  not  to  do  it. 
Indeed,  it  had  a barbarous  way  of  striking  the 
latter  art  and  mystery  dead,  in  the  person  of 
any  enlightened  subject  who  practised  it. 

Accordingly,  the  men  who  were  wanted,  were 
sought  out  and  found  ; which  was  in  itself  a 
most  uncivilized  and  irregular  way  of  proceed- 
ing. Being  found,  they  were  treated  with  great 
confidence  and  honor  (which  again  showed  dense 
political  ignorance),  and  were  invited  to  come  at 
once  and  do  what  they  had  to  do.  In  short, 
they  were  regarded  as  men  who  meant  to  do 
it,  engaging  with  other  men  Who  meant  it  to  be 
done. — Little  Dorrit , Book  LI.,  Chap.  22. 

INVENTOR— Character  of  Daniel  Doyce. 

He  had  the  power  often  to  be  found  in  union 
with  such  a character,  of  explaining  what  he  him- 
self perceived  and  meant,  with  the  direct  force 
and  distinctness  with  which  it  struck  his  own 
mind.  His  manner  of  demonstration  was  so  or- 
derly and  neat  and  simple,  that  it  was  not  easy  to 
mistake  him.  There  was  something  almost  ludi- 
crous in  the  complete  irreconcilability  of  a vague 
conventional  notion  that  he  must  be  a visionary 
man,  with  the  precise,  sagacious  travelling  of 
his  eye  and  thumb  over  the  plans,  their  patient 
stoppages  at  particular  points,  their  careful  re- 
turns to  other  points  whence  little  channels  of 
explanation  had  to  be  traced  up,  and  his  steady 
manner  of  making  everything  good  and  every- 
thing sound,  at  each  important  stage,  before 
taking  his  hearer  on  a line’s  breadth  further. 
His  dismissal  of  himself  from  his  description, 
was  hardly  less  remarkable.  He  never  said,  I 
discovered  this  adaptation  or  invented  that  com- 
bination ; but  showed  the  whole  thing  as  if  the 
Divine  artificer  had  made  it,  and  he  had  hap- 


pened to  find  it.  So  modest  he  was  about  it, 
such  a pleasant  touch  of  respect  was  mingled 
with  his  quiet  admiration  of  it,  and  so  calmly 
convinced  he  was  that  it  was  established  on 
irrefragable  laws. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  8. 

IVY  GREEN-The. 

Oh,  a dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepetn  o’er  ruins  old  I 

Or  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 

The  wall  must  be  crumbled,  the  stone  decayed, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim  : 

And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made 
Is  a merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 

A rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no  wings, 

And  a staunch  old  heart  has  he. 

How  closely  he  tvvineth,  how  tight  he  clings, 

To  his  friend  the  huge  Oak  Tree  ! 

And  slily  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  lie  gently  waves, 

As  he  joyously  hugs  and  crawleth  round 
The  rich  mould  of  dead  men’s  graves. 

Creeping  where  grim  deaih  has  been, 

A rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled  and  their  works  decayed, 

And  nations  have  scattered  been  ; 

But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade, 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 

The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days, 

Shall  fasten  upon  the  past: 

For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise, 

Is  the  Ivy’s  food  at  last. 

Creeping  on,  where  time  has  been, 

A rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Pickwick , Chap.  6. 


• *- 


J 

JEALOUSY— Of  Mrs.  Snag-sby. 

These  various  signs  and  tokens,  marked  by 
the  little  woman,  are  not  lost  upon  her.  They 
impel  her  to  say,  “ Snagsby  has  something  on 
his  mind  ! ” And  thus  suspicion  gets  into 
Cook’s  Court,  Cursitor  Street.  From  suspicion 
to  jealousy,  Mrs.  Snagsby  finds  the  road  as  nat- 
ural and  short  as  from  Cook’s  Court  to  Chancery 
Lane.  And  thus  jealousy  gets  into  Cook’s 
Court,  Cursitor  Street.  Once  there  (and  it  was 
always  lurking  thereabout),  it  is  very  active  and 
nimble  in  Mrs.  Snagsby’s  breast — prompting  her 
to  nocturnal  examinations  of  Mr.  Snagsby  s 
pockets  ; to  secret  perusals  of  Mr.  Snagsby’s 
letters  ; to  private  researches  in  the  Day-Book 
and  Ledger,  till,  cash-box,  and  iron  safe  ; to 
watchings  at  windows,  listenings  behind  doors, 
and  a general  putting  of  this  and  that  together 
by  the  wrong  end. 

Mrs.  Snagsby  is  so  perpetually  on  the  alert, 
that  the  house  becomes  ghostly  with  creaking 
boards  and  rustling  garments.  The  'prentices 
think  somebody  may  have  been  murdered 
there,  in  bygone  times.  Guster  holds  certain 
loose  atoms  of  an  idea  (picked  up  at  Tooling, 
where  they  were  found  floating  among  the  or- 
phans), that  there  is  buried  money  underneath 
the  cellar,  guarded  by  an  old  man  with  a white 
beard,  who  cannot  get  out  for  seven  thousand 
years,  because  he  said  the  Lord's  Prayer  back- 
wards.— Bleak  House,  Chap.  25. 


JEWS 


254 


KETTLE  AND  CRICKET 


JEWS— Injustice  to  the. 

“ It  is  not,  in  Christian  countries,  with  the 
Jews  as  with  other  peoples.  Men  say,  ‘ This  is 
a bad  Greek,  but  there  are  good  Greeks.  This 
is  a bad  Turk,  but  there  are  good  Turks.’  Not 
so  with  the  Jews.  Men  find  the  bad  among  us 
easily  enough — among  what  peoples  are  the 
bad  not  easily  found  ? — but  they  take  the  worst 
of  us  as  samples  of  the  best  ; they  take  the  low- 
est of  us  as  presentations  of  the  highest ; and 
they  say  1 All  Jews  are  alike.’  If,  doing  what  I 
was  content  to  do  here,  because  I was  grateful 
for  the  past  and  have  small  need  of  money  now, 
I had  been  a Christian,  I could  have  done  it, 
compromising  no  one  but  my  individual  self. 
But  doing  it  as  a Jew,  I could  not  choose  but 
compromise  the  Jews  of  all  conditions  and  all 
countries.  It  is  a little  hard  upon  us,  but  it  is 
the  truth.  I would  that  all  our  people  remem- 
bered it  ! ” 

Riah,  in  Our  Mutual  Friend ',  Book  IV.,  Chap.  g. 

JOKES— Upon  public  men. 

“George,”  rejoined  Mr.  Kenwigs,  “a  joke  is 
a wery  good  thing — a wery  good  thing — but 
when  that  joke  is  made  at  the  expense  of  Mrs. 
Kenwigs’s  feelings,  I set  my  face  against  it.  A 
man  in  public  life  expects  to  be  sneered  at — 
it  is  the  fault  of  his  elewated  sitiwation,  and 
not  of  himself.” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  14. 

JURY. 

The  whole  jury  was  as  a jury  of  dogs  empan- 
elled to  try  the  deer. 

Tale  of  Tzvo  Cities , Book  III.,  Chap.  9. 

JUSTICE— In  America. 

Poor  Justice!  sh.e  has  been  made  to  \*ear 
much  stranger  garments  in  America  than  those 
she  pines  in,  in  the  Capitol.  Let  us  hope  that 
she  has  changed  her  dress-maker  since  they 
were  fashioned,  and  that  the  public  sentiment 
of  the  country  did  not  cut  out  the  clothes  she 
hides  her  lovely  figure  in  just  now. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  8. 

JUDGES  OF  HORSEFLESH  - Judges  of 
anything. 

“ As  four  heads  is  better  than  two,  Sammy,” 
said  Mr.  Weller,  as  they  drove  along  the  Lon- 
don Road  in  the  chaise  cart,  “ and  as  all  this 
here  property  is  a wery  great  temptation  to  a 
legal  gen’l’m’n,  ve’ll  take  a couple  o’  friends  o’ 
mine  vith  us,  as  ’ll  be  wery  soon  down  upon  him 
if  he  comes  anythin’  irreg’lar ; two  o’  them  as 
saw  you  to  the  Fleet  that  day.  They’re  the 
wery  best  judges,”  added  Mr.  Weller  in  a half 
whisper,  “ the  wery  best  judges  of  a horse  you 
ever  know’d.” 

“ And  of  a lawyer  too?  ” inquired  Sam. 

“ The  man  as  can  form  a ackerate  judgment 
of  a animal,  can  form  a ackerate  judgment  of 
anythin’,”  replied  his  father;  so  dogmatically, 
that  Sam  did  not  attempt  to  controvert  the  posi- 
tion.— Pickwick,  Chap.  55. 

JURIES  Bumble’s  opinion  of. 

“ The  jury  brought  it  in,  ‘ Died  from  exposure 
to  the  cold,  and  want  of  the  common  necessa- 
ries of  life,'  didn’t  they?” 

Mr.  Bumble  nodded. 

“ And  they  made  it  a special  verdict,  I think,” 
said  the  undertaker,  “ by  adding  some  words  to 


the  effect,  that  if  the  relieving  officer  had — " 

“Tush!  Foolery!”  interposed  the  beadle. 
“ If  the  board  attended  to  all  the  nonsense  that 
ignorant  jurymen  talk,  they’d  have  enough  to 
do.” 

“ Very  true,"  said  the  undertaker ; “ they 
would  indeed.” 

“Juries,”  said  Mr.  Bumble,  grasping  his  cane 
tightly,  as  was  his  wont  when  working  into  a 
passion:  “juries  is  ineddicated,  vulgar,  grovel- 
ling wretches.” 

“ So  they  are,”  said  the  undertaker. 

“ They  haven’t  no  more  philosophy  nor  po- 
litical economy  about  ’em  than  that,”  said  the 
beadle,  snapping  his  fingers  contemptuously. 

“No  more  they  have,”  acquiesced  the  under- 
taker. 

“ I despise  ’em,”  said  the  beadle,  growing  very 
red  in  the  face. 

“So  do  I,”  rejoined  the  undertaker. 

“And  I only  wish  we’d  a jury  of  the  inde- 
pendent sort,  in  the  house  for  a week  or  two,” 
said  the  beadle  ; “ the  rules  and  regulations  of 
the  board  would  soon  bring  their  sj)irit  down 
for  ’em.” — Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  4. 

JURYMEN— Hungry. 

“ Highly  important ; very  important,  my  dear 
sir,”  replied  Perker.  “ A good,  contented,  well- 
breakfasted  juryman,  is  a capital  thing  to  get 
hold  of.  Discontented  or  hungry  jurymen,  my 
dear  sir,  always  find  for  the  plaintiff.” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  34. 


K 

KETTLE— An  aggravating-. 

Besides,  the  kettle  was  aggravating  and  ob- 
stinate. It  wouldn’t  allow  itself  to  be  adjusted 
on  the  top  bar ; it  wouldn’t  hear  of  accommo- 
dating itself  kindly’  to  the  knobs  of  coal ; it 
'would  lean  forward  with  a drunken  air,  and 
dribble,  a very  Idiot  of  a kettle,  on  the  hearth. 
It  was  quarrelsome,  and  hissed  and  spluttered 
morosely  at  the  fire.  To  sum  up  all,  the  lid, 
resisting  Mrs.  Peerybingle’s  fingers,  first  of  all 
turned  topsy-turvy,  and  then,  with  an  ingenious 
pertinacity  deserving  of  a better  cause,  dived 
sideways  in — down  to  the  very  bottom  of  the 
kettle.  And  the  hull  of  the  Royal  George  has 
never  made  half  the  monstrous  resistance  to 
coming  out  of  the  water,  which  the  lid  of  that 
kettle  employed  against  Mrs.  Peerybingle,  be- 
fore she  got  it  up  again. 

It  looked  sullen  and  pig-headed  enough,  even 
then  ; carrying  its  handle  with  an  air  of  defiance, 
and  cocking  its  spout  pertly  and  mockingly  at 
Mrs.  Peerybingle,  as  if  it  said,  “1  won’t  boil. 
Nothing  shall  induce  me  ! ” 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  1. 

KETTLE  AND  CRICKET  — The  music  of 
the. 

The  Cricket  and  the  kettle  were  still  keeping 
it  up,  with  a perfect  fury  of  competition.  The 
kettle’s  weak  side  clearly  being,  that  he  didn’t 
know  when  he  was  beat. 


KETTLE 


255 


KISSING 


There  was  all  the  excitement  of  a race  about 
it.  Chirp,  chirp,  chirp  ! Cricket  a mile  ahead. 
Hum,  hum,  hum — m — m ! Kettle  making  play 
in  the  distance,  like  a great  top.  Chirp,  chirp, 
chirp  ! Criclfet  round  the  corner.  Hum,  hum, 
hum — m — m!  Kettle . sticking  to  him  in  his 
own  way : no  idea  of  giving  in.  Chirp,  chirp, 
chirp  ! Cricket  fresher  than  ever.  Hum,  hum, 
hum — m — m ! Kettle  slow  and  steady.  Chirp, 
chirp,  chirp  ! Cricket  going  in  to  finish  him. 
Hum,  hum,  hum — m — m — ! Kettle  not  to  be 
finished.  Until  at  last,  they  got  so  jumbled 
together,  in  the  hurry-skurry,  helter-skelter,  of 
the  match,  that  whether  the  kettle  chirped  and 
the  Cricket  hummed,  or  the  Cricket  chirped  and 
the  kettle  hummed,  or  they  both  chirped  and 
both  hummed,  it  would  have  taken  a clearer 
head  than  yours  or  mine  to  have  decided  with 
anything  like  certainty.  But,  of  this  there  is  no 
doubt : that  the  kettle  and  the  Cricket,  at  one 
and  the  same  moment,  and  by  some  power  of 
amalgamation  best  known  to  themselves,  sent, 
each,  his  fireside  song  of  comfort  streaming  into 
a ray  of  the  candle  that  shone  out  through  the 
window,  and  a long  way  down  the  lane.  And 
this  light,  bursting  on  a certain  person  who,  on 
the  instant,  approached  towards  it  through  the 
gloom,  expressed  the  whole  thing  to  him,  liter- 
ally in  a twinkling,  and  cried,  “Welcome  home, 
old  fellow  ! Welcome  home,  my  boy  ! ” 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  I. 

KETTLE— Boiling-  a. 

Having  deposited  my  brown  beauty  in  a red 
nook  of  the  hearth,  inside  the  fender,  where  she 
soon  began  to  sing  like  an  ethereal  cricket,  dif- 
fusing at  the  same  time  odors  as  of  ripe  vine- 
yards,  spice  forests,  and  orange  groves, — I say, 
having  stationed  my  beauty  in  a place  of  secu- 
rity and  improvement,  I introduced  myself  to 
my  guests  by  shaking  hands  all  round,  and  giving 
them  a hearty  welcome. 

Seven  Poor  Travellers. 

KETTLE-The  song-  of  the. 

Now  it  was,  you  observe,  that  the  kettle  began 
to  spend  the  evening.  Now  it  was,  that  the  ket- 
tle, growing  mellow  and  musical,  began  to  have 
irrepressible  gurglings  in  its  throat,  and  to  in- 
dulge in  short  vocal  shorts,  which  it  checked  in 
the  bud,  as  if  it  hadn’t  quite  made  up  its  mind 
yet,  to  be  good  company.  Now  it  was,  that  after 
two  or  three  such  vain  attempts  to  stifle  its  con- 
vivial sentiments,  it  threw  off  all  moroseness, 
all  reserve,  and  burst  into  a stream  of  song  so 
cosy  and  hilarious,  as  never  maudlin  nightingale 
yet  formed  the  least  idea  of. 

So  plain,  too  ! Bless  you,  you  might  have  un- 
derstood it  like  a book — better  than  some  books 
you  and  I could  name,  perhaps.  With  its  warm 
breath  gushing  forth  in  a light  cloud  which  mer- 
rily and  gracefully  ascended  a few  feet,  then 
hung  about  the  chimney-corner  as  its  own 
domestic  Heaven,  it  trolled  its  song  with  that 
strong  energy  of  cheerfulness,  that  its  iron  body 
hummed  and  stirred  upon  the  fire  ; and  the  lid 
itself,  the  recent  rebellious  lid — such  is  the  in- 
fluence of  a bright  example — performed  a sort 
of  jig,  and  clattered  like  a deaf  and  dumb  young 
cymbal  that  had  never  known  the  use  of  its 
twin  brother. 

That  this  song  of  the  kettle’s  was  a song  of 
invitation  and  welcome  to  somebody  out  of 


doors  : to  somebody  at  that  moment  coming 
on,  towards  the  snug  small  home  and  the  crisp 
fire  : there  is  no  doubt  whatever.  Mrs.  Peery- 
bingle  knew  it  perfectly,  as  she  sat  musing  be- 
fore the  hearth.  It’s  a dark  night,  sang  the  ket- 
tle, and  the  rotten  leaves  are  lying  by  the  way, 
and  above,  all  is  mist  and  darkness,  and  below, 
all  is  mire  and  clay  ; and  there’s  only  one  relief 
in  all  the  sad  and  murky  air ; and  I don’t  know 
that  it  is  one,  for  it’s  nothing  but  a glare  ; of 
deep  and  angry  crimson,  where  the  sun  and  wind 
together  ; set  a brand  upon  the  clouds  for  being 
guilty  of  such  weather  ; and-the  widest  open 
country  is  a long,  dull  streak  of  black  ; and 
there’s  hoar-frost  on  the  finger-post,  and  thaw 
upon  the  track  ; and  the  ice  it  isn’t  water,  and 
the  water  isn’t  free  ; and  you  couldn’t  say  that 
anything  is  what  it  ought  to  be  ; but  he’s  com- 
ing, coming,  coming  ! 

And  here,  if  you  like,  the  Cricket  did  chime 
in  1 with  a Chirrup,  Chirrup,  Chirrup,  of  such 
magnitude,  by  way  of  chorus  ; with  a voice  so 
astoundingly  disproportionate  to  its  size,  as  com- 
pared with  the  kettle  (size  ! you  couldn’t  see  it !), 
that  if  it  had  then  and  there  burst  itself  like  an 
over-charged  gun,  if  it  had  fallen  a victim  on 
the  spot,  and  chirruped  its  little  body  into  fifty 
pieces,  it  would  have  seemed  a natural  and  in- 
evitable consequence,  for  which  it  had  expressly 
labored. 

The  kettle  had  had  the  last  of  its  solo  per- 
formance. It  persevered  with  undiminished 
ardor:  but  the  Cricket  took  first  fiddle  and 
kept  it.  Good  Heaven,  how  it  chirped  ! Its 
shrill,  sharp,  piercing  voice  resounded  through 
the  house,  and  seemed  to  twinkle  in  the  outer 
darkness  like  a star.  There  was  an  indescrib- 
able little  trill  and  tremble  in  it  at  its  loudest, 
which  suggested  its  being  carried  off  its  legs, 
and  made  to  leap  again,  by  its  own  intense  en- 
thusiasm. Yet  they  went  very  well  together,  the 
Cricket  and  the  kettle.  The  burden  of  the  song 
was  still  the  same  ; and  louder,  louder,  louder 
still,  they  sang  it  in  their  emulation. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  i. 

KISSES-Lips  and. 

“The  young  lady  put  up  her  hand  as  if  to 
caution  my  uncle  not  to  do  so,  and  said — no, 
she  didn’t  say  anything — she  smiled.  When 
you  are  looking  at  a pair  of  the  most  delicious 
lips  in  the  world,  and  see  them  gently  break  in- 
to a roguish  smile — if  you  are  very  near  them, 
and  nobody  else  by — you  cannot  better  testify 
your  admiration  of  their  beautiful  form  and 
color  than  by  kissing  them  at  once.  My  uncle 
did  so,  and  1 honor  him  for  it.” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  49. 

KISSING— Mark  Tapley’s  foreig-n  manner. 

“ When  I first  caught  sight  of  the  church  to- 
night, I thought  the  steeple  would  have  choked 
me,  I did.  One  more!  Won’t  you?  Not  a 
very  little  one,  to  finish  off  with  ? ” 

“You  have  had  plenty,  I am  sure,”  said  the 
hostess.  “ Go  along  with  your  foreign  man- 
ners ! ” 

“ That  ain’t  foreign,  bless  you  ! ” cried  Mark. 
“ Native  as  oysters,  that  is  ! One  more,  because 
it’s  native  ! As  a mark  of  respect  for  the  land 
we  live  in  ! This  don’t  count  as  between  you 
and  me,  you  understand,”  said  Mr.  Tapley.  “ I 
i ain’t  a kissing  you  now,  you’ll  observe.  I have 


KISS 


250 


LANDLORD 


been  among  the  patriots!  I’m  a kissin’  my 
country  ! ” — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  43. 

KISS— A.  cold. 

She  gave  me  one  cold  parting  kiss  upon  my 
forehead,  like  a thaw-drop  from  the  stone  porch. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  3. 

KITCHEN— Of  Clemency  Newcome. 

Clemency  Newcome,  in  the  meantime,  having 
accomplished  her  mission  and  lingered  in  the 
room  until  she  had  made  herself  a party  to  the 
news,  descended  to  the  kitchen,  where  her  coad- 
jutor, Mr.  Britain,  was  regaling  after  supper,  sur- 
rounded by  such  a plentiful  collection  of  bright 
pot-lids,  well-scoured  saucepans,  burnished  din- 
ner covers,  gleaming  kettles,  and  other  tokens  of 
her  industrious  habits,  arranged  upon  the  walls 
and  shelves,  that  he  sat  as  in  the  centre  of  a hall 
of  mirrors.  The  majority  did  not  give  forth  very 
flattering  portraits  of  him,  certainly  ; nor  were 
they  by  any  means  unanimous  in  their  reflec- 
tions ; as  some  made  him  very  long-faced,  others 
very  broad-faced,  some  tolerably  well-looking, 
others  vastly  ill-looking,  according  to  their  sev- 
eral manners  of  reflecting:  which  were  as  vari- 
ous, in  respect  of  one  fact,  as  those  of  so  many 
kinds  of  men.  But  they  all  agreed  that  in  the 
midst  of  them  sat,  quite  at  his  ease,  an  individual 
with  a pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a jug  of  beer  at 
his  elbow,  who  nodded  condescendingly  to 
Clemency,  when  she  stationed  herself  at  the 
same  table. — Battle  of  Life , Chap.  2. 

KITE— Mr.  Dick  and  his  dissemination  of 

facts. 

It  was  quite  an  affecting  sight,  I used  to  think, 
to  see  him  with  the  kite  when  it  was  up  a great 
height  in  the  air.  What  he  had  told  me,  in  his 
room,  about  his  belief  in  its  disseminating  the 
statements  pasted  on  it,  which  were  nothing  but 
old  leaves  of  abortive  Memorials,  might  have 
been  a fancy  with  him  sometimes ; but  not 
when  he  was  out,  looking  up  at  the  kite  in  the 
sky,  and  feeling  it  pull  and  tug  at  his  hand.  He 
never  looked  so  serene  as  he  did  then.  I used 
to  fancy,  as  I sat  by  him  of  an  evening,  on  a 
green  slope,  and  saw  him  watch  the  kite  high  in 
the  quiet  air,  that  it  lifted  his  mind  out  of  its 
confusion,  and  bore  it  (such  was  my  boyish 
thought)  into  the  skies.  As  he  wound  the  string 
in,  and  it  came  lower  and  lower  down  out  of  the 
beautiful  light,  until  it  fluttered  to  the  ground, 
and  lay  there  like  a dead  thing,  he  seemed  to 
wake  gradually  out  of  a dream  ; and  I -remem- 
ber to  have  seen  him  take  it  up,  and  look  about 
him  in  a lost  way,  as  if  they  had  both  come 
down  together,  so  that  I pitied  him  with  all  my 
heart. — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  15. 

KNITTING. 

She  sat  there,  plying  her  knitting-needles  as 
monotonously  as  an  hour-glass  might  have 
poured  out  its  sands.  What  the  knitting  was,  I 
don’t  know,  not  being  learned  in  that  art;  but 
it  looked  like  a net : and  as  she  worked  away 
with  those  Chinese  chopsticks  of  knitting- 
needles,  she  showed  in  the  firelight  like  an  ill- 
looking  enchantress,  baulked  as  yet  by  the  ra- 
diant goodness  opposite,  but  getting  ready  for  a 
cast  of  her  net  by-and-by. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  39. 


L 

LABOR  The  evil  of  English. 

“ I don’t  understand,  and  I^im  not  under- 
stood. What  is  to  come  of  such  a state  of 
things!” 

He  was  bending  over  his  work,  often  asking 
himself  the  question,  when  the  news  began  to 
spread  that  a pestilence  had  appeared  among  the 
laborers,  and  was  slaying  them  by  thousands. 
Going  forth  to  look  about  him,  he  soon  found 
this  to  be  true.  The  dying  and  the  dead  were 
mingled  in  the  close  and  tainted  houses  among 
which  his  life  was  passed.  New  poison  was 
distilled  into  the  always  murky,  always  sicken- 
ing air.  The  robust  and  the  weak,  old  age  and 
infancy,  the  father  and  the  mother,  all  were 
stricken  down  alike. 

What  means  of  flight  had  he?  He  remained 
there,  where  he  was,  and  saw  those  who  were 
dearest  to  him  die.  A kind  preacher  came  to 
him,  and  would  have  said  some  prayers  to  soften 
his  heart  in  his  gloom,  but  he  replied  : 

“ O what  avails  it,  missionary,  to  come  to  me, 
a man  condemned  to  residence  in  this  foetid 
place,  where  every  sense  bestowed  upon  me  for 
my  delight  becomes  a torment,  and  where  every 
minute  of  my  numbered  days  is  new  mire  added 
to  the  heap  under  which  I lie  oppressed  ! But, 
give  me  my  first  glimpse  of  Heaven,  through  a lit- 
tle of  its  light  and  air  ; give  me  pure  water  ; help 
me  to  be  clean  ; lighten  this  heavy  atmosphere 
and  heavy  life,  in  which  our  spirits  sink,  and  we 
become  the  indifferent  and  callous  creatures  you 
too  often  see  us;  gently  and  kindly  take  the 
bodies  of  those  who  die  among  us,  out  of  the 
small  room  where  we  grow  to  be  so  familiar 
with  the  awful  change  that  even  its  sanctity  is 
lost  to  us  ; and,  Teacher,  then  I will  hear — none 
know  better  than  you,  how  willingly — of  Him 
whose  thoughts  were  so  much  with  the  poor,  and 
who  had  compassion  for  all  human  sorrow  ! ” 
Nobody's  Story.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

LAMP. 

A club-headed  little  oil  wick,  dying  away  in  a 
little  dungeon  of  dirty  glass. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  59. 

LANDLORD-A  New  England. 

Our  host,  who  was  veiy  attentive  and  anxious 
to  make  us  comfortable,  was  a handsome  middle- 
aged  man,  who  had  come  to  this  town  from 
New  England,  in  which  part  of  the  country  he 
was  “ raised.”  When  I say  that  he  constantly 
walked  in  and  out  of  the  room  with  his  hat  on, 
and  stopped  to  converse  in  the  same  free-and- 
easy  state,  and  lay  down  on  our  sofa,  and  pulled 
his  newspaper  out  of  his  pocket,  and  read  it  at 
his  ease,  I merely  mention  these  traits  as  charac- 
teristic of  the  country, — not  at  all  as  being  mat- 
ter of  complaint,  or  as  having  been  disagreeable 
to  me.  I should  undoubtedly  be  offended  by 
such  proceedings  at  home,  because  there  they 
are  not  the  custom,  and  where  they  are  not, 
they  would  be  impertinences  ; but  in  America, 
the  only  desire  of  a good-natured  fellow  of  this 
kind  is  to  treat  his  guests  hospitably  and  well  ; 
and  I had  no  more  right,  and,  I can  truly  say, 
no  more  disposition,  to  measure  his  conduct  by 
our  English  rule  and  standard,  than  I had  to 
quarrel  with  him  for  not  being  of  the  exact 


LANDLORD 


257 


LANDLORD 


stature  which  would  qualify  him  for  admission 
into  the  Queen’s  grenadier  guards.  As  little 
inclination  had  I to  find  fault  with  a funny  old 
lady,  who  was  an  upper  domestic  in  this  estab- 
lishment, and  who,  when  she  came  to  wait  upon 
us  at  any  meal,  sat  herself  down  comfortably  in 
the  most  convenient  chair,  and,  producing  a 
large  pin  to  pick  her  teeth  with,  remained  per- 
forming that  ceremony,  and  steadfastly  regarding 
us  meanwhile  with  much  gravity  and  composure 
(now  and  then  pressing  us  to  eat  a little  more), 
until  it  was  time  to  clear  away.  It  was  enough 
for  us,  that  whatever  we  wished  done  was  done 
with  great  civility  and  readiness,  and  a desire 
to  oblige,  not  only  here,  but  everywhere  else  ; 
and  that  all  our  wants  were,  in  general,  zeal- 
ously anticipated. — American  Notes , Chap.  14. 

LANDLORD-John  Willet,  the. 

The  sturdy  landlord  had  a large  pair  of  dull, 
fish-like  eyes,  and  the  little  man  who  had  haz- 
arded the  remark  about  the  moon  (and  who  was 
the  parish  clerk  and  bell-ringer  of  Chigwell,  a 
village  hard  by)  had  little  round  black  shiny 
eyes  like  beads  ; moreover,  this  little  man  wore, 
at  the  knees  of  his  rusty  black  breeches,  and  on 
his  rusty  black  coat,  and  all  down  his  long  flap- 
ped waistcoat,  little  queer  buttons  like  nothing 
except  his  eyes  ; but  so  like  them,  that  as  they 
twinkled  and  glistened  in  the  light  of  the  fire, 
which  shone,  too,  in  his  bright  shoe-buckles,  he 
seemed  all  eyes,  from  head  to  foot,  and  to  be  gaz- 
ing with  every  one  of  them  at  the  unknown 
customer.  No  wonder  that  a man  should  grow 
restless  under  such  an  inspection  as  this,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  eyes  belonging  to  short  Tom 
Cobb,  the  general  chandler  and  post-office 
keeper,  and  long  Phil  Parlces,  the  ranger,  both 
of  whom,  infected  by  the  example  of  their  com- 
panions, regarded  him  of  the  flapped  hat  no 
less  attentively. — Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  1. 

LANDLORD— Pancks  and  the. 

‘ Mr.  Pancks,”  was  the  Patriarchal  remark, 
“you  have  been  remiss,  you  have  been  remiss,  sir.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? ” was  the  short 
rejoinder. 

The  Patriarchal  state,  always  a state  of  calm- 
ness and  composure,  was  so  particularly  serene 
that  evening  as  to  be  provoking.  Everybody 
else  within  the  bills  of  mortality  was  hot ; but  the 
Patriarch  was  perfectly  cool.  Everybody  was 
thirsty,  and  the  Patriarch  was  drinking.  There 
was  a fragrance  of  limes  or  lemons  about  him ; 
and  he  had  made  a drink  of  golden  sherry, 
which  shone  in  a large  tumbler,  as  if  he  were 
drinking  the  evening  sunshine.  This  was  bad, 
but  not  the  w'orst.  The  worst  was,  that  with 
his  big  blue  eyes,  and  his  polished  head,  and  his 
long  white  hair,  and  his  bottle-green  legs 
stretched  out  before  him,  terminating  in  his  easy 
shoes,  easily  crossed  at  the  instep,  he  had  a 
radiant  appearance  of  having  in  his  extensive 
benevolence  made  the  drink  for  the  human 
species,  while  he  himself  wanted  nothing  but 
his  own  milk  of  human  kindness. 

Wherefore,  Mr.  Pancks  said,  “ What  do  you 
mean  by  that?”  and  put  his  hair  up  with  both 
hands,  in  a highly  portentous  manner. 

“ I mean,  Mr.  Pancks,  that  you  must  be 
sharper  with  the  people,  sharper  with  the  people, 
much  sharper  with  the  people,  sir.  You  don’t 
squeeze  them.  You  don’t  squeeze  them.  Your 


receipts  are  not  up  to  the  mark.  You  must 
squeeze  them,  sir,  or  our  connection  will  not 
continue  to  be  as  satisfactory  as  I could  wish  it 
to  be,  to  all  parties.  All  parties.” 

“ Don't  I squeeze  ’em  ? ” retorted  Pancks, 
“ What  else  am  I made  for  ? ” 

“ You  are  made  for  nothing  else,  Mr.  Pandts. 
You  are  made  to  do  your  duty,  but  you  don’t  do 
your  duty.  You  are  paid  to  squeeze,  and  yon 
must  squeeze  to  pay.”  The  Patriarch  so  much 
surprised  himself  by  this  brilliant  turn,  after 
Doctor  Johnson,  which  he  had  not  in  the  least 
expected  or  intended,  that  he  laughed  aloud  ; 
and  repeated  with  great  satisfaction,  as  he  twirled 
his  thumbs  and  nodded  at  his  youthful  portrait, 
“ Paid  to  squeeze,  sir,  and  must  squeeze  to  pay.” 

“ Oh  ! ” said  Pancks.  “ Anything  more  ? ” 

“Yes,  sir.  It  appears  to  me,  Mr.  Pancks, 
that  you  yourself  are  too  often  and  too  much  in 
that  direction,  that  direction.  I recommend  you, 
Mr.  Pancks,  to  dismiss  from  your  attention  both 
your  own  losses  and  other  people’s  losses,  and 
to  mind  your  business,  mind  your  business.” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  32. 

LANDLORD. 

Reputed  to  be  rich  in  weekly  tenants,  and  to 
get  a good  quantity  of  blood  out  of  the  stones 
of  several  unpromising  courts  and  alleys. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  13. 

LANDLORD— Revenge  of  Pancks  on  the 
hypocrite. 

The  population  of  the  Yard  were  astonished 
at  the  meeting,  for  the  two  powers  had  never 
been  seen  there  together,  within  the  memory  of 
the  oldest  Bleeding  Heart.  But  they  were 
overcome  by  unutterable  amazement,  when  Mr. 
Pancks,  going  close  up  to  the  most  venerable  of 
men,  and  halting  in  front  of  the  bottle-green 
waistcoat,  made  a trigger  of  his  right  thumb  and 
forefinger,  applied  the  same  to  the  brim  of  the 
broad-brimmed  hat,  and,  with  singular  smart- 
ness and  precision,  shot  it  off  the  polished  head 
as  if  it  had  been  a large  marble. 

Having  taken  this  little  liberty  with  the  Patri- 
archal person,  Mr.  Pancks  further  astounded 
and  attracted  the  Bleeding  Hearts  by  saying  in 
an  audible  voice,  “ Now,  you  sugary  swindler,  I 
mean  to  have  it  out  with  you  ! ” 

****** 

“What  do  you  pretend  to  be?”  said  Mr. 
Pancks.  “ What’s  your  moral  game  ? What 
do  you  go  in  for  ? Benevolence,  ain’t  it  ? You 
benevolent  ! ” Plere  Mr.  Pancks,  apparently 
without  the  intention  of  hitting  him,  but  merely 
to  relieve  his  mind  and  expend  his  superfluous 
power  in  wholesome  exercise,  aimed  a blow  at 
the  bumpy  head,  which  the  bumpy  head  ducked 
to  avoid.  This  singular  performance  was  re- 
peated, to  the  ever  increasing  admiration  of  the 
spectators,  at  the  end  of  every  succeeding  article 
of  Mr.  Pancks’s  oration. 

“ I have  discharged  myself  from  your  service,” 
said  Pancks,  “ that  I may  tell  you  what  you  are. 
You’re  one  of  a lot  of  impostors  that  are  the 
worst  lot  of  all  the  lots  to  be  met  with.  Speak- 
ing as  a sufferer  by  both,  I don’t  know  that  I 
wouldn’t  as  soon  have  the  Merdle  lot  as  your 
lot.  You’re  a driver  in  disguise,  a screwer  by 
deputy,  a wringer,  and  squeezer,  and  shaver  by 
substitute.  You’re  a philanthropic  sneak. 
You’re  a shabby  deceiver  1” 


LANDLORD 


258 


LANDLORD 


(The  repetition  of  the  performance  at  this 
point  was  received  with  a burst  of  laughter.) 

“ Ask  these  good  people  who’s  the  hard  man 
here.  They’ll  tell  you,  Pancks,  I believe.” 

This  was  confirmed  with  cries  of  “ Certainly,” 
and  “ Hear  ! ” 

“ But  I tell  you,  good  people — Casby  ! This 
mound  of  meekness,  this  lump  of  love,  this 
bottle-green  smiler,  this  is  your  driver  ! ” said 
Pancks.  “ If  you  want  to  see  the  man  who 
would  flay  you  alive — here  he  is  ! Don’t  look 
for  him  in  me,  at  thirty  shillings  a- week,  but 
look  for  him  in  Casby,  at  I don’t  know  how 
much  a-year  ! ” 

“ Good  ! ” cried  several  voices.  “ Hear  Mr. 
Pancks ! ” 

“Hear  Mr.  Pancks?”  cried  that  gentleman 
(after  repeating  the  popular  performance). 
“Yes,  I should  think  so  ! It’s  almost  time  to 
hear  Mr.  Pancks.  Mr.  Pancks  has  come  down 
into  the  Yard  to-night,  on  purpose  that  you 
should  hear  him.  Pancks  is  only  the  Works  ; 
but  here’s  the  Winder  ! ” 

The  audience  would  have  gone  over  to  Mr. 
Pancks,  as  one  man,  woman,  and  child,  but  for 
the  long,  grey,  silken  locks,  and  the  broad  brim- 
med hat. 

“ Here’s  the  Stop,”  said  Pancks,  “ that  sets  the 
tune  to  be  ground.  And  there  is  but  one  tune, 
and  its  name  is  Grind,  Grind,  Grind  ! Here’s 
the  Proprietor,  and  here’s  his  Grubber.  Why, 
good  people,  when  he  comes  smoothly  spinning 
through  the  Yard  to-night,  like  a slow-going 
benevolent  Humming-Top,  and  when  you  come 
about  him  with  your  complaints  of  the  Grubber, 
you  don’t  know  what  a cheat  the  Proprietor  is  ! 
What  do  you  think  of  his  showing  himself  to- 
night, that  I may  have  all  the  blame  on 
Monday  ? What  do  you  think  of  his  having 
had  me  over  the  coals  this  very  evening,  because 
I don’t  squeeze  you  enough  ? What  do  you 
think  of  my  being,  at  the  present  moment,  under 
special  orders  to  squeeze  you  dry  on  Monday?” 

The  reply  was  given  in  a murmur  of  “ Shame  ! ” 
and  “ Shabby  ! ” 

“ Shabby?  ” snorted  Pancks.  “Yes,  I should 
think  so  ! The  lot  that  your  Casby  belongs  to, 
is  the  shabbiest  of  all  the  lots.  Setting  their 
Grubbers  on,  at  a wretched  pittance,  to  do  what 
they’re  ashamed  and  afraid  to  do,  and  pretend 
not  to  do,  but  what  they  will  have  done,  or  give 
a man  no  rest ! Imposing  on  you  to  give  their 
Grubbers  nothing  but  blame,  and  to  give  them 
nothing  but  credit ! Why,  the  worst-looking 
•cheat  in  all  this  town,  who  gets  the  value  of 
eighteenpence  under  false  pretences,  ain’t  half 
such  a cheat  as  this  sign-post  of  The.Casby’s 
Head  here  ! ” 

Cries  of  “ That’s  true!”  and  “No  more  he 
ain’t ! ” 

“ And  see  what  you  get  of  these  fellows,  be- 
sides,” said  Pancks.  “ See  what  more  you  get 
of  these  precious  Humming-Tops,  revolving 
among  you  with  such  smoothness  that  you’ve  no 
idea  of  the  pattern  painted  on  ’em,  or  the  little 
window  in  ’em  ! I wish  to  call  your  attention 
to  myself  for  a moment.  I an’t  an  agreeable 
style  of  chap,  1 know  that  very  well.” 

The  auditory  were  divided  on  this  point  ; its 
more  uncompromising  members  crying,  “ No, 
you  are  not,”  and  its  politer  materials,  “ Yes, 
you  are.” 

“I  am,  in  general,”  said  Mr.  Pancks,  “a  dry, 


uncomfortable,  dreary  Plodder  and  Grubber. 
That’s  your  humble  servant.  There’s  his  full- 
length  portrait,  painted  by  himself,  and  pre- 
sented to  you,  warranted  a likeness  ! But  what’s 
a man  to  be,  with  such  a man  as  this  for  his 
Proprietor?  What  can  be  expected  of  him? 
Did  anybody  ever  find  boiled  mutton  and  ca- 
per-sauce growing  in  a cocoa-nut?” 

None  of  the  Bleeding  Hearts  ever  had,  it 
was  clear  from  the  alacrity  of  their  response. 

“Well,”  said  Mr.  Pancks,  “and  neither  will 
you  find  in  Grubbers  like  myself,  under  Propri- 
etors like  this,  pleasant  qualities.  I’ve  been  a 
Grubber  from  a boy.  What  has  my  life  been  ? 
Fag  and  grind,  fag  and  grind,  turn  the  wheel, 
turn  the  wheel ! I haven't  been  agreeable  to 
myself,  and  I haven’t  been  likely  to  be  agreeable 
to  anybody  else.  If  I was  a shilling  a week  less 
useful  in  ten  years’  time,  this  impostor  would 
give  me  a shilling  a week  less  ; if  as  useful  a 
man  could  be  got  at  sixpence  cheaper,  he  would 
be  taken  in  my  place  at  sixpence  cheaper.  Bar- 
gain and  sale,  bless  you  ! Fixed  principles  ! It 
is  a mighty  fine  sign  post,  is  The  Casby’s  Head,” 
said  Mr.  Pancks,  surveying  it  with  anything 
rather  than  admiration  ; “ but  the  real  name  of 
the  House  is  The  Sham’s  Arms.  Its  motto  is, 
Keep  the  Grubber  always  at  it.  Is  any  gentle- 
man present,”  said  Mr.  Pancks,  breaking  off 
and  looking  round,  “ acquainted  with  the  En- 
glish Grammar?” 

Bleeding  Heart  Yard  was  shy  of  claiming 
that  acquaintance. 

“ It’s  no  matter,”  said  Mr.  Pancks.  “ I mere- 
ly wish  to  remark  that  the  task  this  Proprietor 
has  set  me,  has  been,  never  to  leave  off  conjuga- 
ting the  Imperative  Mood,  Present  Tense  of 
the  verb  To  keep  always  at  it.  Keep  thou 
always  at  it.  Let  him  keep  always  at  it.  Keep 
we  or  do  we  keep  always  at  it.  Keep  ye  or  .do 
ye  or  you  keep  always  at  it.  Let  them  keep  al- 
ways at  it.  Here  is  your  benevolent  Patriarch 
of  a Casby,  and  there  is  his  golden  rule.  He  is 
uncommonly  improving  to  look  at,  and  I am 
not  at  all  so.  He  is  as  sweet  as  honey,  and  I 
am  as  dull  as  ditchwater.  He  provides  the 
pitch,  and  I handle  it,  and  it  sticks  to  me. 
Now,”  said  Mr.  Pancks,  closing  upon  his  late 
Proprietor  again,  from  whom  he  had  withdrawn 
a little  for  the  better  display  of  him  to  the  Yard ; 
“ as  I am  not  accustomed  to  speak  in  public, 
and  as  I have  made  a rather  lengthy  speech,  all 
circumstances  considered,  I shall  bring  my  ob- 
servations to  a close,  by  requesting  you  to  get 
out  of  this.” 

The  Last  of  the  Patriarchs  had  been  so  seized 
by  assault,  and  required  so  much  room  to  catch 
an  idea  in,  and  so  much  more  room  to  turn  it 
in,  that  he  had  not  a word  to  offer  in  reply. 
He  appeared  to  be  meditating  some  Patriarchal 
way  out  of  his  delicate  position,  when  Mr. 
Pancks,  once  more  suddenly  applying  the  trig- 
ger to  his  hat,  shot  it  off  again  with  his  former 
dexterity.  On  the  preceding  occasion,  one  or 
two  of  the  Bleeding  Heart  Yarders  had  obse- 
quiously picked  it  up  ami  handed  it  to  its  own- 
er ; but  Mr.  Pancks  had  now  so  far  impressed 
his  audience,  that  the  Patriarch  had  to  turn  and 
stoop  for  it  himself. 

Quick  as  lightning,  Mr.  Pancks,  who,  for  some 
moments  had  had  his  right  hand  in  his  coat- 
pocket,  whipped  out  a pair  of  shears,  swooped 
upon  the  Patriarch  behind,  and  snipped  off  short 


LANGUAGES 


259 


LAUGH 


the  sacred  locks  that  flowed  upon  his  shoulders. 
In  a paroxysm  of  animosity  and  rapidity,  Mr. 
Fancies  then  caught  the  broad-brimmed  hat  out 
of.  the  astounded  Patriarch’s  hand,  cut  it  down 
into  a mere  stewpan,  and  fixed  it  on  the  Patri- 
arch’s head. 

Before  the  frightful  results  of  this  desperate 
action,  Mr.  Pancks  himself  recoiled  in  conster- 
nation. A bare-polled,  goggle-eyed, big-headed, 
lumbering  personage  stood  staring  at  him,  not 
in  the  least  impressive,  not  in  the  least  vener- 
able, who  seemed  to  have  started  out  of  the 
earth  to  ask  what  was  become  of  Casby.  After 
staring  at  this  phantom  in  return,  in  silent  awe, 
Mr.  Pancks  threw  down  his  shears,  and  fled  for 
a place  of  hiding,  where  he  might  lie  sheltered 
from  the  consequences  of  his  crime.  Mr.  Pancks 
deemed  it  prudent  to  use  all  possible  despatch 
in  making  off,  though  he  was  pursued  by  noth- 
ing but  the  sound  of  laughter  in  Bleeding  Heart 
Yard,-  rippling  through  the  air,  and  making  it 
ring  again. — Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  32. 

LANGUAGES— A11  acquaintance  with. 

It  is  with  languages  as  with  people — when 
you  only  know  the'm  by  sight,  you  are  apt  to 
mistake  them  ; you  must  be  on  speaking  terms 
before  you  can  be  said  to  have  established  an 
acquaintance. — Somebody's  Luggage , Chap.  2. 

LANGUAGE— The  difficulties  of  a foreign. 

“We  have  lost  our  pleasant  interpreter  (she 
spoke  three  foreign  languages  beautifully, 
Arthur  ; you  have  heard  her  many  a time),  and 
you  must  pull  me  through  it,  Mother,  as  well  as 
you  can.  I require  a deal  of  pulling  through, 
Arthur,” said  Mr.  Meagles,  shaking  his  head,  “a 
deal  of  pulling  through.  I stick  at  everything 
beyond  a noun-substantive — and  I stick  at  him, 
if  he’s  at  all  a tight  one.” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  9. 

LAUGH— The  melodramatic. 

Mr.  Swiveller  did  not  wind  up  with  a cheerful 
hilarious  laugh,  which  would  have  been  undoubt- 
edly at  variance  with  his  solemn  reflections,  but 
that,  being  in  a theatrical  mood,  he  merely 
achieved  that  performance  which  is  designated 
in  melodramas  “laughing  like  a fiend” — for  it 
seems  that  your  fiends  always  laugh  in  syllables, 
and  always  in  three  syllables,  never  more  nor  less, 
which  is  a remarkable  property  in  such  gentry, 
and  one  worthy  of  remembrance. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  56. 

LAUGHTEE- And  good  humor. 

If  you  should  happen,  by  any  unlikely  chance, 
to  know  a man  more  blest  in  a laugh  than 
Scrooge’s  nephew,  all  I can  say  is,  I should  like 
to  know  him  too.  Introduce  him  to  me,  and 
I’ll  cultivate  his  acquaintance. 

It  is  a fair,  even-handed,  noble  adjustment  of 
things,  that  while  there  is  infection  in  disease 
and  sorrow,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so 
irresistibly  contagious  as  laughter  and  good 
humor. — Christmas  Carol,  Stave  3. 

LAUGHTER— John  Browdie’s. 

If  there  could  only  have  been  somebody  by, 
to  see  how  the  bed-clothes  shook,  and  to  see  the 
Yorkshi reman’s  great  red  face  and  round  head 
appear  above  the  sheets,  every  now  and  then, 
like  some  jovial  monster  coming  to  the  surface 


to  breathe,  and  once  more  dive  down  convulsed 
with  the  laughter  which  came  bursting  forth 
afresh — that  somebody  would  have  been  scarcely 
less  amused  than  John  Browdie  himself. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  39. 

LAUGHTER— Of  Major  Bag-stock. 

All  the  way  home  to  his  own  hotel,  the 
Major  incessantly  said  to  himself,  of  himself, 
“ Sly,  Sir — sly,  Sir — de-vil-ish  sly  !”  And  when 
he  got  there,  sat  down  in  a chair,  and  fell  into 
a silent  fit  of  laughter,  with  which  he  was  some- 
times seized,  and  which  was  always  particularly 
awful.  It  held  him  so  long  on  this  occasion 
that  the  dark  servant,  who  stood  watching  him 
at  a distance,  but  dared  not  for  his  life  approach, 
twice  or  thrice  gave  him  over  for  lost.  His  whole 
form,  but  especially  his  face  and  head,  dilated 
beyond  all  former  experience  ; and  presented  to 
the  dark  man’s  view  nothing  but  a heavy  mass 
of  indigo. — Dombey  Of  Son , Chap.  10. 

LAUGH. 

A sharp  thin  laugh,  and  one  little  cough  at 
the  end,  like  a note  of  admiration  expressed. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  45. 

“ Ha,  ha,  ha ! ” 

Really,  for  a man  who  had  been  out  of  prac- 
tice for  so  many  years,  it  was  a splendid  laugh, 
a most  illustrious  laugh.  The  father  of  a long, 
long  line  of  brilliant  laughs  ! 

Christmas  Carol,  Stave  5. 

LAUGH— An  enjoyable. 

Job,  rubbing  his  hands  with  delight,  uttered 
the  first  sound  he  had  given  vent  to,  since  he 
entered  the  house — a light,  noiseless  chuckle, 
which  seemed  to  intimate  that  he  enjoyed  his 
laugh  too  much  to  let  any  of  it  escape  in  sound. 

Pickzuick,  Chap.  25. 

LAUGH— A sorrowful. 

His  laugh  had  not  quite  left  him  either  ; but 
it  was  like  the  echo  of  a joyful  sound,  and  that 
is  always  sorrowful. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  60. 

LAUGH— An  internal  chuckle. 

“Ha,  ha,  ha!”  At  this  the  Serjeant’s  clerk 
laughed  again  ; not  a noisy,  boisterous  laugh, 
but  a silent,  internal  chuckle,  which  Mr.  Pick- 
wick disliked  to  hear.  When  a man  bleeds  in- 
wardly, it  is  a dangerous  thing  for  himself  ; but 
when  he  laughs  inwardly,  it  bodes  no  good  to 
other  people. — Pickwick,  Chap.  31. 

LAUGH-1 The  contagion  of  a (Mr.  Boythorn). 

Talking  thus,  they  went  up-stairs;  and  pres- 
ently we  heard  him  in  his  bedroom  thundering 
“ Ha,  ha,  ha  !”  and  again  “ Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ” until 
the  flattest  echo  in  the  neighborhood  seemed  to 
catch  the  contagion,  and  to  laugh  as  enjoyingly 
as  he  did,  or  as  we  did  when  we  heard  him 
laugh. 

We  all  conceived  a prepossession  in  his  favor  ; 
for  there  was  a sterling  quality  in  this  laugh, 
and  in  his  vigorous,  healthy  voice.,  and  in  the 
roundness  and  fulness  with  which  he  uttered 
every  word  he  spoke,  and  in  the  very  fury  of  his 
superlatives,  which  seemed  to  go  off  like  blank 
cannons  and  hurt  nothing.  He  was  not  only  a 
very  liandsome  old  gentleman — upright  and 
stalwart  as  he  had  been  described  to  us — with  a 


LAUNDRESSES 


260 


LAW 


massive  grey  head,  a fine  composure  of  face 
when  silent,  a figure  that  might  have  become 
corpulent,  but  for  his  being  so  continually  in 
earnest  that  he  gave  it  no  rest,  and  a chin  that 
might  have  subsided  into  a double  chin  but  for 
the  vehement  emphasis  in  which  it  was  con- 
stantly required  to  assist ; but  he  was  such  a 
true  gentleman  in  his  manner,  so  chivalrously 
polite,  his  face  was  lighted  by  a smile  of  so  much 
sweetness  and  tenderness,  and  it  seemed  so  plain 
that  he  had  nothing  to  hide,  but  showed  him- 
self exactly  as  he  was — incapable  (as  Richard 
said)  of  anything  on  a limited  scale,  and  firing 
away  with  those  blank  great  guns,  because  he 
carried  no  small  arms  whatever — that  really  I 
could  not  help  looking  at  him  with  equal  pleas- 
ure as  he  sat  at  dinner,  whether  he  smilingly 
conversed  with  Ada  and  me,  or  was  led  by  Mr. 
Jarndyce  into  some  great  volley  of  superlatives, 
or  threw  up  his  head  like  a bloodhound,  and 
gave  out  that  tremendous  “ Ha,  ha,  ha  ! ” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  9. 

LAUNDRESSES. 

“ I am  Mr.  Perker’s  laundress,”  replied  the 
old  woman. 

“Ah,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  half  aside  to  Sam, 
“ it’s  a curious  circumstance,  Sam,  that  they  call 
the  old  women  in  these  inns,  laundresses.  I 
wonder  what  that’s  for  ? ” 

“ ’Cos  they  has  a mortal  awersion  to  washing 
anythin’,  I suppose,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 

“ I shouldn’t  wonder,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
looking  at  the  old  woman,  whose  appearance, 
as  well  as  the  condition  of  the  office,  which  she 
had  by  this  time  opened,  indicated  a rooted  an- 
tipathy to  the  application  of  soap  and  water. 

Pickwick , Chap.  20. 

LAW— The  majesty  of. 

“ This  is  a private  room,  sir.  A private  room.” 

Mr.  Grummer  shook  his  head,  and  replied, 
“No  room’s  private  to  his  Majesty  when  the 
street  door’s  once  passed.  That’s  law.  Some 
people  maintains  that  an  Englishman’s  house  is 
his  castle.  That’s  gammon.” 

The  Pickwickians  gazed  on  each  other  with 
wondering  eyes. 

“Which  is  Mr.  Tupman?”  inquired  Mr. 
Grummer.  He  had  an  intuitive  perception  of 
Mr.  Pickwick  ; he  knew  him  at  once. 

“ My  name’s  Tupman,”  said  that  gentleman. 

“ My  name’s  Law,”  said  Mr.  Grummer. 

“What?”  said  Mr.  Tupman. 

“Law,”  replied  Mr.  Grummer,  “law,  civil 
power,  and  exekative  ; them’s  my  titles  ; here’s 
my  authority.  Blank  Tupman,  blank  Pickvick 
— against  the  peace  of  our  sufferin  Lord  the 
King — stattit  in  that  case  made  and  purwided — 
and  all  regular.  I apprehend  you,  Pickvick! 
Tupman — the  aforesaid.” — Pickwick , Chap.  24. 

LAW  An  excuse  for. 

“ It’s  a pleasant  world  we  live  in,  sir,  a very 
pleasant  world.  There  are  bad  people  in  it, 
Mr.  Richard,  but  if  there  were  no  bad  people, 
there  would  be  no  good  lawyers.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  56. 

LAW  The  delays  of  the. 

“ Tom  Jarndyce  was  often  in  here.  Tie  got 
into  a restless  habit  of  strolling  about  when  the 
cause  was  on,  or  expected,  talking  to  the  little 


shopkeepers,  and  telling  ’em  to  keep  out  of 
Chancery,  whatever  they  did,  ‘For,’  says  he, 
1 it’s  being  ground  to  bits  in  a slow  mill ; it’s 
being  roasted  at  a slow  fire  ; it’s  being  stung  to 
death  by  single  bees  ; it’s  being  drowned  by 
drops  ; it’s  going  mad  by  grains. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  5. 

LAW  -The  fictions  of. 

There  are  many  pleasant  fictions  of  the  law 
in  constant  operation,  but  there  is  not  one  so 
pleasant  or  practically  humorous  as  that  which 
supposes  every  man  to  be  of  equal  value  in  its 
impartial  eye,  and  the  benefits  of  all  laws  to  be 
equally  attainable,  by  all  men,  without  the  small- 
est reference  to  the  furniture  of  their  pockets. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  46. 

LAW— The  hardship  of  the. 

“ It’s  hard  in  the  law  to  spile  a man,  I think. 
It’s  hard  enough  to  kill  him,  but  it’s  wery  hard 
to  spile  him,  sir.” 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  II.,  Chap.  2. 

LAW -ST  ATIONER— Snagsby,  the. 

On  the  eastern  borders  of  Chancery  Lane, 
that  is  to  say,  more  particularly  in  Cook’s  Court, 
Cursitor  Street,  Mr.  Snagsby,  Law-Stationer, 
pursues  his  lawful  calling.  In  the  shade  of 
Cook’s  Court,  at  most  times  a shady  place,  Mr. 
Snagsby  has  dealt  in  all  sorts  of  blank  forms  of 
legal  process  ; in  skins  and  rolls  of  parchment ; 
in  paper — foolscap,  brief,  draft,  brown,  white, 
whitey  brown,  and  blotting;  in  stamps;  in  of- 
fice-quills, pens,  ink,  and  India-rubber,  pounce, 
pins,  pencils,  sealing-wax,  and  wafers  ; in  red 
tape  and  green  ferret ; in  pocket-books,  alma- 
nacs, diaries,  and  law  lists  ; in  string  boxes, 
rulers,  inkstands — glass  and  leaden — penknives, 
scissors,  bodkins,  and  other  small  office-cutlery ; 
in  short,  in  articles  too  numerous  to  mention  ; 
ever  since  he  was  out  of  his  time,  and  went  into 
partnership  with  Peffer.  On  that  occasion, 
Cook’s  Court  was  in  a manner  revolutionized  by 
the  new  inscription  in  fresh  paint,  Peffer  and 
Snagsby,  displacing  the  time-honored  and  not 
easily  to  be  deciphered  legend,  Peffer,  only. 
For  smoke,  which  is  the  London  ivy,  had  so 
wreathed  itself  round  Peffer’s  name,  and  clung 
to  his  dwelling-place,  that  the  affectionate  para- 
site overpowered  the  parent  tree. 

Peffer  is  never  seen  in  Cook’s  Court  now.  He 
is  not  expected  there,  for  he  has  been  recumbent 
this  quarter  of  a century  in  the  churchyard  of 
St.  Andrew’s,  Holborn,  with  the  wagons  and 
hackney-coaches  roaring  past  him,  all  the  day 
and  half  the  night,  like  one  great  dragon. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  10. 

LAW— A game  of  chess. 

“Ah,  cousin!”  said  Richard.  “Strange,  in- 
deed ! all  this  wasteful,  wanton  chess-playing  is 
very  strange.  To  see  that  composed  Court  yes- 
terday jogging  on  so  serenely,  and  to  think  of 
the  wretchedness  of  the  pieces  on  the  board, 
gave  me  the  headache  and  the  heartache  both 
together.  My  head  ached  with  wondering  how 
it  happened,  if  men  were  neither  fools  nor  ras- 
cals ; and  my  heart  ached  to  think  they  could 
possibly  be  cither.” — Bleak  House,  Chap.  5. 

LAW  A joke. 

“ No,”  returned  the  Doctor.  “ God  forbid  ! 


LAW 


261 


LAWYER’S  CLERK 


May  she  live  to  laugh  at  it,  as  long  as  she  can 
laugh,  and  then  say,  with  the  French  wit,  ‘The 
farce  is  ended  ; draw  the  curtain.’  ” 

“The  French  wit,”  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  peep- 
ing sharply  into  his  blue  bag,  “ was  wrong,  Doc- 
tor Jedcller,  and  your  philosophy  is  altogether 
wrong,  depend  upon  it,  as  I have  often  told  you. 
Nothing  serious  in  life!  What  do  you  call 
law?” 

“A  joke,”  replied  the  Doctor. 

“ Did  you  ever  go  to  law  ? ” asked  Mr.  Snitch- 
ey, looking  out  of  the  blue  bag. 

“ Never,”  returned  the  Doctor. 

“If  you  ever  do,”  said  Mr.  Snitchey,  “per- 
haps you’ll  alter  that  opinion.” 

Graggs,  who  seemed  to  be  represented  by 
Snitchey,  and  to  be  conscious  of  little  or  no  sep- 
arate existence  of  personal  individuality,  offered 
a remark  of  his  own  in  this  place.  It  involved 
the  only  idea  of  which  he  did  not  stand  seized 
and  possessed  in  equal  moieties  with  Snitchey  ; 
but  he  had  some  partners  in  it  among  the  wise 
men  of  the  world. 

“ It’s  made  a great  deal  too  easy,”  said  Mr. 
Craggs. 

“ Law  is  ? ” asked  the  Doctor. 

“Yes.”  said  Mr.  Craggs,  “everything  is. 
Everything  appears  to  me  to  be  made  too  easy, 
now-a-days.  It’s  the  vice  of  these  times.  If 
the  world  is  a joke  (I  am  not  prepared  to  say  it 
isn’t),  it  ought  to  be  made  a very  difficult  joke 
to  crack.  It  ought  to  be  as  hard  a struggle,  sir, 
as  possible.  That’s  the  intention.  But  it’s 
being  made  far  too  easy.  We  are  oiling  the 
gates  of  life.  They  ought  to  be  rusty.  We 
shall  have  them  beginning  to  turn,  soon,  with  a 
smooth  sound.  Whereas  they  ought  to  grate 
upon  their  hinges,  sir.” — Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  i. 

LAW  -A  married  man’s  opinion  of  the. 

“ That  is  no  excuse,”  replied  Mr.  Brownlow, 
“You  were  present  on  the  occasion  of  the  de- 
struction of  these  trinkets,  and,  indeed,  are  the 
more  guilty  of  the  two,  in  the  eye  of  the  law  ; 
for  the  law  supposes  that  your  wife  acts  under 
your  direction.” 

“ If  tlie  law  supposes  that,”  said  Mr.  Bumble, 
squeezing  his  hat  emphatically  in  both  hands, 
“ the  law  is  a ass — a idiot.  If  that’s  the  eye  of 
the  law,  the  law’s  a bachelor  ; and  the  worst.  I 
wish  the  law  is,  that  his  eye  may  be  opened  by 
experience — by  experience.” 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  51. 

LA  W -A  muddle  to  Stephen  Blackpool. 

“ I mun  be  ridden  o’  this  woman,  and  I want 
t’know  how?” 

“No  how,”  returned  Mr.  Bounderby. 

“ If  I do  her  any  hurt,  sir,  there’s  a law  to 
punish  me  ? ” 

“ Of  course  there  is.” 

“ If  I flee  from  her,  there’s  a law  to  punish 
me?  ” 

“ Of  course  there  is.” 

“ If  I marry  t’oother  dear  lass,  there’s  a law  to 
punish  me?” 

“ Of  course  there  is.” 

“If  I was  to  live  wi’  her  an  not  marry  her — 
saying  such  a thing  could  be,  which  it  never 
could  or  would,  an  her  so  good — there’s  a law 
to  punish  me,  in  every  innocent  child  belonging 
to  me?” 

“ Of  course  there  is.” 


“ Now,  a’  God’s  name,”  said  Stephen  Black- 
pool, “ show  me  the  law  to  help  me  ! ” 

“ Hem  ! There’s  a sanctity  in  this  relation 
of  life,”  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  “and — and — it 
must  be  kept  up.” 

“ No  no,  dunnot  say  that,  sir.  Tan’t  kep’  up 
that  way.  Not  that  way.  ’Tis  kep’ down  that 
way.  I’m  a weaver,  I were  in  a fact’ry  when  a 
chilt,  but  I ha’  gotten  een  to  see  wi’  and  eern  to 
year  wi’.  I read  in  th’  papers  every  ’Sizes, 
every  Sessions — and  you  read  too — I know  it  ! 
with  dismay — how  th’  supposed  impossibility  o’ 
ever  getting  unchained  from  one  another,  at  any 
price,  on  any  terms,  brings  blood  upon  this 
land,  and  brings  many  common  married  fok  to 
battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death.  Let  us  ha’ 
this  right  understood.  Mine’s  a grievous  case, 
an  I want — if  yo  will  be  so  good — t’know  the 
law  that  helps  me.” 

“Now,  I tell  you  what !”  said  Mr.  Bounder- 
by, putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  “ There  is 
such  a law.” 

Stephen,  subsiding  into  his  quiet  manner,  and 
never  wandering  in  his  attention,  gave  a nod. 

“ But  it’s  not  for  you  at  all.  It  costs  money. 
It  costs  a mint  of  money.” 

“ How  much  might  that  be  ? ” Stephen  calmly 
asked. 

“ Why,  you’d  have  to  go  to  Doctors’  Com- 
mons with  a suit,  and  you’d  have  to  go  to  a 
court  of  Common  Law  with  a suit,  and  you’d 
have  to  go  to  the  House  of  Lords  with  a suit, 
and  you’d  have  to  get  an  Act  of  Parliament  to 
enable  you  to  marry  again,  and  it  would  cost 
you  (if  it  was  a case  of  very  plain-sailing),  I 
suppose  from  a thousand  to  fifteen  hundred 
pound,”  said  Mr.  Bounderby.  “ Perhaps  twice 
the  money.” 

“ There’s  no  other  law?” 

“ Certainly  not.” 

“ Why  then,  sir,”  said  Stephen,  turning 
white,  and  motioning  with  that  right  hand  of 
liis,  as  if  he  gave  everything  to  the  four  winds, 
“ ’tis  a muddle.  ’Tis  just  a muddle  a’toogether, 
an  the  sooner  I’m  dead  the  better.” 

(Mrs.  Sparsit  again  dejected  by  the  impiety 
of  the  people.) 

“ Pooh,  pooh  ! Don’t  you  talk  nonsense,  my 
good  fellow,”  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  “ about 
things  you  don’t  understand  ; and  don’t  you  call 
the  Institutions  of  your  country  a muddle,  or 
you’ll  get  yourself  into  a real  muddle  one  of 
these  fine  mornings.  The  institutions  of  your 
country  are  not  your  piece-work,  and  the  only 
thing  you  have  got  to  do  is,  to  mind  your  piece- 
work. You  didn’t  take  your  wife  for  fast  and  for 
loose  ; but  for  better  for  worse.  If  she  has 
turned  out  worse — why,  all  we  have  got  to  say 
is,  she  might  have  turned  out  better.” 

“ ’Tis  a muddle,”  said  Stephen,  shaking  his 
head  as  he  moved  to  the  door.  “’Tis  a’ 
a muddle  !” — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  11. 

LAWYER’S  CLERK— Description  of  a. 

Accordingly  they  betake  themselves  to  a neigh- 
boring dining-house,  of  the  class  known  among 
its  frequenters  by  the  denomination  Slap  Bang, 
where  the  waitress,  a bouncing  young  female  of 
forty,  is  supposed  to  have  made  some  impression 
on  the  susceptible  Smallweed  ; of  whom  it  may 
be  remarked  that  he  is  a weird  changeling,  to 
whom  years  are  nothing.  He  stands  precocious- 
ly possessed  of  centuries  of  owlish  wisdom.  If 


LAWYERS’  CLERKS 


262 


LAWYERS’  INNS. 


he  ever  lay  in  a cradle,  it  seems  as  if  he  must 
have  lain  there  in  a tail-coat.  He  has  an  old, 
old  eye,  has  Smallweed  ; and  he  drinks  and 
smokes  in  a monkeyish  way  ; and  his  neck  is 
stiff  in  his  collar  ; and  he  is  never  to  be  taken 
in  ; and  he  knows  all  about  it,  whatever  it  is. 
In  short,  in  his  bringing  up,  he  has  been  so 
nursed  by  Law  and  Equity  that  he  has  become 
a kind  of  fossil  Imp,  to  account  for  whose  ter- 
restrial existence  it  is  reported  at  the  public 
offices  that  his  father  was  John  Doe,  and  his 
mother  the  only  female  member  of  the  Roe 
family ; also  that  his  first  long-clothes  were 
made  from  a blue  bag. — Bleak  House , Chap.  20. 

LAWYERS’  CLERKS  -At  lunch. 

Into  the  dining-house,  unaffected  by  the  se- 
ductive show  in  the  window,  of  artificially 
whitened  cauliflowers  and  poultry,  verdant  bas- 
kets of  peas,  coolly  blooming  cucumbers,  and 
joints  ready  for  the  spit,  Mr.  .Smallweed  leads 
the  way.  They  know  him  there,  and  defer  to 
him.  He  has  his  favorite  box,  he  bespeaks  all 
the  papers,  he  is  down  upon  bald  patriarchs, 
who  keep  them  more  than  ten  minutes  after- 
wards. It  is  of  no  use  trying  him  with  anything 
less  than  a full-sized  “ bread,”  or  proposing  to 
him  any  joint  in  cut,  unless  it  is  in  the  very  best 
cut.  In  the  matter  of  gravy  he  is  adamant. 

Conscious  of  his  elfin  power,  and  submitting 
to  his  dread  experience,  Mr.  Guppy  consults 
him  in  the  choice  of  that  day’s  banquet  ; turn- 
ing an  appealing  look  towards  him  as  the  wait- 
ress repeats  the  catalogue  of  viands,  and  saying, 
“What  do  you  take,  Chick?”  Chick,  out  of  the 
profundity  of  his  artfulness,  preferring  “ veal 
and  ham  and  French  beans — And  don’t  you 
forget  the  stuffing,  Polly”  (with  an  unearthly 
cock  of  his  venerable  eye),  Mr.  Guppy  and  Mr. 
Jobling  give  the  like  order.  Three  pint  pots  of 
half-and-half  are  superadded.  Quickly  the  wait- 
ress returns,  bearing  what  is  apparently  a model 
of  the  tower  of  Babel,  but  what  is  really  a pile 
of  plates  and  flat  tin  dish-covers.  Mr.  Small- 
weed, approving  of  what  is  set  before  him,  con- 
veys intelligent  benignity  into  his  ancient  eye, 
and  winks  upon  her.  Then,  amidst  a constant 
coming  in,  and  going  out,  and  running  about, 
and  a clatter  of  crockery,  and  a rumbling  up 
and  down  of  the  machine  which  brings  the  nice 
cuts  from  the  kitchen,  and  a shrill  crying  for 
more  nice  cuts  down  the  speaking  pipe,  and  a 
shrill  reckoning  of  the  cost  of  nice  cuts  that 
have  been  disposed  of,  and  a general  flush  and 
steam  of  hot  joints,  cut  and  uncut,  and  a con- 
siderably heated  atmosphere  in  which  the  soiled 
knives  and  table-cloths  seem  to  break  out  spon- 
taneously into  eruptions  of  grease  and  blotches 
of  beer,  the  legal  triumvirate  appease  their  appe- 
tites.— Bleak  House,  Chap.  20. 

LAWYERS— Their  offices  at  night. 

It  is  night  in  Lincoln’s  Inn — perplexed  and 
troublous  valley  of  the  shadow  of  the  law,  where 
suitors  generally  find  but  little  day— and  fat 
candles  are  snuffed  out  in  offices,  and  clerks 
have  rattled  down  the  crazy  wooden  stairs,  and 
dispersed.  The  bell  that  rings  at  nine  o’clock, 
has  ceased  its  doleful  clangor  about  nothing  ; 
the  gates  are  shut  ; and  the  night-porter,  a sol- 
emn warder  with  a mighty  power  of  sleep, 
keeps  guard  in  his  lodge.  From  tiers  of  stair- 
case windows,  clogged  lamps,  like  the  eyes  of 


Equity,  bleared  Argus  with  a fathomless  pocket 
for  every  eye  and  an  eye  upon  it,  dimly  blink  at 
the  stars.  In  dirty  upper  casements,  here  and 
there,  hazy  little  patches  of  candlelight  reveal 
where  some  wise  draughtsman  and  conveyancer 
yet  toils  for  the  entanglement  of  real  estate  in 
meshes  of  sheep-skin,  in  the  average  ratio  of 
about  a dozen  of  sheep  to  an  acre  of  land.  Over 
which  bee-like  industry,  these  benefactors  of 
their  species  linger  yet,  though  office-hours  be 
past  ; that  they  may  give,  for  every  day,  some 
good  account  at  last. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  32. 

LAWYER-Without  brains. 

Mr.  Samuel  Briggs  was  a mere  machine,  a 
sort  of  self-acting  legal  walking-stick. 

Tales , Chap.  7. 

LAWYER-His  office. 

There  was  a book-case  in  the  room  : I saw, 
from  the  backs  of  the  books,  that  they  were  about 
evidence,  criminal,  law,  criminal  biography, 
trials,  acts  of  Parliament,  and  such  things.  The 
furniture  was  all  very  solid  and  good,  like  his 
watch-chain.  It  had  an  official  look,  however, 
and  there  was  nothing  merely  ornamental  to  be 
seen.  In  a corner,  was  a little  table  of  papers 
with  a shaded  lamp  ; so  that  he  seemed  to  bring 
the  office  home  with  him  in  that  respect  too, 
and  to  wheel  it  out  of  an  evening  and  fall  to 
work. — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  26. 

LAWYERS’  INNS-Their  associations. 

“What  do  you  know  of  the  time  when  young 
men  shut  themselves  up  in  those  lonely  rooms 
and  read  and  read,  hour  after  hour,  and  night 
after  night,  till  their  reason  wandered  beneath 
their  midnight  studies;  till  their  mental  powers 
were  exhausted  ; till  morning’s  light  brought  no 
freshness  or  health  to  them  ; and  they  sank  be- 
neath the  unnatural  devotion  of  their  youthful 
energies  to  their  dry  old  books  ? Coming  down 
to  a later  time,  and  a very  different  day,  what 
do  you  know  of  the  gradual  sinking  beneath 
consumption,  or  the  quick  wasting  of  fever — the 
grand  results  of  ‘ life  ’ and  dissipation — which 
men  have  undergone  in  these  same  rooms? 
I low  many  vain  pleaders  for  mercy,  do  you  think, 
have  turned  away  heart-sick  from  the  lawyer’s 
office,  to  find  a resting-place  in  the  Thames  or 
a refuge  in  the  gaol  ? They  are  no  ordinary 
houses,  those.  There  is  not  a panel  in  the  old 
wainscoting,  but  what,  if  it  were  endowed  with 
the  powers  of  speech  and  memory,  could  start 
from  the  wall,  and  tell  its  tale  of  horror — the 
romance  of  life,  sir,  the  romance  of  life  ! Com- 
mon-place as  they  may  seem  now,  I tell  you 
they  are  strange  old  places,  and  I would  rather 
hear  many  a legend  with  a terrific  sounding 
name,  than  the  true  history  of  one  old  set  of 
chambers.” 

* * * sfc  * 

“ Look  at  them  in  another  light : their  most 
common-place  and  least  romantic.  What  fine 
places  of  slow  torture  they  are  ! Think  of  the 
needy  man  who  has  spent  his  all,  beggared  him- 
self, and  pinched  his  friends,  to  enter  the  pro- 
fession, which  will  never  yield  him  a morsel  of 
bread.  The  waiting — the  hope — the  disappoint- 
ment— the  fear — the  misery — the  poverty — the 
blight  on  his  hopes,  and  end  to  his  career — the 
suicide  perhaps,  or  the  shabby,  slipshod  drunk- 
ard. Am  I not  right  about  them?”  And  the 


LAWYER, 


263 


LAWYER 


old  man  rubbed  his  hands,  and  leered  as  if  in 
delight  at  having  found  another  point  of  view 
in  which  to  place  his  favorite  subject. 

Pickwick , Chap.  21. 

LAWYEE-The  old. 

Like  a dingy  London  bird  among  the  birds 
at  roost  in  these  pleasant  fields,  where  the  sheep 
are  all  made  into  parchment,  the  goats  into 
wigs,  and  the  pasture  into  chaff,  the  lawyer, 
smoke-dried  and  faded,  dwelling  among  man- 
kind but  not  consorting  with  them,  aged  with- 
out experience  of  genial  youth,  and  so  long 
used  to  make  his  cramped  nest  in  holes  and 
corners  of  human  nature  that  he  has  forgotten 
its  broader  and  better  range,  comes  sauntering 
home.  In  the  oven  made  by  the  hot  pavements 
and  hot  buildings,  he  has  baked  himself  dryer 
than  usual  ; and  he  has,  in  his  thirsty  mind,  his 
mellowed  portwine,  half  a century  old. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  42. 

LAWYER— Tulking-horn,  the. 

It  is  let  off  in  sets  of  chambers  now  ; and  in 
those  shrunken  fragments  of  its  gi'eatness,  law- 
yers lie  like  maggots  in  nuts.  But  its  roomy 
staircases,  passages,  and  antechambers  still  re- 
main ; and  even  its  painted  ceilings,  where  Al- 
legory, in  Roman  helmet  and  celestial  linen, 
sprawls  among  balustrades  and  pillars,  flowers, 
clouds,  and  big-legged  boys,  and  makes  the  head 
ache — as  would  seem  to  be  Allegory’s  object 
always,  more  or  less.  Here,  among  his  many 
boxes  labelled  with  transcendent  names,  lives 
Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  when  not  speechlessly  at 
home  in  country-houses  where  the  great  ones 
of  the  earth  are  bored  to  death.  Here  he  is  to- 
day, quiet  at  his  table.  An  Oyster  of  the  old 
school,  whom  nobody  can  open. 

Like  as  he  is  to  look  at,  so  is  his  apartment 
in  the  dusk  of  the  present  afternoon.  Rusty, 
out  of  date,  withdrawing  from  attention,  able  to 
afford  it.  Heavy,  bi'oad-backed,  old-fashioned 
mahogany  and  horsehair  chairs,  not  easily  lifted, 
obsolete  tables  with  spindle  legs  ancl  dusty 
baize  covers,  presentation  prints  of  the  holders  of 
great  titles  in  the  last  generation,  or  the  last  but 
one,  environ  him.  A thick  and  dingy  Turkey 
carpet  muffles  the  floor  where  he  sits,  attended 
by  two  candles  in  old-fashioned  silver  candle- 
sticks, that  give  a very  insufficient  light  to  his 
large  room.  The  titles  on  the  backs  of  his 
books  have  retired  into  .the  binding;  every- 
thing that  can  have  a lock  has  got  one  ; no  key 
is  visible.  Very  few  loose  papers  are  about. 
He  has  some  manuscript  near  him,  but  is  not 
referring  to  it.  With  the  round  top  of  an  ink- 
stand, and  two  broken  bits  of  sealing-wax,  he 
is  silently  and  slowly  working  out  whatever 
train  of  indecision  is  in  his  mind.  Now,  the 
ink-stand  top  is  in  the  middle  ; now,  the  red 
‘bit  of  sealing-wax,  now  the  black  bit.  That’s 
not  it.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  must  gather  them  all 
up  and  begin  again. 

Here,  beneath  the  painted  ceiling,  with  fore- 
shortened Allegory  staring  down  at  his  intru- 
sion as  if  it  meant  to  swoop  upon  him,  and  he 
cutting  it  dead,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  has  at  once 
his  house  and  office.  He  keeps  no  staff ; only 
one  middle-aged  man,  usually  a little  out  at  el- 
bows, who  sits  in  a high  Pew  in  the  hall,  and  is 
rarely  overburdened  with  business.  Mr.  Tulk- 
inghorn is  not  in  a common  way.  He  wants 


no  clerks.  He  is  a great  reservoir  of  confi- 
dences, not  to  be  so  tapped.  His  clients  want 
him ; he  is  all  in  all.  Drafts  that  he  requires 
to  be  drawn,  are  drawn  by  special  pleaders  in 
the  Temple  on  mysterious  instructions;  fair 
copies  that  he  requires  to  be  made,  are  made  at 
the  stationer’s,  expense  being  no  consideration. 
The  middle-aged  man  in  the  Pew  knows  scarce- 
ly more  of  the  affairs  of  the  Peerage,  than  any 
crossing  sweeper  in  Holborn.  ~ 

Bleak  House , Chap.  10. 

Whether  he  be  cold  and  cruel,  whether  im- 
movable in  what  he  has  made  his  duty,  whether 
absorbed  in  love  of  power,  whether  determined 
to  have  nothing  hidden  from  him  in  ground 
where  he  has  burrowed  among  secrets  all  his 
life,  whether  he  in  his  heart  despises  the  splen- 
dor of  which  he  is  a distant  beam,  whether  he 
is  always  treasuring  up  slights  and  offences  in 
the  affability  of  his  gorgeous  clients — whether 
he  be  any  of  this,  or  all  of  this,  it  may  be  that 
my  Lady  had  better  have  five  thousand  pairs  of 
fashionable  eyes  upon  her,  in  distrustful  vigil- 
ance, than  the  two  eyes  of  this  rusty  lawyer, 
with  his  wisp  of  neckcloth  and  his  dull  black 
breeches  tied  with  ribbons  at  the  knees. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  29. 

He  comes  towards  them  at  his  usual  method- 
ical pace,  which  is  never  quickened,  never  slack- 
ened. He  wears  his  usual  expressionless  mask — 
if  it  be  a mask — and  carries  family  secrets  in 
every  limb  of  his  body,  and  every  crease  of  his 
dress.  Whether  his  whole  soul  is  devoted  to 
the  great,  or  whether  he  yields  them  nothing 
beyond  the  services  he  sells,  is  his  personal  se- 
cret. He  keeps  it,  as  he  keeps  the  secrets  of  his 
clients  ; he  is  his  own  client  in  that  matter,  and 
will  never  betray  himself. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  12. 

And  at  her  house  in  town,  upon  this  muddy, 
murky  afternoon,  presents  himself  an  old  fash- 
ioned old  gentleman,  attorney-at-law,  and  eke 
solicitor  of  the  High  Court  of  Chancery,  who 
has  the  honor  of  acting  as  legal  adviser  of  the 
Dedlocks,  and  has  as  many  cast-iron  boxes  in 
his  office  with  that  name  outside,  as  if  the  pres- 
ent baronet  were  the  coin  of  the  conjuror’s 
trick,  and  were  constantly  being  juggled  through 
the  whole  set.  Across  the  hall,  and  up  the 
stairs,  and  along  the  passages,  and  through  the 
rooms,  which  are  very  brilliant  in  the  season 
and  very  dismal  out  of  it — Fairy-land  to  visit, 
but  a desert  to  live  in — the  old  gentleman  is 
conducted,  by  a Mercury  in  powder,  to  my 
Lady’s  presence. 

The  old  gentleman  is  rusty  to  look  at,  but  is 
reputed  to  have  made  good  thrift  out  of  aristocra- 
tic marriage  settlements  and  aristocratic  wills, 
and  to  be  very  rich.  He  is  surrounded  by  a mys- 
terious halo  of  family  confidences  ; of  which  he  is 
known  to  be  the  silent  depository.  There  are 
noble  Mausoleums  rooted  for  centuries  in  retired 
glades  of  parks,  among  the  growing  timber  and 
the  fern,  which  perhaps  hold  fewer  noble  secrets 
than  walk  abroad  among  men,  shut  up  in  the 
breast  of  Mr.  Tulkinghorn.  He  is  of  what  is 
called  the  old  school— a phrase  generally  meaning 
any  school  that  seems  never  to  have  been  young 
— and  wears  knee-breeches  tied  with  ribbons,  and 
gaiters  or  stockings.  One  peculiarity  of  his  black 


LAWYER 


264 


LAWYER 


clothes,  and  of  his  black  stockings,  be  they  silk 
or  worsted,  is,  that  they  never  shine.  Mute, 
close,  irresponsive  to  any  glancing  light,  his  dress 
is  like  himself.  lie  never  converses,  when  not 
professionally  consulted.  lie  is  found  sometimes, 
speechless  but  quite  at  home,  at  corners  of  din- 
ner-tables in  great  country  houses,  and  near  doors 
of  drawing-rooms,  concerning  which  the  fashion- 
able intelligence  is  eloquent:  where  everybody 
knows  him,  and  where  half  the  Peerage  stops  to 
say  “ Plow  do  you  do,  Mr.  Tulkinghorn  ? ” he  re- 
ceives these  salutations  with  gravity,  and  buries 
them  along  with  the  rest  of  his  knowledge. 

Sir  Leicester  Dedlock  is  with  my  Lady,  and  is 
happy  to  see  Mr.  Tulkinghorn.  There  is  an  air 
of  prescription  about  him  which  is  always  agree- 
able to  Sir  Leicester  ; he  receives  it  as  a kind  of 
tribute.  He  likes  Mr.  Tulkinghorn’s  dress  ; there 
is  a kind  of  tribute  in  that,  too.  it  is  eminently 
respectable,  and  likewise,  in  a general  way,  re- 
tainer like.  It  expresses,  as  it  were,  the  steward 
of  the  legal  mysteries,  the  butler  of  the  legal  cel- 
lar, of  the  Dedlocks. — Bleak  House , Chap.  2. 

LAWYER-The  office  of  Sampson  Brass. 

In  the  parlor  window  of  this  little  habitation, 
which  is  so  close  upon  the  footway  that  the  pas- 
senger who  takes  the  wall  brushes  the  dim  glass 
with  his  coat  sleeve — much  to  its  improvement, 
for  it  is  very  dirty — in  this  parlor  window,  in  the 
days  of  its  occupation  by  Sampson  Brass,  there 
hung,  all  awry  and  slack,  and  discolored  by  the 
sun,  a curtain  of  faded  green,  so  threadbare  from 
long  service  as  by  no  means  to  intercept  the  view 
of  the  little  dark  room,  but  rather  to  afford  a 
favorable  medium  through  which  to  observe  it 
accurately.  There  was  not  much  to  look  at.  A 
rickety  table,  with  spare  bundles  of  papers,  yel- 
low and  ragged  from  long  carriage  in  the  pocket, 
ostentatiously  displayed  upon  its  top  ; a couple 
of  stools  set  face  to  face  on  opposite  sides  of  this 
crazy  piece  of  furniture  ; a-treacherous  old  chair 
by  the  fire-place,  whose  withered  arms  had  hug- 
ged full  many  a client  and  helped  to  squeeze  him 
dry  ; a second-hand  wig  box,  used  as  a deposi- 
tory for  blank  writs  and  declarations,  and  other 
small  forms  of  law,  once  the  sole  contents  of  the 
head  which  belonged  to  the  wig  which  belonged 
to  the  box,  as  they  were  now  of  the  box  itself ; 
two  or  three  common  books  of  practice ; a jar 
of  ink,  a pounce  box,  a stunted  hearth-broom, 
a carpet  trodden  to  shreds,  but  still  clinging  with 
the  tightness  of  desperation  to  its  tacks — these, 
with  the  yellow  wainscot  of  the  walls,  the  smoke- 
discolored  ceiling,  the  dust  and  cobwebs,  were 
among  the  most  prominent  decorations  of  the 
office  of  Mr.  Sampson  Brass. 

But  this  was  mere  still-life,  of  no  greater  im- 
portance than  the  plate,  “ Brass,  Solicitor,”  upon 
the  door,  and  the  bill,  “ First  floor  to  let  to  a 
single  gentleman,”  which  was  tied  to  the 
knocker. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  33. 

LAWYER-The  office  of  Vholes. 

The  name  of  Mr.  Vholks,  preceded  by  the 
legend  Ground  Floor,  is  inscribed  upon  a 
door-post  in  Symond’s  Inn,  Chancery  Lane  ; a 
little,  pale,  wall-eyed,  woebegone  inn,  like  a 
large  dust-bin  of  two  compartments  and  a 
sifter.  It  looks  as  if  Symond  were  a sparing 
man  in  his  way,  and  constructed  his  inn  of  olcl 
building  materials,  which  took  kindly  to  the  dry 
rot  and  to  dirt  and  all  things  decaying  and  dis- 


mal, and  perpetuated  Symond’s  memory  with 
congenial  shabbiness.  Quartered  in  this  dingy 
hatchment  commemorative  of  Symond,  arc  the 
legal  bearings  of  Mr.  Vholes. 

Mr.  Vholes’s  office,  in  disposition  retiring  and 
in  situation  retired,  is  squeezed  up  in  a corner, 
and  blinks  at  a dead  wall.  Three  feet  of  knotty 
floored  dark  passage  bring  the  client  to  Mr. 
Vholes’s  jet  black  door,  in  an  angle  profoundly 
dark  on  the  brightest  midsummer  morning,  and 
encumbered  by  a black  bulk-head  of  cellarage 
staircase,  against  which  belated  civilians  gener- 
ally strike  their  brows.  Mr.  Vholes’s  chambers 
are  on  so  small  a scale,  that  one  clerk  can  open 
the  door  without  getting  off  his  stool,  while  the 
other  who  elbows  him  at  the  same  desk  has 
equal  facilities  for  poking  the  fire.  A smell  as 
of  unwholesome  sheep,  blending  with  the  smell 
of  must  and  dust,  is  referable  to  the  nightly  (and 
often  daily)  consumption  of  mutton  fat  in  can- 
dles, and  to  the  fretting  of  parchment  forms  and 
skins  in  greasy  drawers.  The  atmosphere  is 
otherwise  stale  and  close.  The  place  was  last 
painted  or  whitewashed  beyond  the  memory  of 
man,  and  the  two  chimneys  smoke,  and  there  is 
a loose  outer  surface  of  soot  everywhere,  and  the 
dull  cracked  windows  in  their  heavy  frames  have 
but  one  piece  of  character  in  them,  which  is  a 
determination  to  be  always  dirty,  and  always 
shut,  unless  coerced.  This  accounts  for  the 
phenomenon  of  the  weaker  of  the  two  usually 
having  a bundle  of  firewood  thrust  between  its 
jaws  in  hot  weather. — Bleak  House , Chap.  39. 

LAWYER— Sally  Brass  as  a. 

In  mind,  she  was  of  a strong  and  vigorous 
turn,  having  from  her  earliest  youth  devoted  her- 
self with  uncommon  ardor  to  the  study  of  the 
law  ; not  wasting  her  speculations  upon  its 
eagle  flights,  which  are  rare,  but  tracing  it  at- 
tentively through  all  the  slippery  and  eel-like 
crawlings  in  which  it  commonly  pursues  its 
way.  Nor  had  she,  like  many  persons  of  great 
intellect,  confined  herself  to  theory,  or  stopped 
short  where  practical  usefulness  begins  ; inas- 
much as  she  could  engross  fair-copy,  fill  up 
printed  forms  with  perfect  accuracy,  and,  in  short, 
transact  any  ordinary  duty  of  the  office  down  to 
pouncing  a skin  of  parchment  or  mending  a pen. 
It  is  difficult  to  understand  how,  possessed  of 
these  combined  attractions,  she  should  remain 
Miss  Brass  ; but  whether  she  had  steeled  her 
heart  against  mankind,  or  whether  those  who 
might  have  wooed  and  won  her,  were  deterred 
by  fears  that,  being  learned  in  the  law,  she  might 
have  too  near  her  fingers’  ends  those  particular 
statutes  which  regulate  what  are  familiarly  termed 
actions  for  breach,  certain  it  is  that  she  was  still 
in  a state  of  celibacy,  and  still  in  daily  occupa- 
tion of  her  old  stool  opposite  to  that  of  her 
brother  Sampson.  And  equally  certain  it  is,  by- 
the-way,  that  between  these  two  stools  a great 
many  people  had  come  to  the  ground. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  33. 

Miss  Brass,  however  accurately  formed  to  be 
beloved,  was  not  of  the  loving  kind.  I liat 
amiable  virgin,  having  clung  to  the  skirts  of  the 
Law  from  her  earliest  youth  ; having  sustained 
herself  by  their  aid,  as  it  were,  in  her  first  run- 
ning alone,  and  maintained  a firm  grasp  upon 
them  ever  since;  had  passed  her  life  in  a kind 
of  legal  childhood.  She  had.  been  remarkable, 


LAWYER 


205 


LAWYER 


when  a tender  prattler,  for  an  uncommon  talent 
in  counterfeiting  the  walk  and  manner  of  a 
bailiff ; in  which  character  she  had  learned  to 
tap  her  little  playfellows  on  the  shoulder,  and 
to  carry  them  off  to  imaginary  sponging-houses, 
with  a correctness  of  imitation  which  was  the 
surprise  and  delight  of  all  who  witnessed  her 
performances,  and  which  was  only  to  be  exceeded 
by  her  exquisite  manner  of  putting  an  execution 
into  her  doll’s  house,  and  taking  an  exact  inven- 
tory of  the  chairs  and  tables.  These  artless  sports 
had  naturally  soothed  and  cheered  the  decline 
of  her  widowed  father : a most  exemplary  gen- 
tleman (called  “ old  Foxey  ” by  his  friends,  from 
his  extreme  sagacity),  who  encouraged  them  to 
the  utmost,  and  whose  chief  regret,  on  finding 
that  he  drew  near  to  Houndsditch  churchyard, 
was,  that  his  daughter  could  not  take  out  an  at- 
torney’s certificate  and  hold  a place  upon  the 
roll.  Filled  with  this  affectionate  and  touching 
sorrow,  he  had  solemnly  confided  her  to  his  son 
Sampson,  as  an  invaluable  auxiliary  ; and  from 
the  old  gentleman’s  decease  to  the  period  of 
which  we  treat.  Miss  Sally  Brass  had  been  the 
prop  and  pillar  of  his  business. 

It  is  obvious  that,  having  devoted  herself  from 
infancy  to  this  one  pursuit  and  study,  Miss  Brass 
could  know  but  little  of  the  world,  otherwise 
than  in  connection  with  the  law  ; and  that,  from 
a lady  gifted  with  such  high  tastes,  proficiency 
in  those  gentler  and  softer  arts  in  which  women 
usually  excel,  was  scarcely  to  be  looked  for. 
Miss  Sally’s  accomplishments  were  all  of  a mas- 
culine and  strictly  legal  kind.  They  began 
with  the  practice  of  an  attorney  and  they  ended 
with  it.  She  was  in  a state  of  lawful  innocence, 
so  to  speak.  The  law  had  been  her  nurse. 
And,  as  bandy  legs  or  such  physical  deformities  in 
children  are  held  to  be  the  consequence  of  bad 
nursing,  so,  if  in  a mind  so  beautiful  any  moral 
twist  or  bandinesS  could  be  found,  Miss  Sally 
Brass’s  nurse  was  alone  to  blame. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  36. 

LAWYER— Jag-gers  in  court. 

For  several  reasons,  and  not  least  because  I 
didn’t  clearly  know  what  Mr.  Jaggers  would  be 
found  to  be  “ at,”  I replied  in  the  affirmative. 
We  dived  into  the  city,  and  came  up  in  a 
crowded  police-court,  where  a blood-relation 
(in  the  murderous  sense)  of  the  deceased  with 
the  fanciful  taste  in  brooches,  was  standing  at 
the  bar,  uncomfortably  chewing  something ; 
while  my  guardian  had  a woman  under  examin- 
ation or  cross-examination — I don’t  know  which 
- — and  was  striking  her,  and  the  bench,  and 
everybody  with  awe.  If  anybody,  of  whatso- 
ever degree,  said  a word  that  he  didn’t  approve 
of,  he  instantly  required  to  have  it  “ taken 
down.”  If  anybody  wouldn’t  make  an  admis- 
sion, he  said,  “ I’ll  have  it  out  of  you  ! ” and  if 
anybody  made  an  admission,  he  said,  “Now  I 
have  got  you  ! ” The  magistrates  shivered  un- 
der a single  bite  of  his  finger.  Thieves  and 
thief-takers  hung  in  dread  rapture  on  his  words, 
and  shrank  when  a hair  of  his  eyebrows  turned 
in  their  direction.  Which  side  he  was  on,  I 
^couldn’t  make  out,  for  he  seemed  to  me  to  be 
grinding  the  whole  place  in  a mill ; I only  know 
■hat  when  I stole  out  on  tiptoe,  he  was  not  on 
Bse  side  of  the  bench  ; for  he  was  making  the 
^^gs  of  the  old  gentleman  who  presided,  quite 
Convulsive  under  the  table,  by  his  denunciations 


of  his  conduct  as  the  representative  of  British 
law  and  justice  in  that  chair  that  day. 

Great  Expectations.,  Chap.  24. 

LAWYER— Jag-g-ers  at  home. 

He  cross-examined  his  very  wine  when  he  had 
nothing  else  in  hand.  He  held  it  between  him- 
self and  the  candle,  tasted  the  port,  rolled  it  in 
his  mouth,  swallowed  it,  looked  at  his  glass 
again,  smelt  the  port,  tried  it,  drank  it,  filled 
again,  and  cross-examined  the  glass  again,  until 
I was  as  nervous  as  if  I had  known  the  wine  to 
be  telling  him  something  to  my  disadvantage. 
Three  or  four  times  I feebly  thought  I would 
start  conversation  ; but  whenever  he  saw  me 
going  to  ask  him  anything,  he  looked  at  me 
with  his  glass  in  his  hand,  and  rolling  his  wine 
about  in  his  mouth,  as  if  requesting  me  to  take 
notice  that  it  was  of  no  use,  for  he  couldn’t 
answer. — Great  Expectations , Chap.  29. 

LAWYER-  Office  of  Jaggers. 

Mr.  J aggers’s  room  was  lighted  by  a skylight 
only,  and  was  a most  dismal  place  ; the  skylight, 
eccentrically  patched  like  a broken  head,  and 
the  distorted  adjoining  houses  looking  as  if  they 
had  twisted  themselves  to  peep  down  at  me 
through  it.  There  were  not  so  many  papers 
about  as  I should  have  expected  to  see  ; and 
there  were  some  odd  objects  about,  that  I should 
not  have  expected  to  see — such  as  an  old  rusty 
pistol,  a sword  in  a scabbard,  several  strange- 
looking  boxes  and  packages,  and  two  dreadful 
casts  on  a shelf,  of  faces  peculiarly  swollen,  and 
twitchy  about  the  nose.  Mr.  Jaggers’s  own 
high-backed  chair  was  of  deadly-black  horse- 
hair, with  rows  of  brass  nails  round  it,  like  a 
coffin  ; and  I fancied  I could  see  how  he  leaned 
back  in  it,  and  bit  his  forefinger  at  the  clients. 
The  room  was  but  small,  and  the  clients  seemed 
to  have  had  a habit  of  backing  up  against  the 
wall:  the  wall,  especially  opposite  to  Mr.  Jag- 
gers’s chair,  being  greasy  with  shoulders.  I re- 
called, too,  that  the  one-eyed  gentleman  had 
shuffled  forth  against  the  wall  when  I was  the 
innocent  cause  of  his  being  turned  out. 

I sat  down  in  the  cliental  chair  placed  over 
against  Mr.  Jaggers’s  chair,  and  became  fasci- 
nated by  the  dismal  atmosphere  of  the  place.  I 
called  to  mind  that  the  clerk  had  the  same  air 
of  knowing  something  to  everybody  else’s  dis- 
advantage, as  his  master  had.  I wondered  how 
many  other  clerks  there  were  up-stairs,  and  whe- 
ther they  all  claimed  to  have  the  same  detrimen- 
tal mastery  of  their  fellow-creatures.  I wonder- 
ed what  was  the  history  of  all  the  odd  litter 
about  the  room,  and  how  it  came  there.  I wonder- 
ed whether  the  two  swollen  faces  were  of  Mr.  Jag- 
gers’s family,  and,  if  he  were  so  unfortunate  as  to 
have  had  a pair  of  such  ill-looking  relations,  why 
he  stuck  them  on  that  dusty  perch  for  the  blacks 
and  flies  to  settle  on,  instead  of  giving  them  a 
place  at  home. — Great  Expectations , Chap.  20. 

LAWYER  — His  enjoyment  of  embarrass- 
ments. 

Mr.  Rugg’s  enjoyment  of  embarrassed  affairs 
was  like  a housekeeper’s  enjoyment  in  pickling 
and  preserving,  or  a washerwoman’s  enjoyment 
of  a heavy  wash,  or  a dustman’s  enjoyment  of 
an  overflowing  dust-bin,  or  any  other  profes- 
sional enjoyment  of  a mess  in  the  way  of  busi* 
ness. — Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  28. 


LAWYER 


268 


LAWYER 


LAWYER-His  office,  clerks,  etc. 

The  house  was  dark  and  shabby,  and  the 
greasy  shoulders  that  had  left  their  mark  in  Mr. 
Jaggers’s  room,  seemed  to  have  been  shuffling  up 
and  down  the  staircase  for  years.  In  the  front 
first  floor,  a clerk  who  looked  something  be- 
tween a publican  and  a rat-catcher — a large  pale, 
puffed,  swollen  man — was  attentively  engaged 
with  three  or  four  people  of  shabby  appearance, 
whom  he  treated  as  unceremoniously  as  every- 
body seemed  to  be  treated  who  contributed  to 
Mr.  Jaggers’s  coffers.  “ Getting  evidence  to- 
gether,” said  Mr.  Wemmick,  as  we  came  out, 
“for  the  Bailey.”  In  the  room  over  that,  a lit- 
tle flabby  terrier  of  a clerk  with  dangling  hair 
(his  cropping  seemed  to  have  been  forgotten 
when  he  was  a puppy)  was  similarly  engaged 
with  a man  with  weak  eyes,  whom  Mr.  \Vem- 
miek  presented  to  me  as  a smelter  who  kept  his 
pot  always  boiling,  and  who  would  melt  me 
any  thing  I pleased — and  who  was  in  an  exces- 
sive white-perspiration,  as  if  he  had  been  trying 
his  art  on  himself.  In  a back  room,  a high- 
shouldered man  with  a face-ache  tied  up  in  dirty 
flannel,  who  was  dressed  in  old  black  clothes 
that  bore  the  appearance  of  having  been  waxed, 
was  stooping  over  his  work  of  making  fair 
copies  of  the  notes  of  the  other  two  gentlemen 
for  Mr.  Jaggers’s  own  use. 

This  was  all  the  establishment.  When  we 
went  down-stairs  again,  Wemmick  led  me  into 
my  guardian’s  room,  and  said,  “ This  you’ve 
seen  already.” 

“ Pray,”  said  I,  as  the  two  odious  casts  with 
the  twitchy  leer  upon  them  caught  my  sight 
again,  “ whose  likenesses  are  those  ?” 

“These?”  said  Wemmick,  getting  upon  a 
chair,  and  blowing  the  dust  off  the  horrible 
heads  before  bringing  them  down.  “ These  are 
two  celebrated  ones.  Famous  clients  of  ours, 
that  got  us  a world  of  credit.  This  chap  (why 
you  must  have  come  down  in  the  night  and  been 
peeping  into  the  inkstand,  to  get  this  blot  upon 
your  eyebrow,  you  old  rascal  !)  murdered  his 
master,  and  considering  that  he  wasn’t  brought 
up  to  evidence,  didn’t  plan  it  badly.” 

“ Is  it  like  him?  ” I asked,  recoiling  from  the 
brute,  as  Wemmick  spat  upon  his  eyebrow  and 
gave  it  a rub  with  his  sleeve. 

“ Like  him  ? It’s  himself,  you  know.  The 
cast  w'as  made  in  Newgate,  directly  after  he  was 
taken  down.” 

“ Did  that  other  creature  come  to  the  same 
end?”  1 asked.  “ Pie  has  the  same  look.” 

“You’re  right,”  said  Wemmick;  “it’s  the 
genuine  look.  Much  as  if  one  nostril  was 
caught  up  with  a horsehair  and  a little  fish-hook. 
Yes,  he  came  to  the  same  end  ; quite  the  natural 
end  here,  I assure  you.  He  forged  wills,  this 
blade  did,  if  he  didn’t  also  put  the  supposed 
testators  to  sleep  too.  You  were  a gentlemanly 
Cove,  though”  (Mr.  Wemmick  was  again  apos- 
trophising), “and  you  said  you  could  write 
Greek.  Yah,  Bounceable ! What  a liar  you 
I never  met  uch  a liar  as  you  ! ” Before 
putting  his  late  friend  on  his  shelf  again,  Wem- 
mick touched  the  largest  of  his  mourning  rings, 
and  said,  “ Sent  out  to  buy  it  for  me,  only  the 
day  before.” 

While  he  was  putting  up  the  other  cast  and 
c Muing  down  from  the  chair,  the  thought  crossed 
my  mijul , that  all  his  personal  jewelry  was  de- 
rived from  like  sources.  As  he  had  shown  no 


diffidence  on  the  subject,  I ventured  on  the 
liberty  of  asking  him  the  question,  when  he 
stood  before  me,  dusting  his  hands. 

“ Oh  yes,”  he  returned,  “ these  are  all  gifts  of 
that  kind.  One  brings  another,  you  see  ; that’s 
the  way  of  it.  I always  take  ’em.  They’re 
curiosities.  And  they’re  property.  They  may 
not  be  worth  much,  but,  after  all,  they’re  pro- 
perty and  portable.  It  don’t  signify  to  you, 
with  your  brilliant  look-out,  but  as  to  myself, 
my  guiding  star  always  is,  get  hold  of  portable 
property.” — Great  Expectations , Chap.  24. 

LAW  TERMS-Sam  Weller  on. 

“ Wot  do  you  mean  by  leavin’  it  on  trust?” 
inquired  Sam,  waking  up  a little.  “ If  it  ain’t 
ready  money,  were’s  the  use  on  it?  ” 

“ It’s  a law  term,  that’s  all,”  said  the  cobbler. 

“ I don’t  think  that,”  said  Sam,  shaking  his 
head.  “ There’s  wery  little  trust  in  that  shop. 
Plows’ever,  go  on.” 

“ Well,”  said  the  cobbler : “ when  I ‘was  going 
to  take  out"  a probate  of  the  will,  the  nieces  and 
nevys,  who  was  desperately  disappointed  at  not 
getting  all  the  money,  enters  a caveat  against  it.” 

“What’s  that?”  inquired  Sam. 

“ A legal  instrument,  which  is  as  much  as  to 
say,  it’s  no  go,”  replied  the  cobbler. 

“ I see,”  said  Sam,  “ a sort  of  brother-in-law 
o’  the  lmve-his  carcase.” — Pickwick , Chap.  44. 

LAWYER— His  individuality. 

The  man  who  was  gradually  becoming  more 
and  more  etherealized  in  my  eyes  every  day,  and 
about  whom  a reflected  radiance  seemed  to  me 
to  beam  when  he  sat  erect  in  Court  among  his 
papers,  like  a little  lighthouse  in  a sea  of  sta- 
tionery.— David  Copperjield , Chap.  33. 

LAWYER- And  client. 

“ Sir,”  returns  Vholes,  always  looking  at  the 
client,  as  if  he  were  making  a lingering  meal  of 
him  with  his  eyes  as  well  as  with  his  professional 
appetite. — Bleak  House , Chap.  39. 

LAWYER -And  client. 

Mr.  Vholes,  and  his  young  client,  and  several 
blue  bags,  hastily  stuffed  out  of  all  regularity  of 
form,  as  the  larger  sort  of  serpents  are  in  their 
first  gorged  state,  have  returned  to  the  official 
den.  Mr.  .Vholes,  quiet  and  unmoved,  as  a man 
of  so  much  respectability  ought  to  be,  takes  off 
his  close  black  gloves  as  if  he  were  skinning  his 
hands,  lifts  off  his  tight  hat  as  if  he  were  scalp- 
ing himself,  and  sits  down  at  his  desk.  The 
client  throws  his  hat  and  gloves  upon  the  ground 
— tosses  them  anywhere,  without  looking  after 
them  or  caring  where  they  go  ; flings  himself 
into  a chair,  half-sighing  and  half-groaning; 
rests  his  aching  head  upon  his  hand,  and  looks 
the  portrait  of  Young  Despair. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  39. 

LAWYER— Appearance  of  Serjeant  Snub- 
bin. 

Mr.  Serjeant  Snubbin  was  a lantern-faced, 

1 sallow-complexioned  man  of  about  five  and 
forty,  or — as  the  novels  say — he  might  be  fifty.] 
lie  had  that  dull-looking  boiled  eye  which  i» 
often  to  be  seen  in  the  heads  of  people  who 
have  applied  themselves  during  many  years  tqfl 
weary  and  laborious  course  of  study  ; and  whieM 
would  have  been  sufficient,  without  the  addition-J 


LAWYERS' 


267 


LAWYERS’  CLERKS. 


al  eye  glass  which  dangled  from  a broad  black 
riband  round  his  neck,  to  warn  a stranger  that 
he  was  very  near-sighted.  His  hair  was  thin 
and  weak,  which  was  partly  attributable  to  his 
having  never  devoted  much  time  to  its  arrange- 
ment, and  partly  to  his  having  worn  for  five-and- 
twenty  years  the  forensic  wig  which  hung  on  a 
block  beside  him.  The  marks  of  hair-powder 
on  his  coat-collar,  and  the  ill-washed  and  worse- 
tied  white  neckerchief  round  his  throat,  showed 
that  he  had  not  found  leisure  since  he  left  the 
court  to  make  any  alteration  in  his  dress  ; while 
the  slovenly  style  of  the  remainder  of  his  cos- 
tume warranted  the  inference  that  his  personal 
appearance  would  not  have  been  very  much 
improved  if  he  had.  Books  of  practice,  heaps 
of  papers,  and  opened  letters,  were  scattered 
over  the  table,  without  any  attempt  at  order  or 
arrangement ; the  furniture  of  the  room  was  old 
and  rickety  ; the  doors  of  the  book-case  were 
rotting  in  their  hinges  ; the  dust  flew  out  from 
the  carpet  in  little  clouds  at  every  step  ; the 
blinds  were  yellow  with  age  and  dirt  ; the  state 
of  everything  in  the  room  showed,  with  a clear- 
ness not  to  be  mistaken,  that  Mr.  Serjeant 
Snubbin  was  far  too  much  occupied  with  his  pro- 
fessional pursuits  to  take  any  great  heed  or  re- 
gard of  his  personal  comforts. 

Pickwick , Chap . 31. 

LAWYERS. 

I despised  them,  to  a man.  Frozen-out  old 
gardeners  in  the  flower-beds  of  the  heart,  I 
took  a personal  offence  against  them  all.  The 
Bench  was  nothing  to  me  but  an  insensible 
blunderer.  The  Bar  had  no  more  tenderness  or 
poetry  in  it,  than  the  Bar  of  a public-house. 

David  Copper  fie  Id,  Chap.  33. 

LAWYERS— Always  inquisitive. 

“We  lawyers  are  always  curious,  always  in- 
quisitive, always  picking  up  odds  and  ends  for 
our  patchwork  minds,  since  there  is  no  knowing 
when  and  where  they  may  fit  into  some  corner.” 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  II.,  Chap.  12. 

LAWYERS  AND  CLIENT  - (Dodson  and 

Fog-gO. 

“ Perhaps  you  would  like  to  call  us  swindlers, 
sir,”  said  Dodson.  “ Pray  do,  sir,  if  you  feel 
disposed;  now  pray  do,  sir.” 

“ I do,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  “You  are  swin- 
dlers.” 

“Very  good,”  said  Dodson.  “ You  can  hear 
down  there,  I hope,  Mr.  Wicks?” 

“Oh  yes,  sir,”  said  Wicks. 

“ You  had  better  come  up  a step  or  two  higher, 
if  you  can’t,”  added  Mr.  Fogg.  “Go  on,  sir; 
do  go  on.  You  had  better  call  us  thieves,  sir  ; 
or  perhaps  you  would  like  to  assault  one  of  us. 
Pray  do  it,  sir,  if  you  would  : we  will  not  make 
the  smallest  resistance.  Pray  do  it,  sir.” 

As  Fogg  put  himself  very  temptingly  within 
the  reach  of  Mr.  Pickwick’s  clenched  fist,  there 
is  little  doubt  that  that  gentleman  would  have 
complied  with  his  earnest  entreaty,  but  for  the 
interposition  of  Sam,  who,  hearing  the  dispute, 
emerged  from  the  office,  mounted  the  stairs,  and 
seized  his  master  by  the  arm. 

“You  just  come  avay,”  said  Mr.  Weller. 
“ Battledore  and  shuttlecock’s  a wery  good 
game,  vhen  you  an’t  the  shuttlecock  and  two 
lawyers  the  battledores,  in  which  case  it  gets  too 


excitin’  to  be  pleasant.  Come  avay,  sir.  If  you 
want  to  ease  your  mind  by  blowing  up  some- 
body, come  out  into  the  court  and  blow  up  me  ; 
but  it’s  rayther  too  expensive  work  to  be  carried 
on  here.” — Pickwick,  Chap.  20. 

LAWYERS— And  their  own  prescriptions. 

As  Doctors  seldom  take  their  own  prescript 
tions,  and  Divines  do  not  always  practice  what 
they  preach,  so  lawyers  are  shy  of  meddling 
witla  the  Law  on  their  own  account : knowing 
it  to  be  an  edged  tool  of  uncertain  application, 
very  expensive  in  the  working,  and  rather  re- 
markable for  its  properties  of  close  shaving  than 
for  its  always  shaving  the  right  person. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  37. 

LAWYERS-Like  undertakers. 

We  were  a little  like  undertakers,  in  the 
Commons,  as  regarded  Probate  transactions  ; 
generally  making  it  a rule  to  look  more  or  less 
cut  up,  when  we  had  to  deal  with  clients  in 
mourning.  In  a similar  feeling  of  delicacy,  we 
were  always  blithe  and  light-hearted  with  the 
licence  clients. — David  Copperfield , Chap.  33. 

LAWYERS— Their  distrustful  nature. 

“ Gentlemen  of  your  profession,  sir,”  continued 
Mr.  Pickwick,  “ see  the  worst  side  of  human 
nature.  All  its  disputes,  all  its  ill-will  and  bad 
blood,  rise  up  before  you.  You  know  from  your 
experience  of  juries  (I  mean  no  disparagement  to 
you,  or  them)  how  much  depends  upon  effect : and 
you  are  apt  to  attribute  to  others,  a desire  to  use, 
for  purposes  of  deception  and  self-interest,  the 
very  instruments  which  you,  in  pure  honesty  and 
honor  of  purpose,  and  with  a laudable  desire  to 
do  your  utmost  for  your  client,  know  the  temper 
and  worth  of  so  well,  from  constantly  employing 
them  yourselves.  I really  believe  that  to  this 
circumstance  may  be  attributed  the  vulgar  but 
very  general  notion  of  your  being,  as  a body,  sus- 
picious, distrustful,  and  over-cautious.  Conscious 
as  I am,  sir,  of  the  disadvantage  of  making  such  a 
declaration  to  you,  under  such  circumstances,  I 
have  come  here,  because  I wish  you  distinctly  to 
understand,  as  my  friend  Mr.  Perker  has  said, 
that  I am  innocent  of  the  falsehood  laid  to  my 
charge  ; and  although  I am  very  well  aware  of  the 
inestimable  value  of  your  assistance,  sir,  I must 
beg  to  add,  that  unless  you  sincerely  believe  this, 
I would  rather  be  deprived  of  the  aid  of  your 
talents  than  have  the  advantage  of  them.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  31. 

LAWYERS’  CLERKS- And  offices. 

Scattered  about  in  various  holes  and  corners 
of  the  Temple,  are  certain  dark  and  dirty  cham- 
bers, in  and  out  of  which,  all  the  morning  in  Vaca- 
tion,.and  half  the  evening  too  in  Term  time,  there 
may  be  seen  constantly  hurrying  with  bundles  of 
papers  under  their  arms,  and  protruding  from 
their  pockets,  an  almost  uninterrupted  succession 
of  Lawyers’  Clerks.  There  are  several  grades  of 
Lawyers’  Clerks.  There  is  the  Articled  Clerk, 
who  has  paid  a premium,  and  is  an  attorney  in 
perspective,  who  runs  a tailor’s  bill,  receives  in- 
vitations to  parties,  knows  a family  in  Gower 
Street,  and  another  in  Tavistock  Square  : who 
goes  out  of  town  every  Long  Vacation  to  see  his 
I father,  who  keeps  live  horses  innumerable  ; and 
I who  is,  in  short,  the  very  aristocrat  of  cleiks. 
1 There  is  the  salaried  clerk— out  of  door,  or  in  door. 


LAWYERS 


268 


LEGISLATORS 


as  the  case  may  be — who  devotes  the  major  part 
of  his  thirty  shillings  a week  to  his  personal  pleas- 
ure and  adornment,  repairs  half  price  to  the  Adel- 
phi  Theatre  at  least  three  times  a week,  dissi- 
pates majestically  at  the  Cider  Cellars  afterwards, 
and  is  a dirty  caricature  of  the  fashion  which  ex- 
pired six  months  ago.  There  is  the  middle-aged 
copying-clerk,  with  a large  family,  who  is  always 
shabby,  and  often  drunk.  And  there  are  the  office 
lads  in  their  first  surtouts,  who  feel  a befitting 
contempt  for  boys  at  day-schools  ; club  as  they  go 
home  at  night,  for  saveloys  and  porter  ; and  think 
there’s  nothing  like  “ life.”  There  are  varieties 
of  the  genus,  too  numerous  to  recapitulate,  but 
however  numerous  they  may  be,  they  are  all  to  be 
seen,  at  certain  regulated  business  hours,  hurrying 
to  and  from  the  places  we  have  just  mentioned. 

These  sequestered  nooks  are  the  public  offices 
of  the  legal  profession,  where  writs  are  issued, 
judgments  signed,  declarations  filed,  and  numer- 
ous other  ingenious  machines  put  in  motion  for 
the  torture  and  torment  of  His  Majesty’s  liege 
subjects,  and  the  comfort  and  emolument  of  the 
practitioners  of  the  law.  They  are,  for  the  most 
part,  low-roofed,  mouldy  rooms,  where  innumera- 
ble rolls  of  parchment,  which  have  been  perspir- 
ing in  secret  for  the  last  century,  send  forth  an 
agreeable  odor,  which  is  mingled  by  day  with  the 
scent  of  the  dry  rot,  and  by  night  with  the  various 
exhalations  which  arise  from  damp  cloaks,  fester- 
ing umbrellas,  and  the  coarsest  tallow  candles. 

Pickwick , Chap.  31. 

LAWYERS— Office  of  Snitchey  and  Crag-g-s. 

Snitchey  and  Craggs  had  a snug  little  office 
on  the  old  Battle  Ground,  where  they  drove  a 
snug  little  business,  and  fought  a great  many 
small  pitched  battles  for  a great  many  contend- 
ing parties.  Though  it  could  hardly  be  said 
of  these  conflicts  that  they  were  running  fights 
— for  in  truth  they  generally  proceeded  at  a 
snail’s  pace — the  part  the  Firm  had  in  them 
came  so  far  within  the  general  denomination, 
that  now  they  took  a shot  at  this  Plaintiff,  and 
now  aimed  a chop  at  that  Defendant,  now  made 
a heavy  charge  at  an  estate  in  Chancery,  and 
now  had  some  light  skirmishing  among  an  ir- 
regular body  of  small  debtors,  just  as  the  occa- 
sion served,  and  the  enemy  happened  to  pre- 
sent himself.  The  Gazette  was  an  important 
and  profitable  feature  in  some  of  their  fields,  as 
in  fields  of  greater  renown  ; and  in  most  of  the 
Actions  wherein  they  showed  their  generalship, 
it  was  afterwards  observed  by  the  combatants 
that  they  had  had  great  difficulty  in  making 
each  other  out,  or  in  knowing  with  any  degree 
of  distinctness  what  they  were  about,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  vast  amount  of  smoke  by  which 
they  were  surrounded. 

'Phe  offices  of  Messrs.  Snitchey  and  Craggs 
stood  convenient,  with  an  open  door  down  two 
smooth  steps,  in  the  market-place ; so  that  any 
angry  farmer  inclining  towards  hot  water,  might 
tumble  into  it  at  once.  Their  special  council- 
chamber  and  hall  of  conference  was  an  old  back 
room  up-stairs,  with  a low  dark  ceiling,  which 
seemed  to  be  knitting  its  brows  gloomily  in  the 
consideration  of  tangled  points  of  law.  It  was 
furnished  with  some  high-backed  leathern  chairs, 
garnished  with  great  goggle-eyed  brass  nails,  of 
which,  every  here  and  there,  two  or  three  had 
fallen  out — or  had  been  picked  out,  perhaps  by 
the  wandering  thumbs  and  forefingers  of  be- 


wildered clients.  There  was  a framed  print  of 
a great  judge  in  it,  every  curl  in  whose  dreadful 
wig  had  made  a man’s  hair  stand  on  end.  Bales 
of  papers  filled  the  dusty  closets,  shelves,  and  ta- 
bles ; and  round  the  wainscot  tnere  were  tiers 
of  boxes,  padlocked  and  fire-proof,  with  peo- 
ple’s names  painted  outside,  which  anxious  visi- 
tors felt  themselves,  by  a cruel  enchantment, 
obliged  to  spell  backwards  and  forwards,  and  to 
make  anagrams  of,  while  they  sat  seeming  to 
listen  to  Snitchey  and  Craggs,  without  compre- 
hending one  word  of  what  they  said. 

***** 

In  this  office,  nevertheless,  Snitchey  and 
Craggs  made  honey  for  their  several  hives. 
Here,  sometimes,  they  would  linger  of  a fine 
evening,  at  the  window  of  their  council-cham- 
ber, overlooking  the  old  battle-ground,  and 
wonder  (but  that  was  generally  at  assize  time, 
when  much  business  had  made  them  sentiment- 
al) at  the  folly  of  mankind,  who  couldn’t  always 
be  at  peace  with  one  another  and  go  to  law 
comfortably. — Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  2. 

LEAVE— Taking:. 

“My  time  being  rather  precious,”  said  Mr. 
Merdle,  suddenly  getting  up,  as  if  he  had  been 
waiting  in  the  interval  for  his  legs,  and  they  had 
just  come. — Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  16. 

LEGACIES— “ Hankering:  after.” 

* * * added  Mr.  Weller,  “for  it’s  a rum 

sort  o’  thing,  Sammy,  to  go  a hankerin’  arter  any- 
body’s property,  ven  you’re  assistin’  ’em  in  ill- 
ness. It’s  like  helping  an  outside  passenger  up, 
ven  he’s  been  pitched  off  a coach,  and  puttin’ 
your  hand  in  his  pocket,  vile  you  ask  him  vith  a 
sigh  how  he  finds  his-self,  Sammy.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  55. 

LEGISLATORS— American. 

I was  sometimes  asked,  in  my  progress  through 
other  places,  whether  I had  not  been  very  much 
impressed  by  the  heads  of  the  lawmakers  at 
Washington  ; meaning  not  their  chiefs  and  lead- 
ers, but  literally  their  individual  and  personal 
heads,  whereon  their  hair  grew,  and  whereby 
the  phrenological  character  of  each  legislator 
was  expressed  ; and  I almost  as  often  struck  my 
questioner  dumb  with  indignant  consternation 
by  answering!  “ No,  that  I didn’t  remember  be- 
ing at  all  overcome.”  As  I must,  at  whatever 
hazard,  repeat  the  avowal  here,  I will  follow  it 
up  by  relating  my  impressions  on  this  subject 
in  as  few  words  as  possible. 

In  the  first  place — it  may  be  from  some  im- 
perfect development  of  my  organ  of  veneration 
— I do  not  remember  having  ever  fainted  away, 
or  having  even  been  moved  to  tears  of  joyful 
pride,  at  sight  of  any  legislative  body.  I have 
borne  the  House  of  Commons  like  a man,  and 
have  yielded  to  no  weakness  but  slumber  in  the 
House  of  Lords.  I have  seen  elections  for  bor- 
ough and  county,  and  have  never  been  impelled 
(no  matter  which  party  won)  to  damage  my  hat 
by  throwing  it  up  into  the  air  in  triumph,  or  to 
crack  my  voice  by  shouting  forth  any  reference 
to  our  Glorious  Constitution,  to  the  noble  purity 
of  our  independent  voters,  or  the  unimpeacha- 
ble integrity  of  our  independent  members.  Hav- 
ing withstood  such  strong  attacks  upon  my  for- 
titude, it  is  possible  that  I may  be  of  a cold  and 
insensible  temperament,  amounting  to  iciness, 


LEGS 


269 


LIBRARY 


in  such  matters  ; and  therefore  my  impressions 
of  the  live  pillars  of  the  Capitol  at  Washington 
must  be  received  with  such  grains  of  allowance 
as  this  free  confession  may  seem  to  demand. 

American  Notes , Chap.  8. 

LEGS. 

“ You  had  better  step  into  the  marquee,  I 
think,  sir,”  said  one  very  stout  gentleman,  whose 
body  and  legs  looked  like  half  a gigantic  roll  of 
flannel,  elevated  on  a couple  of  inflated  pillow- 
cases.— Pickwick , Chap.  7. 

LEGS— Simon  Tappertit’s. 

Mr.  Tappertit  condescended  to  take  the  glass 
from  his  outstretched  hand.  Stagg  then  dropped 
on  one  knee,  and  gently  smoothed  the  calves  of 
his  legs,  with  an  air  of  humble  admiration. 

“ That  I had  but  eyes  ! ” he  cried,  “ to  behold 
my  captain’s  symmetrical  proportions!  That 
I had  but  eyes,  to  look  upon  these  twin  invad- 
ers of  domestic  peace  ! ” 

Barnaby  Pudge,  Chap.  8. 

“ Have  my  ears  deceived  me,”  said  the  ’Pren- 
tice. “ or  do  J dream  ! am  I to  thank  thee,  For- 
tun’,  or  to  cuss  thee — which  ? ” 

He  gravely  descended  from  his  elevation, 
took  down  his  piece  of  looking-glass,  planted  it 
against  the  wall  upon  the  usual  bench,  twisted 
his  head  round,  and  looked  closely  at  his  legs. 

“ If  they’re  a dream,”  said  Sim,  “ let  sculp- 
tures have  such  wisions,  and  chisel  ’em  out 
when  they  wake.  This  is  reality.  Sleep  has 
no  such  limbs  as  them.  Tremble,  Willet,  and 
despair.” — Barnaby  Pudge,  Chap.  31. 

LEGS— Of  Tilly  Slowboy. 

If  I might  be  allowed  to  mention  a young 
lady’s  legs,  on  any  terms,  I would  observe  of 
Miss  Slowboy’s,  that  there  was  a fatality  about 
them  which  rendered  them  singularly  liable  to 
be  grazed  ; and  that  she  never  effected  the 
smallest  ascent  or  descent,  without  recording  the 
circumstance  upon  them  with  a notch,  as  Rob- 
inson Crusoe  marked  the  days  upon  his  wooden 
calendar.  But  as  this  might  be  considered  un- 
genteel,  I’ll  think  of  it. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  2. 

LETTER— From  Miss  Fanny  Squeers. 

“ Dotheboys  Hall,  Thursday  Morning. 

“ Sir  : — My  pa  requests  me  to  w'rite  to  you, 
the  doctors  considering  it  doubtful  whether  he 
will  ever  recuvver  the  use  of  his  legs  which  pre- 
vents his  holding  a pen. 

“We  are  in  a state  of  mind  beyond  everything, 
and  my  pa  is  one  mask  of  brooses  both  blue 
and  green  likewise  two  forms  are  steepled  in  his 
Goar.  We  were  kimpelled  to  have  him  carried 
down  into  the  kitchen  where  he  now  lays.  You 
will  judge  from  this  that  he  has  been  brought 
very  low. 

“ When  your  nevew  that  you  recommended 
for  a teacher  had  done  this  to  my  pa  and  jumped 
upon  his  body  with  his  feet  and  also  langvvedge 
which  I shall  not  pollewt  my  pen  with  describ- 
ing, he  assaulted  my  ma  with  dreadful  violence, 
dashed  her  to  the  earth,  and  drove  her  back 
comb  several  inches  into  her  head.  A very  little 
more  and  it  must  have  entered  her  skull.  We 
have  a medical  certifiket  that  if  it  had,  the  tor- 
tershell  would  have  affected  the  brain. 


“ Me  and  my  brother  were  then  the  victims  of 
his  feury  since  which  we  have  suffered  very 
much  which  leads  us  to  the  arrowing  belief 
that  we  have  received  some  injury  in  our  insides, 
especially  as  no  marks  of  violence  are  visible  ex- 
ternally. I am  screaming  out  loud  all  the  time 
I write  and  so  is  my  brother  which  takes  off  my 
attention  rather  and  I hope  will  excuse  mis- 
takes. 

“ The  monster  having  sasiated  his  thirst  for 
blood  ran  away,  taking  with  him  a boy  of  des- 
perate caracter  that  he  had  excited  to  rebellyon, 
and  a garnet  ring  belonging  to  my  ma,  and  not 
having  been  apprehended  by  the  constables  is 
supposed  to  have  been  took  up  by  some  stage- 
coach. My  pa  begs  that  if  he  comes  to  you  the 
ring  may  be  returned,  and  that  you  will  let  the 
thief  and  assassin  go,  as  if  we  prosecuted  him 
he  would  only  be  transported,  and  if  he  is  let 
go  he  is  sure  to  be  hung  before  long  which  will 
save  us  trouble  and  be  much  more  satisfactory. 
Hoping  to  hear  from  you  when  convenient 
“ I remain  yours  and  cetrer 

“ Fanny  Squeers. 

“ P.  S.  I pity  his  ignorance  and  despise  him..” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  15. 

LETTER  WRITING— Peg-g-otty’s. 

To  these  communications  Peggotty  replied  as 
promptly,  if  not  as  concisely,  as  a merchant’s 
clerk.  Her  utmost  powers  of  expression  (which 
were  certainly  not  great  in  ink)  were  exhausted 
in  the  attempt  to  write  what  she  felt  on  the  sub- 
ject of  my  journey.  Four  sides  of  incoherent 
and  interjectional  beginnings  of  sentences,  that 
had  no  end,  except  blots,  were  inadequate  to 
afford  her  any  relief.  But  the  blots  were  more 
expressive  to  me  than  the  best  composition  ; 
for  they  showed  me  that  Peggotty  had  been  cry- 
ing all  over  the  paper,  and  what  could  I have 
desired  more  ? — David  Copperjield,  Chap.  1 7. 

LIBERTY— In  America. 

“Lord  love  you,  sir,”  he  added,  “they’re  so 
fond  of  liberty  in  this  part  of  the  globe,  that 
they  buy  her  and  sell  her  and  carry  her  to  mar- 
ket with  ’em.  They’ve  such  a passion  for  Lib- 
erty, that  they  can’t  help  taking  liberties  with 
her.  That’s  what  it’s  owing  to.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  17. 

LIBRARY— An  unsocial. 

Ugh!  They  were  black,  cold  rooms;  and 
seemed  to  be  in  mourning,  like  the  inmates  of 
the  house.  The  books,  precisely  matched  as  to 
size,  and  drawn  up  in  line,  like  soldiers,  looked 
in  their  cold,  hard,  slippery  uniforms,  as  if  they 
had  but  one  idea  among  them,  and  that  was  a 
freezer.  The  bookcase,  glazed  and  locked,  repu- 
diated all  familiarities.  Mr.  Pitt,  in  bronze  on 
the  top,  with  no  trace  of  his  celestial  origin 
about  him,  guarded  the  unattainable  treasure 
like  an  enchanted  Moor.  A dusty  urn  at  each 
high  corner,  dug  up  from  an  ancient  tomb, 
preached  desolation  and  decay,  as  from  two  pul- 
pits ; and  the  chimney-glass,  reflecting  Mr. 
Dombey  and  his  portrait  at  one  blow,  seemed 
fraught  with  melancholy  meditations. 

The  stiff  and  stark  fire-irons  appeared  to  claim 
a nearer  relationship  than  anything  else  there  to 
Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  buttoned  coat,  his  white 
cravat,  his  heavy,  gold  watch-chain,  and  his 
creaking  boots. — Dombey  Son,  Chap.  5. 


LIES  270  LIFE 


LIES. 

“ There’s  one  thing  you  may  be  sure  of,  Pip,” 
said  Joe,  after  some  rumination,  “namely,  that 
lies  is  lies.  Howsever  they  come,  they  didn’t 
ought  to  come,  and  they  come  from  the  father 
of  lies,  and  work  round  to  the  same.  Don’t  you 
tell  no  more  of  ’em,  Pip.  That  ain’t  the  way  to 
get  out  of  being  common,  old  chap.” 

* * * * * 

“ Lookee  here,  Pip,  at  what  is  said  to  you  by 
a true  friend.  Which  this  to  you  the  true  friend 
say.  If  you  can’t  get  to  be  oncommon  through 
going  straight,  you’ll  never  get  to  do  it  through 
going  crooked.  So  don’t  tell  no  more  on  ’em, 
Pip,  and  live  well  and  die  happy  ! ” 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  9. 

LIGHT— At  nigiit. 

It  shone  from  what  happened  to  be  an  old 
oriel  window,  and  being  surrounded  by  the  deep 
shadows  of  overhanging  walls,  sparkled  like  a 
star.  Bright  and  glimmering  as  the  stars  above 
their  beads,  lonely  and  motionless  as  they,  it 
seemed  to  claim  some  kindred  with  the  eternal 
lamps  of  Heaven,  and  to  burn  in  fellowship 
with  them. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  70. 

LIGHT-HOUSE. 

There  the  sea  was  tumbling  in,  with  deep 
sounds,  after  dark,  and  the  revolving  French 
light  on  Cape  Grinez  was  seen  regularly  burst- 
ing out  and  becoming  obscured,  as  if  the  head 
of  a gigantic  light-keeper  in  an  anxious  state  of 
mind  were  interposed  every  half-minute,  to  look 
how  it  was  burning. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  7. 

LIGHTS -The  street. 

He  was  passing  at  nightfall  along  the  Strand, 
and  the  lamplighter  was  going  on  before  him, 
under  whose  hand  the  street-lamps,  blurred  by 
the  foggy  air,  burst  out  one  after  another,  like 
so  many  blazing  sunflowers  coming  into  full- 
blow  all  at  once. — Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  9. 

LIFE— A barg-ain  across  a counter. 

It  was  a fundamental  principle  of  the  Grad- 
grind  philosophy,  that  everything  was  to  be  paid 
for.  Nobody  was  ever  on  any  account  to  give 
anybody  anything,  or  render  anybody  help  with- 
out purchase.  Gratitude  was  to  be  abolished, 
and  the  virtues  springing  from  it  were  not  to  be. 
Every  inch  of  the  existence  of  mankind,  from 
birth  to  death,  was  to  be  a bargain  across  a 
counter.  And  if  we  didn’t  get  to  Heaven  that 
way,  it  was  not  a politico-economical  place,  and 
we  had  no  business  there. 

Hard  Times , Book  III. , Chap.  8. 

LIFE— A burden  to  Sim  Tappertit. 

“ I am  as  well,  sir,”  said  Sim,  standing  up  to 
get  nearer  to  his  ear,  and  whispering  hoarsely, 
“as  any  man  can  be  under  the  aggrawations  to 
which  I am  exposed.  My  life’s  a burden  to  me. 
If  it  wasn’t  for  wengeance,  I’d  play  at  pitch  and 
toss  with  it  on  the  losing  hazard.” 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  27. 

LIFE  A chequered. 

We  have  been  greatly  assisted  by  Mr.  Bung 
himself,  who  has  imposed  on  us  a debt  of  obli- 
gation which  we  fear  we  can  never  repay.  The 
life  of  this  gentleman  has  been  one  of  a very 


chequered  description  : he  has  undergone  trans- 
itions— not  from  grave  to  gay,  for  lie  never  was 
grave — not  from  lively  to  severe,  for  severity 
forms  no  part  of  his  disposition  ; his  fluctuations 
have  been  between  poverty  in  the  extreme,  and 
poverty  modified,  or,  to  use  his  own  emphatic 
language,  “ between  nothing  to  eat  and  just  half 
enough.”  He  is  not,  as  he  forcibly  remarks, 
“ one  of  those  unfortunate  men  who,  if  they 
were  to  dive  under  one  side  of  a barge  stark- 
naked,  would  come  up  on  the  other  with  a new 
suit  of  clothes  on,  and  a ticket  for  soup  in  the 
waistcoat-pocket:”  neither  is  he  one  of  those, 
whose  spirit  has  been  broken  beyond  redemp- 
tion by  misfortune  and  want.  He  is  just  one 
of  the  careless,  good-for-nothing,  happy  fellows, 
who  float,  cork-like,  on  the  surface,  for  the  world 
to  play  at  hockey  with  ; knocked  here,  and  there, 
and  everywhere  : now  to  the  right,  then  to  the 
left,  again  up  in  the  air,  and  anon  to  the  bottom, 
but  always  reappearing  and  bounding  with  the 
stream  buoyantly  and  merrily  along. 

Sketches  (Scenes),  Chap.  5. 

LIFE— A contented. 

Our  reunited  life  was  more  than  all  that  we 
had  looked  forward  to.  Content  and  joy  went 
with  us  as  the  wheels  of  the  two  carts  went 
round,  and  the  same  stopped  with  us  when  the 
two  carts  stopped.  I was  as  pleased  and  as 
proud  as  a Pug-Dog'  with  his  muzzle  black- 
leaded  for  an  evening  party,  and  his  tail  extra 
curled  by  machinery. — Dr.  Marigold. 

LIFE— An  embodied  conundrum. 

When  I became  enough  of  a man  to  find  my- 
self an  embodied  conundrum,  I bored  myself 
to  the  last  degree  by  trying  to  find  out  what  I 
meant.  You  know  that  at  length  I gave  it  up, 
and  declined  to  guess  any  more. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  II.,  Chap.  6. 

LIFE— A game. 

“ I don’t  stand  up  for  life  in  general,”  he 
added,  rubbing  his  hands  and  chuckling,  “ it’s 
full  of  folly  ; full  of  something  worse.  Profes- 
sions of  trust,  and  confidence,  and  unselfishness, 
and  all  that ! Bah,  bah,  bah  ! We  see  what 
they’re  worth.  But  you  mustn’t  laugh  at  life  ; 
you’ve  got  a game  to  play  ; a very  serious  game 
indeed  ! Everybody’s  playing  against  you,  you 
know,  and  you’re  playing  against  them.  Oh  ! it’s 
a very  interesting  thing.  There  are  deep  moves 
upon  the  board.  You  must  only  laugh,  Doctor 
Jeddler,  when  you  win — and  then  not  much.  He, 
he,  he  ! And  then  not  much,’  repeated  Snitchey, 
rolling  his  head  and  winking  his  eye,  as  if  he 
would  have  added,  “you  may  do  this  instead  ! ” 

“ Well,  Alfred  ! ” cried  the  Doctor,  “ what  do 
you  say  now?” 

“ I say,  sir,”  replied  Alfred,  “ that  the  greatest 
favor  you  could  do  me,  and  yourself  too,  I am  in- 
clined to  think,  would  be  to  try  sometimes  to  for- 
get this  battle-field  and  others  like  it  in  that 
broader  battle-field  of  Life,  on  which  the  sun 
looks  every  day.” 

“ Really,  I’m  afraid  that  wouldn’t  soften  his 
opinions,  Mr.  Alfred,”  said  Snitchey.  “ The  com- 
batants are  very  eager  and  very  bitter  in  that  same 
battle  of  I fife.  There’s  a great  deal  of  cutting  and 
slashing,  and  firing  into  people’s  heads  from  be- 
hind. There  is  terrible  treading  down,  and 
trampling  on.  It  is  rather  a bad  business.” 


LIFE 


271  LIFE  ASSURANCE  COMPANY 


“ I believe,  Mr.  Snitchey,”  said  Alfred,  “ there 
are  quiet  victories  and  struggles,  great  sacrifices 
of  self,  and  noble  acts  of  heroism,  in  it — even  in 
many  of  its  apparent  lightnesses  and  contradic- 
tions— not  the  less  difficult  to  achieve,  because 
they  have  no  earthly  chronicle  or  audience — done 
every  day  in  nooks  and  corners,  and  in  little 
households,  and  in  men’s  and  women’s  hearts — 
any  one  of  which  might  reconcile  the  sternest 
man  to  such  a world,  and  fill  him  with  be- 
lief and  hope  in  it,  though  two-fourths  of  its 
people  were  at  war,  and  another  fourth  at 
law  ; and  that’s  a bold  word.” 

Battle  of  Life , Chap.  i. 

LIFE  -A  muddle  to  Stephen  Blackpool. 

“ I’ve  tried  a long  time,  and  ’ta’n’t  got  better. 
But  thou’rt  right ; ’tmight  male  folk  talk,  even 
of  thee.  Thou  hast  been  that  to  me,  Rachael, 
through  so  many  year  : thou  hast  done  me  so 
much  good,  and  heartened  of  me  in  that  cheer- 
ing way,  that  thy  word  is  a law  to  me.  Ah,  lass, 
and  a bright  good  law  ! Better  than  some  real 
ones.” 

“ Never  fret  about  them,  Stephen,”  she  an- 
swered quickly,  and  not  without  an  anxious 
glance  at  his  face.  “ Let  the  laws  be.” 

“ Yes,”  he  said,  with  a slow  nod  or  two.  “ Let 
’em  be.  Let  everything  be.  Let  all  sorts  alone. 
’Tis  a muddle,  and  that’s  aw.” 

“Always  a muddle?”  said  Rachael,  with 
another  gentle  touch  upon  his  arm,  as  if  to  re- 
call him  out  of  the  thoughtfulness,  in  which  he 
was  biting  the  long  ends  of  his  loose  necker- 
chief as  he  walked  along.  The  touch  had  its 
instantaneous  effect.  He  let  them  fall,  turned 
a smiling  face  upon  her.  and  said,  as  he  broke 
into  a good-humored  laugh,  “ Ay,  Rachael,  lass, 
awlus  a muddle.  That’s  where  I stick.  I come 
to  the  muddle  many  times  and  agen,  and  I 
never  get  beyond  it.” 

Har'd  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  io. 

LIFE— A wasted. 

O ! Better  to  have  no  home  in  which  to  lay 
his  head,  than  to  have  a home  and  dread  to  go 
to  it,  through  such  a cause.  He  ate  and  drank, 
for  he  was  exhausted — but  he  little  knew  or 
cared  what ; and  he  wandered  about  in  the  chill 
rain,  thinking  and  thinking,  and  brooding  and 
brooding. 

No  word  of  a new  marriage  had  ever  passed 
between  them ; but  Rachael  had  taken  great 
pity  on  him  years  ago,  and  to  her  alone  he  had 
opened  his  closed  heart  all  this  time,  on  the 
subject  of  his  miseries  ; and  he  knew  very  well 
that  if  he  were  free  to  ask  her,  she  would  take 
him.  He  thought  of  the  home  he  might  at  that 
moment  have  been  seeking  with  pleasure  and 
pride  ; of  the  different  man  he  might  have  been 
that  night  ; of  the  lightness  then  in  his  now 
heavy-laden  breast  ; of  the  then  restored  honor, 
self-respect,  and  tranquillity  all  torn  to  pieces. 
He  thought  of  the  waste  of  the  best  part  of  his 
life,  of  the  change  it  made  in  his  character  for 
the  worse  every  day,  of  the  dreadful  nature  of 
his  existence,  bound  hand  and  foot  to  a dead 
woman,  and  tormented  by  a demon  in  her 
shape.  He  thought  of  Rachael,  how  young 
when  they  were  first  brought  together  in  these 
circumstances,  how  mature  now,  how  soon  to 
grow  old.  He  thought  of  the  number  of  girls 
and  women  she  had  seen  marry,  how  many 


homes  with  children  in  them  she  had  fceen 
grow  up  around  her,  how  she  had  contentedly 
pursued  her  own  lone,  quiet  path — for  him — 
and  how  he  had  sometimes  seen  a shade  of  mel- 
ancholy on  her  blessed  face,  that  smote  him  with 
remorse  and  despair.  He  set  the  picture  of  her 
up,  beside  the  infamous  image  of  last  night ; and 
thought,  Could  it  be,  that  the  whole  earthly 
course  of  one  so  gentle,  good,  and  self-denying, 
was  subjugate  to  such  a wretch  as  that ! 

Filled  with  these  thoughts — so  filled  that  he 
had  an  unwholesome  sense  of  growing  larger, 
of  being  placed  in  some  new  and  diseased  rela- 
tion towards  the  objects  among  which  he  passed, 
of  seeing  the  iris  round  every  misty  light  turn 
red — he  went  home  for  shelter. 

Hard  Times,  Book  I.,  Chap.  12. 

LIFE  ASSURANCE  COMPANY-Office 
of  a. 

The  Anglo-Bengalee  Disinterested  Loan  and 
Life  Assurance  Company  started  into  existence 
one  morning,  not  an  Infant  Institution,  but  a 
Grown-up  Company  running  alone  at  a great 
pace,  and  doing  business  right  and  left  : with  a 
“branch  ” in  a first  floor  over  a tailor’s  at  the 
West-end  of  the  town,  and  main  offices  in  anew 
street  in  the  City,  comprising  the  upper  part  of 
a spacious  house,  resplendent  in  stucco  and  plate- 
glass,  with  wire  blinds  in  all  the  windows,  and 
“ Anglo-Bengalee  ” worked  into  the  pattern  of 
every  one  of  them.  On  the  door-post  was  paint- 
ed again  in  large  letters,  “ Offices  of  the  Anglo- 
Bengalee  Disinterested  Loan  and  Life  Assurance 
Company,”  and  on  the  door  was  a large  brass 
plate  with  the  same  inscription  ; always  kept 
very  bright,  as  courting  inquiry  ; staring  the  City 
out  of  countenance  after  office  hours  on  working 
days,  and  all  day  long  on  Sundays  ; and  looking 
bolder  than  the  Bank.  Within,  the  offices  were 
newly  plastered,  newly  painted,  newly  papered, 
newly  countered,  newly  floor-clothed,  newly 
tabled,  newly  chaired,  newly  fitted  up  in  every 
way,  with  goods  that  were  substantial  and  expen- 
sive, and  designed  (like  the  company)  to  last. 
Business  ! Look  at  the  green  ledgers  with  red 
backs,  like  strong  cricket-balls  beaten  flat  ; the 
court-guides,  directories,  day-books,  almanacks, 
letter-boxes,  weighing-machines  for  letters,  rows 
of  fire-buckets  for  dashing' out  a conflagration 
in  its  first  spark,  and  saving  the  immense  wealth 
in  notes  and  bonds  belonging  to  the  company  ; 
look  at  the  iron  safes,  the  clock,  the  office  seal — 
in  its  capacious  self,  security  for  anything. 
Solidity  ! Look  at  the  massive  blocks  of  mar- 
ble in  the  chimney-pieces,  and  the  gorgeous 
parapet  on  the  top  of  the  house  ! Publicity  ! 
Why,  Anglo-Bengalee  Disinterested  Loan  and 
Life  Assurance  Company  is  painted  on  the  very 
coal-scuttles.  It  is  i*epeated  at  every  turn  until 
the  eyes  are  dazzled  with  it,  and  the  head  is 
giddy.  It  is  engraved  upon  the  top  of  all  the 
letter-paper,  and  it  makes  a scroll-work  round 
the  seal,  and  it  shines  out  of  the  porter’s  buttons, 
and  it  is  repeated  twenty  times  in  every  circular 
and  public  notice  wherein  one  David  Crimple, 
Esquire,  Secretary  and  resident  Director,  takes 
the  liberty  of  inviting  your  attention  to  the  ac- 
companying statement  of  the  advantages  offered 
by  the  Anglo-Bengalee  Disinterested  Loan  and 
Life  Assurance  Company  ; and  fully  proves  to 
you  that  any  connection  on  your  part  with  that 
establishment  must  result  in  a perpetual  Christ- 


LIFE 


272 


LIFE 


mas  Box  and  constantly  increasing  Bonus  to 
yourself,  and  that  nobody  can  run  any  risk  by 
the  transaction  except  the  office,  which,  in  its 
great  liberality,  is  pretty  sure  to  lose.  And  this 
David  Crimple,  Esquire,  submits  to  you  (and  the 
odds  are  heavy  you  believe  him),  is  the  best 
guarantee  that  can  reasonably  be  suggested  by 
the  Board  of  Management  for  its  permanence 
and  stability. 

* * * * * 

The  Board-room  had  a Turkey  carpet  in  it,  a 
sideboard,  a portrait  of  Tigg  Montague,  Esquire, 
as  chairman  ; a very  imposing  chair  of  office, 
garnished  with  an  ivory  hammer  and  a little 
handbell ; and  a long  table,  set  out  at  intervals 
with  sheets  of  blotting-paper,  foolscap,  clean 
pens,  and  inkstands.  The  chairman  having 
taken  his  seat  with  great  solemnity,  the  secretary 
supported  him  on  his  right  hand,  and  the  porter 
stood  bolt  upright  behind  them,  forming  a warm 
background  of  waistcoat.  This  was  the  board  ; 
everything  else  being  a light-hearted  little  fic- 
tion.— Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  27. 

LIFE— Its  declining1  years. 

I am  not  a young  woman  ; and  they  do  say, 
that  as  life  steals  on  toward  its  final  close,  the 
last  short  remnant,  worthless  as  it  may  seem  to 
all  beside,  is  dearer  to  its  possessor  than  all  the 
years  that  have  gone  before,  connected  though 
they  be  with  the  recollection  of  old  friends  long 
since  dead,  and  young  ones — children  perhaps — 
who  have  fallen  off  from,  and  forgotten  one  as. 
completely' as  if  they  had  died  too.  My  natu- 
ral term  of  life  cannot  be  many  years  longer, 
and  should  be  dear  on  that  account  ; but  I would 
lay  it  down  without  a sigh — with  cheerfulness — 
with  joy — if  what  I tell  you  now  were  only 
false  or  imaginary. — Tales , Chap.  6. 

LIFE— Its  stations. 

Philosophy  would  have  taught  her  that  the 
degradation  was  on  the  side  of  those  who  had 
sunk  so  low  as  to  display  such  passions  habitu- 
ally, and  without  cause  ; but  she  was  too  young 
for  such  consolation,  and  her  honest  feeling  was 
hurt.  May  not  the  complaint,  that  common  peo- 
ple are  above  their  station,  ofien  take  its  rise 
in  the  fact  of  zz/zcommon  people  being  below 
theirs? — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  17. 

LIFE— The  influence  of  events. 

That  was  a memorable  day  to  me,  for  it  made 
great  changes  in  me.  But  it  is  the  same  with 
any  life.  Imagine  one  selected  day  struck  out 
of  it,  and  think  how  different  its  course  would 
have  been.  Pause,  you  who  read  this,  and  think 
for  a moment  of  the  long  chain  of  iron  or  gold, 
of  thorns  or  flowers,  that  would  never  have 
bound  you,  but  for  the  formation  of  the  first 
link  on  one  memorable  day. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  9. 

LIFE— The  melancholy  side  of. 

“ And  my  advice  to  all  men  is,  that  if  ever  they 
become  hipped  and  melancholy  from  similar 
causes  (as  very  many  men  do),  they  look  at  both 
sides  of  the  question,  applying  a magnifying 
glass  to  the  best  one  ; and  if  they  still  feel 
tempted  to  retire  without  leave,  that  they  smoke 
•a  large  pipe  and  drink  a full  bottle  first,  and 
profit  by  the  laudable  example  of  the  baron  of 
Grogzwig.” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  0. 


LIFE  -The  revenges  of. 

Tom  was  far  from  being  sage  enough  to  know, 
that,  having  been  disappointed  in  one  man,  it 
would  have  been  a strictly  rational  and  eminently 
wise  proceeding  to  have  revenged  himself  upon 
mankind  in  general,  by  mistrusting  them  one 
and  all.  Indeed,  this  piece  of  justice,  though  it 
is  upheld  by  the  authority  of  divers  profound 
poets  and  honorable  men,  bears  a nearer  resem- 
blance to  the  justice  of  that  good  Vizier  in  the 
Thousand-and  one  Nights,  who  issues  orders  for 
the  destruction  of  all  the  Porters  in  Bagdad 
because  one  of  that  unfortunate  fraternity  is  sup- 
posed to  have  misconducted  himself,  than  to  any 
logical,  not  to  say  Christian,  system  of  conduct, 
known  to  the  world  in  later  times. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  36. 

LIFE— The  river  of. 

He  lived  on  the  bank  of  a mighty  river,  broad 
and  deep,  which  was  always  silently  rolling  on 
to  a vast  undiscovered  ocean.  It  had  rolled  on, 
ever  since  the  world  began.  It  had  changed  its 
course  sometimes,  and  turned  into  new  channels, 
leaving  its  old  ways  dry  and  barren  ; but  it  had 
ever  been  upon  the  flow,  and  ever  was  to  flow 
until  Time  should  be  no  more.  Against  its 
strong,  unfathomable  stream,  nothing  made  head. 
No  living  creature,  no  flower,  no  leaf,  no  particle 
of  animate  or  inanimate  existence,  ever  strayed 
back  from  the  undiscovered  ocean.  The  tide  of 
the  river  set  resistlessly  towards  it  ; and  the  tide 
never  stopped,  any  more  than  the  earth  stops  in 
its  circling  round  the  sun. 

Nobody's  Story.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

LIFE— The  social  distinctions  of. 

“ Pip,  dear  old  chap,  life  is  made  of  ever  so 
many  partings  welded  together,  as  I may  say, 
and  one  man’s  a blacksmith,  and  one’s  a white- 
smith, and  one’s  a goldsmith,  and  one’s  a cop- 
persmith. Diwisions  among  such  must  come, 
and  must  be  met  as  they  come.  If  there’s  been 
any  fault  at  all  to-day,  it’s  mine.  You  and  me 
is  not  two  figures  to  be  together  in  London  ; nor 
yet  anywheres  else  but  what  is  private  and  be- 
known,  and  understood  among  friends.  It  ain’t 
that  I am  proud,  but  that  I want  to  be  right,  as 
you  shall  never  see  me  no  more  in  these  clothes. 
I’m  wrong  in  these  clothes.  I’m  wrong  out  of 
the  forge,  the  kitchen,  or  off  th’  meshes.  You 
won’t  find  half  so  much  fault  in  me  if  you  think 
of  me  in  my  forge  dress,  with  my  hammer  in  my 
hand,  or  even  my  pipe.  You  won’t  find  half  so 
much  fault  in  me  if,  supposing  as  you  should  ever 
wish  to  see  me,  you  come  and  put  your  head  in 
at  the  forge  window  and  see  Joe  the  blacksmith, 
there,  at  the  old  anvil,  in  the  old  burnt  apron, 
sticking  to  the  old  work.  I’m  awful  dull,  but  I 
hope  I’ve  beat  out  something  nigh  the  rights  of 
this  at  last.  And  so  God  bless  you,  dear  old 
Pip,  old  chap,  God  bless  you  ! ” 

I had  not  been  mistaken  in  my  fancy  that 
there  was  a simple  dignity  in  him.  The  fashion 
of  his  dress  could  no  more  come  in  its  way  when 
he  spoke  these  words,  than  it  could  come  in  its 
way  in  Heaven. — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  27. 

LIFE— The  transitions  in  real  and  mimic. 

It  is  the  custom  on  the  stage,  in  all  good  mur- 
derous melo-dramsis,  to  present  the  tragic  and 
the  comic  scenes  in  as  regular  alternation  as  the 
layers  of  red  and  white  in  a side  of  streaky 


LIFE 


273 


LITERATURE 


well-cured  bacon.  The  hero  sinks  upon  his 
straw  bed,  weighed  .down  by  fetters  and  mis- 
fortunes ; and,  in  the  next  scene,  his  faithful  but 
unconscious  squire  regales  the  audience  with  a 
comic  song.  We  behold,  with  throbbing  bosoms, 
the  heroine  in  the  grasp  of  a proud  and  ruthless 
baron  ; her  virtue  and  her  life  alike  in  danger  ; 
drawing  forth  her  dagger  to  preserve  the  one  at 
the  cost  of  the  other  ; and  just  as  our  expecta- 
tions are  wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch,  a 
whistle  is  heard,  and  we  are  straightway  trans- 
ported to  the  great  hall  of  the  castle,  where  a 
grey-headed  seneschal  sings  a funny  chorus  with 
a funnier  body  of  vassals,  who  are  free  of  all 
sorts  of  places,  from  church  vaults  to  palaces,  and 
roam  about  in  company,  carolling  perpetually. 

Such  changes  appear  absurd,  but  they  are  not 
so  unnatural  as  they  would  seem  at  first  sight. 
The  transitions  in  real  life  from  well-spi^ad 
boards  to  death-beds,  and  from  mourning  weeds 
to  holiday  garments,  are  not  a whit  less  startling  ; 
only,  there,  we  are  busy  actors,  instead  of  passive 
lookers-on  ; which  makes  a vast  difference.  The 
actors  in  the  mimic  life  of  the  theatre,  are  blind 
to  violent  transitions  and  abrupt  impulses  of 
passion  or  feeling,  which,  presented  before  the 
eyes  of  mere  spectators,  are  at  once  condemned 
as  outrageous  and  preposterous. 

Oliver  Tyvist , Chap . 17. 

LIFE— To  be  protected  from  impositions. 

There  are  degrees  in  murder.  Life  must  be 
held  sacred  among  us  in  more  ways  than  one — 
sacred,  not  merely  from  the  murderous  weapon, 
or  the  subtle  poison,  or  the  cruel  blow,  but 
sacred  from  preventible  diseases,  distortions,  and 
pains.  That  is  the  first  great  end  we  have  to 
set  against  this  miserable  imposition.  Physical 
life  respected,  moral  life  conies  next.  What 
will  not  content  a Begging-Letter  Writer  for  a 
week,  would  educate  a score  of  children  for  a 
year. 

The  Begging- Letter  Writer.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

LIFE— Pancks’  philosophy  of  its  duties. 

“ A fresh  night ! ” said  Arthur. 

“ Yes,  it’s  pretty  fresh,”  assented  Pancks. 
“ As  a stranger,  you  feel  the  climate  more  than 
I do,  I dare  say.  Indeed,  I haven’t  got  time  to 
feel  it.” 

“ You  lead  such  a busy  life  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I have  always  some  of  ’em  to  look  up, 
or  something  to  look  after.  But  I like  business,” 
said  Pancks,  getting  on  a little  faster.  “ What’s 
a man  made  for  ? ” 

“ For  nothing  else?  ” said  Clennam. 

Pancks  put  the  counter-question,  “ What 
else?”  It  packed  up,  in  the  smallest  compass, 
a weight  that  had  rested  on  Clennam’s  life  ; and 
he  made  no  answer. 

“ That’s  what  I ask  our  weekly  tenants,”  said 
Pancks.  “ Some  of  ’em  will  pull  long  faces  to 
me,  and  say,  Poor  as  you  see  us,  master,  we’re 
always  grinding,  drudging,  toiling,  every  minute 
we’re  awake.  I say  to  them,  What  else  are  you 
made  for?  It  shuts  them  up.  They  haven’t  a 
word  to  answer.  What  else  are  you  made  for? 
That  clinches  it.” 

“ Ah  dear,  dear,  dear  ! ” sighed  Clennam. 

“ Here  am  I,”  said  Pancks,  pursuing  his  argu- 
ment with  the  weekly  tenant.  “ What  else  do 
you  suppose  I think  I am  made  for?  Nothing. 
Rattle  me  out  of  bed  early,  set  me  going,  give 


me  as  short  a time  as  you  like  to  bolt  my  meals 
in,  and  keep  me  at  it.  Keep  me  always  at  it, 
I’ll  keep  you  always  at  it,  you  keep  somebody 
else  always  at  it.  There  you  are,  with  the  Whole 
Duty  of  Man  in  a commercial  country.” 

When  they  had  walked  a little  further  in  si- 
lence, Clennam  said  : “ Have  you  no  taste  for 
anything,  Mr.  Pancks?” 

“ What’s  taste?”  dryly  retorted  Pancks. 

“ Let  us  say  inclination.” 

“ I have  an  inclination  to  get  money,  sir,” 
said  Pancks,  “ if  you’ll  show  me  how.”  He 
blew  off  that  sound  again,  and  it  occurred  to 
his  companion  for  the  first  time  that  it  was  his 
way  of  laughing.  He  was  a singular  man  in  all 
respects  ; he  might  not  have  been  quite  in  earn- 
est, but  that  the  short,  hard,  rapid  manner  in 
which  he  shot  out  these  cinders  of  principles, 
as  if  it  were  done  by  mechanical  revolvency, 
seemed  irreconcilable  with  banter. 

“You  are  no  great  reader,  I suppose?”  said 
Clennam. 

“ Never  read  anything  but  letters  and  accounts. 
Never  collect  anything  but  advertisements  rela- 
tive to  next  of  kin.  If  that’s  a taste,  I have 
got  that.” — Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  13. 

LIFE— Tig- g-’s  idea  of. 

“ I wish  I may  die,  if  this  isn’t  the  queerest 
state  of  existence  that  we  find  ourselves  forced 
into,  without  knowing  why  or  wherefore,  Mr. 
Pecksniff!  Well,  never  mind  ! Moralize  as  we 
will,  the  world  goes  on.  As  Hamlet  says,  Hercu- 
les may  lay  about  him  with  his  club  in  every 
possible  direction,  but  he  can’t  prevent  the  cats 
from  making  a most  intolerable  row  on  the  roofs 
of  the  houses,  or  the  dogs  from  being  shot  in 
the  hot  weather  if  they  run  about  the  streets 
unmuzzled.  Life’s  a riddle  : a most  infernally 
hard  riddle  to  guess,  Mr.  Pecksniff.  My  own 
opinion  is  that  like  that  celebrated  conundrum, 

‘ Why’s  a man  in  jail  like  a man  out  of  jail?  ’ 
there’s  no  answer  to  it.  Upon  my  soul  and 
body,  it’s  the  queerest  sort  of  thing  altogether 
— but  there’s  no  use  in  talking  about  it.  Ha  ! 
ha ! ” — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  4. 

LIKENESS -A. 

Speak  up,  you  crabbed  image  for  the  sign  of 
a walking-stick  shop. — Bleak  House , Chap.  27. 

LITERATURE— Mr.  Britain’s  opinion  of. 

“ You  see  I’ve  made  a good  many  investiga- 
tions of  one  sort  and  another  in  my  time,”  pur- 
sued Mr.  Britain,  with  the  profundity  of  a sage  ; 
“ having  been  always  of  an  inquiring  turn  of 
mind  ; and  I’ve  read  a good  many  books  about 
the  general  Rights  of  things  and  Wrongs  of 
things,  for  I went  into  tfie  literary  line  myself 
when  I began  life.” 

“Did  you,  though!”  cried  the  admiring 
Clemency. 

“ Yes,”  said  Mr.  Britain  ; “ I was  hid  for  the 
best  part  of  two  years  behind  a bookstall,  ready 
to  fly  out  if  anybody  pocketed  a volume  ; and 
after  that,  I was  light  porter  to  a stay  and  man- 
tua-maker,  in  which  capacity  I was  Employed  to 
carry  about,  in  oilskin  baskets,  nothing  but  de- 
ceptions— which  soured  my  spirits  and  disturbed 
my  confidence  in  human  nature  ; and  after  that, 

I heard  a world  of  discussions  in  this  house,  which 
soured  my  spirits  fresh  ; and  my  opinion  after 
all  is,  that,  as  a safe  and  comfortable  sweetener 


LITTLE  PEOPLE 


274 


LOVE 


of  the  same,  and  as  a pleasant  guide  through 
life,  there’s  nothing  like  a nutmeg-grater.” 

Battle  of  Life , Chap.  2. 

LITTLE  PEOPLE. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chirrup  are  the  nice  little 
couple  in  question.  Mr.  Chirrup  has  the  smart- 
ness, and  something  of  the  brisk,  quick  manner 
of  a small  bird.!  Mrs.  Chirrup  is  the  prettiest  of 
all  little  women,  and  has  the  prettiest  little  figure 
conceivable.  She  has  the  neatest  little  foot, 
and  the  softest  little  voice,  and  the  pleasantest 
little  smile,  and  the  tidiest  little  curls,  and  the 
brightest  little  eyes,  and  the  quietest  little  man- 
ner, and  is,  in  short,  altogether  one  of  the  most 
engaging  of  all  little  women,  dead  or  alive. 
She  is  a condensation  of  all  the  domestic  vir- 
tues— a pocket  edition  of  the  Young  Man’s  Best 
Companion — a little  woman  at  a very  high 
pressure,  with  an  amazing  quantity  of  goodness 
and  usefulness  in  an  exceedingly  small  space. 
Little  as  she  is,  Mrs.  Chirrup  might  furnish 
forth  matter  for  the  moral  equipment  of  a score 
of  housewives,  six  feet  high  in  their  stockings 
— if,  in  the  presence  of  ladies,  we  may  be  al- 
lowed the  expression — and  of  corresponding 
robustness. — Sketches  of  Couples. 

LITTLE  PEOPLE— The  qualities  of. 

Whether  it  is  that  pleasant  qualities,  being 
packed  more  closely  in  small  bodies  than  in 
large,  come  more  readily  to  hand  than  when 
they  are  diffused  over  a wider  space,  and  have 
to  be  gathered  together  for  use,  we  don’t  know, 
but  as  a general  rule — strengthened,  like  all 
other  rules,  by  its  exceptions — we  hold  that  lit- 
tle people  are  sprightly  and  good-natured.  The 
more  sprightly  and  good-natured  people  we 
have,  the  better  ; therefore  let  us  wish  well  to 
all  nice  little  couples,  and  hope  that  they  may 
increase  and  multiply. — Sketches  of  Couples. 

LONDON— In  comparison. 

The  shabbiness  of  our  English  capital,  as 
compared  with  Paris,  Bordeaux,  Frankfort, 
Milan,  Geneva, — almost  any  important  town  on 
the  Continent  of  Europe, — I find  very  striking 
after  an  absence  of  any  duration  in  foi'eign  parts. 
London  is  shabby  in  contrast  with  Edinburgh, 
with  Aberdeen,  with  Exeter,  with  Liverpool, 
with  a bright  little  town  like  Bury  St.  Edmund’s. 
London  is  shabby  in  contrast  with  New  York, 
with  Boston,  with  Philadelphia.  In  detail,  one 
would  say  it  can  rarely  fail  to  be  a disappoint- 
ing piece  of  shabbiness  to  a stranger  from  any 
of  those  places.  There  is  nothing  shabbier 
than  Drury  Lane  in  Rome  itself.  The  meanness 
of  Regent  street,  set  against  the  great  line  of 
Boulevards  in  Paris,  is  as  striking  as  the  abor- 
tive ugliness  of  Trafalgar  Square  set  against  the 
gallant  beauty  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 
London  is  shabby  by  daylight,  and  shabbier  by 
gaslight.  No  Englishman  knows  what  gaslight 
is  until  he  secs  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  and  the  Palais 
Royal  after  dark. 

The  mass  of  London  people  are  shabby.  The 
absence  of  distinctive  dress  has,  no  doubt, 
something  to  do  with  it.  The  porters  of  the 
Vintners’  Company,  the  draymen,  and  the  butch- 
ers, arc  about  the  only  people  who  wear  distinc- 
tive dresses  ; and  even  these  do  not  wear  them 
on  holidays.  We  have  nothing  which  for  cheap- 
ness, cleanliness,  convenience,  or  picturesque- 


ness, can  compare  with  the  belted  blouse.  As  to 
our  women  ; — next  Easter  or  Whitsuntide  look 
at  the  bonnets  at  the  British  Museum  or  the 
National  Gallery,  and  think  of  the  pretty  white 
French  cap,  the  Spanish  mantilla,  or  the  Gen 
oese  mezzero. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  23. 

LOST  Search  for  the. 

There,  he  mounts  a high  tower  in  his  mind, 
and  looks  out  far  and  wide.  Many  solitary  fig- 
ures he  perceives,  creeping  through  the  streets; 
many  solitary  figures  out  on  heaths,  and  roads, 
and  lying  under  haystacks.  But  the  figure  that 
he  seeks  is  not  among  them.  Other  solitaries  he 
perceives,  in  nooks  of  bridges,  looking  over; 
and  in  shadowed  places  down  by  the  river’s 
level ; and  a dark,  dark,  shapeless  object  drift- 
ing with  the  tide,  more  solitary  than  all,  clings 
with  a drowning  hold  on  his  attention. 

Where  is  she  ? Living  or  dead,  where  is  she  ? 
If,  as  he  folds  the  handkerchief  and  carefully 
puts  it  up,  it  were  able,  with  an  enchanted 
power,  to  bring  before  him  the  place  where  she 
found  it,  and  the  night  landscape  near  the  cot- 
tage where  it  covered  the  little  child,  would  he 
descry  her  there  ? On  the  waste,  where  the 
brick-kilns  are  burning  with  a pale  blue  flare  ; 
where  the  straw-roofs  of  the  wretched  huts  in 
which  the  bricks  are  made,  are  being  scattered 
by  the  wind  ; where  the  clay  and  water  are  hard 
frozen,  and  the  mill  in  which  the  gaunt  blind 
horse  goes  round  all  day,  looks  like  an  instru- 
ment of  human  torture  ; traversing  this  desert- 
ed, blighted  spot,  there  is  a lonely  figure,  with 
the  sad  world  to  itself,  pelted  by  the  snow  and 
driven  by  the  wind,  and  cast  out,  it  would  seem, 
from  all  companionship.  It  is  the  figure  of  a 
woman,  too  ; but  it  is  miserably  dressed,  and  no 
such  clothes  ever  came  through  the  hall,  and  out 
at  the  great  door,  of  the  Dedlock  mansion. 

Bleak  House,  Chap  56. 

LOOM— The  household. 

A weaving  country,  too  ; for  in  the  way-side 
cottages  the  loom  goes  wearily, — rattle  and  click, 
rattle  and  click, — and,  looking  in,  I see  the  poor 
weaving  peasant,  man  or  woman,  bending  at  the 
work,  while  the  child,  working  too,  turns  a lit- 
tle hand-wheel  put  upon  the  ground  to  suit  its 
height.  An  unconscionable  monster,  the  loom, 
in  a small  dwelling,  asserting  himself  ungener- 
ously as  the  bread-winner,  straddling  over  the 
children’s  straw  beds,  cramping  the  family  in 
space  and  air,  and  making  himself  generally  ob- 
jectionable and  tyrannical.  He  is  tributary,  too, 
to  ugly  mills  and  factories  and  bleaching- 
grounds,  rising  out  of  the  sluiced  fields  in  an 
abrupt  bare  way,  disdaining,  like  himself,  to  be 
ornamental  or  accommodating. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  25. 

LOVE— A schoolmistress  in. 

Little  Miss  Peecher,  from  her  little  official 
dwelling-house,  with  its  little  windows  like  the 
eyes  in  needles,  and  its  little  doors  like  the 
covers  of  school-books,  was  very  observant  in- 
deed of  the  object  of  her  quiet  affections.  Love, 
though  said  to  be  afflicted  with  blindness,  is  a 
vigilant  watchman,  and  Miss  Peecher  kept  him 
011  double  duty  over  Mr.  Bradley  Headstone. 
It  was  not  that  she  was  naturally  given  to  play- 
ing the  spy— it  was  not  that  she  was  at  all 


LOVE 


275 


LOVE 


secret,  plotting,  or  mean — it  was  simply  that  she 
loved  the  irresponsive  Bradley  with  all  the 
primitive  and  homely  stock  of  love  that  had 
never  been  examined  or  certificated  out  of  her. 
If  her  faithful  slate  had  had  the  latent  qualities 
of  sympathetic  paper,  and  its  pencil  those  of  in- 
visible ink,  many  a little  treatise  calculated  to 
astonish  the  pupils  would  have  come  bursting 
through  the  dry  sums  in  school-time  under  the 
warming  influence  of  Miss  Peecher’s  bosom. 

* * * * * 

Though  all  unseen  and  unsuspected  by  the 
pupils,'  Bradley  Headstone  even  pervaded  the 
school  exercises.  Was  Geography  in  question? 
He  would  come  triumphantly  flying  out  of  Ve- 
suvius and  y£tna  ahead  of  the  lava,  and  would 
boil  unharmed  in  the  hot  springs  of  Iceland,  and 
would  float  majestically  down  the  Ganges  and 
the  Nile.  Did  History  chronicle  a king  of 
men  ? Behold  him  in  pepper-and-salt  panta- 
loons, with  his  watch-guard  round  his  neck. 
Were  copies  to  be  written?  In  capital  B’s  and 
Id’s  most  of  the  girl’s  under  Miss  Peecher’s  tui- 
tion were  half  a year  ahead  of  every  other  letter 
in  the  alphabet.  And  Mental  Arithmetic,  ad- 
ministered by  Miss  Peecher,  often  devoted  itself 
to  providing  Bradley  Headstone  with  a wardrobe 
of  fabulous  extent  ; fourscore  and  four  neck-ties 
at  two  and  ninepence-halfpenny,  two  gross  of 
silver  watches  at  four  pounds  fifteen  and  six- 
pence, seventy-four  black  hats  at  eighteen  shil- 
lings ; and  many  similar  superfluities. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap.  ir. 

LOVE— A smouldering  fire. 

Love  at  first  sight  is  a trite  expression,  quite 
sufficiently  discussed  ; enough  that,  in  certain 
smouldering  natures  like  this  man’s,  that  passion 
leaps  into  a blaze,  and  makes  such  head  as  fire 
does  in  a rage  of  wind,  when  other  passions, 
but  for  its  mastery,  could  be  held  in  chains.  As 
a multitude  of  weak,  imitative  natures  are  al- 
ways lying  by,  ready  to  go  mad  upon  the  next 
wrong  idea  that  may  be  broached — in  these 
times,  generally  some  form  of  tribute  to  Some- 
body from  something  that  never  was  done,  or, 
if  ever  done,  that  was  done  by  Somebody  Else 
— so  these  less  ordinary  natures  may  lie  by  for 
years,  ready  on  the  touch  of  an  instant  to  burst 
into  flame. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  II.,  Chap.  n. 

LOVE— Alienated. 

Into  her  mind,  as  into  all  others  contending 
with  the  great  affliction  of  our  mortal  nature, 
there  had  stolen  solemn  wonderings  and  hopes, 
arising  in  the  dim  world  beyond  the  present  life, 
and  murmuring,  like  faint  music,  of  recognition 
in  the  far-off  land  between  her  brother  and  her 
mother;  of  some  present  consciousness  in  both 
of  her : some  love  and  commiseration  for  her  : 
and  some  knowledge  of  her  as  she  went  her  way 
upon  the  earth.  It  was  a soothing  consolation 
to  Florence  to  give  shelter  to  these  thoughts, 
until  one  day — it  was  soon  after  she  had  last 
seen  her  father  in  his  own  room,  late  at  night — 
the  fancy  came  upon  her,  that,  in  weeping  for 
his  alienated  heart,  she  might  stir  the  spirits  of 
the  dead  against  him.  Wild,  weak,  childish, 
as  it  may  have  been  to  think  so.  and  to  tremble 
at  the  half-formed  thought,  it  was  the  impulse 
of  her  loving  nature  ; and  from  that  hour  Flor- 
ence strove  against  the  cruel  wound  in  her 


breast,  and  tried  to  think  of  him  whose  hand 
had  made  it  only  with  hope. 

Her  father  did  not  know — she  held  to  it  from 
that  time — how  much  she  loved  him.  She  was 
very  young,  and  had  no  mother,  and  had  never 
learned,  by  some  fault  or  misfortune,  how  to  ex- 
press to  him  that  she  loved  him.  She  would  be 
patient,  and  would  try  to  gain  that  art  in  time, 
and  win  him  to  a better  knowledge  of  his  only 
child. 

This  became  the  purpose  of  her  life.  The 
morning  sun  shone  down  upon  the  faded  house, 
and  found  the  resolution  bright  and  fresh  within 
the  bosom  of  its  solitary  mistress.  Through  all 
the  duties  of  the  day  it  animated  her  ; for  Flor- 
ence hoped  that  the  more  she  knew,  and  the 
more  accomplished  she  became,  the  more  glad 
he  would  be  when  he  came  to  know  and  like 
her.  Sometimes  she  wondered,  with  a swelling 
heart  and  rising  tear,  whether  she  was  proficient 
enough  in  anything  to  surprise  him  when  they 
should  become  companions.  Sometimes  she 
tried  to  think  if  there  were  any  kind  of  know- 
ledge that  would  bespeak  his  interest  more  read- 
ily than  another.  Always — at  her  books,  her 
music,  and  her  work  : in  her  morning  walks, 
and  in  her  nightly  prayers — she  had  her  engross- 
ing aim  in  view.  Strange  study  for  a child,  to 
learn  the  road  to  a hard  parent’s  heart ! 

Hs  * * * 

How  few  who  saw  sweet  Florence,  in  her 
spring  of  womanhood,  the  modest  little  queen 
of  those  small  revels,  imagined  what  a load  of 
sacred  care  lay  heavy  in  her  breast  ! How  few 
of  those  who  stiffened  in  her  father’s  freezing 
atmosphere,  suspected  what  a heap  of  fiery  coals 
was  piled  upon  his  head  ! 

Dombey  Cf  Son,  Chap.  24. 

LOVE— The  consolations  of  disappointed. 

It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  pure  love  to  burn 
so  fiercely  and  unkindly  long.  The  flame  that 
in  its  grosser  composition  has  the  taint  of  earth, 
may  prey  upon  the  breast  that  gives  it  shelter  ; 
but  the  sacred  fire  from  heaven  is  as  gentle  in  the 
heart,  as  when  it  rested  on  the  heads  of  the  as- 
sembled twelve,  and  showed  each  man  his  broth- 
er, brightened  and  unhurt.  The  image  conjured 
up,  there  soon  returned  the  placid  face,  the  soft- 
ened voice,  the  loving  looks,  the  quiet  trustful- 
ness and  peace  ; and  Florence,  though  she  wept 
still,  wept  more  tranquilly,  and  courted  the  re- 
membrance. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  the  golden  water, 
dancing  on  the  wall,  in  the  old  place,  at  the  old 
serene  time,  had.  her  calm  eye  fixed  upon  it  as  it 
ebbed  away.  It  was  not  very  long  before  that 
room  again  knew  her,  often  ; sitting  there  alone, 
as  patient  and  as  mild  as  when  she  had  watched 
beside  the  little  bed.  When  any  sharp  sense  of 
its  being  empty  smote  upon  her,  she  could  kneel 
beside  it,  and  pray  God — it  was  the  pouring  out 
of  her  full  heart — to  let  one  angel  love  her  and 
remember  her. — Do?nbey  Sf  Son,  Chop.  18. 

LOVE— Unrequited— Of  Toots. 

“ Bear  a hand  and  cheer  up,”  said  the  Cap- 
tain, patting  him  on  the  back,  “ What ! There’s 
more  than  one  sweet  creetur  in  the  world  ! ” 

“ Not  to  me,  Captain  Gills,”  replied  Mr.  Toots 
gravely.  “Not  to  me,  I assure  you.  The  state 
of  my  feelings,  towards  Miss  Dombey  is  of  that 
unspeakable  description,  that  lry  heart  is  a desert 


LOVE 


270 


LOVE 


island,  and  she  lives  in  it  alone.  I’m  getting 
more  used  up  every  day,  and  I’m  proud  to  be  so. 
If  you  could  see  my  legs  when  I take  my  boots 
off,  you’d  form  some  idea  of  what  unrequited 
affection  is.  1 have  been  prescribed  bark,  but  I 
don’t  take  it,  for  I don’t  wish  to  have  any  tone 
whatever  given  to  my  constitution.” 

Dombey  dr5  Son , Chap.  48. 

LOVE— Oppressiveness  of. 

“ Upon  my  word  I — it’s  a hard  thing,  Captain 
Gills,  not  to  be  able  to  mention  Miss  Dombey. 
I really  have  got  such  a dreadful  load  here  ! ” — 
Mr.  Toots  pathetically  touched  his  shirt  front 
with  both  hands — “ that  I feel  night  and  day, 
exactly  as  if  somebody  was  sitting  upon  me.” 

Dombey  Son , Chap.  39. 

“You  know,  Captain  Gills,  I — I positively 
adore  Miss  Dombey  ; — I — I am  perfectly  sore 
with  loving  her the  burst  with  which  this 
confession  forced  itself  out  of  the  unhappy  Mr. 
Toots,  bespoke  the  vehemence  of  his  feelings; 
“ but  what  would  be  the  good  of  my  regarding 
her  in  this  manner,  if  I wasn’t  truly  sorry  for 
her  feeling  pain,  whatever  was  the  cause  of  it. 
Mine  an’t  a selfish  affection,  you  know,”  said 
Mr.  Toots,  in  the  confidence  engendered  by  his 
having  been  a witness  of  the  Captain’s  tender- 
ness. “ It’s  the  sort  of  thing  with  me,  Captain 
Gills,  that  if  I could  be  run  over — or — or  tram- 
pled upon — or — or  thrown  off  a very  high  place 
— or  anything  of  that  sort — for  Miss  Dombey’s 
sake,  it  would  be  the  most  delightful  thing  that 
could  happen  to  me.” 

***** 

“ As  I said  before,  I really  want  a friend,  and 
should  be  glad  to  have  your  acquaintance.  Al- 
though I am  very  well  off,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  with 
energy,  “you  can’t  think  what  a miserable  Beast 
I am.  The  hollow  crowd,  you  know,  when  they 
see  me  with  the  Chicken,  and  characters  of  dis- 
tinction like  that,  suppose  me  to  be  happy  ; but 
I’m  wretched.  I suffer  for  Miss  Dombey,  Cap- 
tain Gills.  I can’t  get  through  my  meals ; I 
have  no  pleasure  in  my  tailor  ; I often  cry  when 
I’m  alone.  I assure  you  it’ll  be  a satisfaction  to 
me  to  come  back  to-morrow,  or  to  come  back 
fifty  times.” — Dombey  & Son , Chap.  32. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  Captain  Gills,  but  you 
don’t  happen  to  see  anything  particular  in  me, 
do  you  ? ” 

“ No,  my  lad,”  returned  the  Captain.  “ No.” 

“ Because  you  know,”  said  Mr.  Toots  with  a 
chuckle,  “ I know  I’m  wasting  away.  You 
needn’t  at  all  mind  alluding  to  that.  I — I should 
like  it.  Burgess  and  Co.  have  altered  my  mea- 
sure, I’m  in  that  state  of  thinness.  It’s  a gratifi- 
cation to  me.  I — I’m  glad  of  it.  I — I’d  a great 
deal  rather  go  into  a decline,  if  I could.  I’m  a 
mere  brute  you  know,  grazing  upon  the  face  of 
the  earth,  Captain  Gills.” 

* * * * * 

“ As  to  sleep,  you  know,  I never  sleep  now. 

I might  be  a Watchman,  except  that  I don’t  get 
any  pay,  and  he’s  got  nothing  on  his  mind.” 

Dombey  Sr3  Son,  Chap.  48. 

Mr.  Toots,  as  usual,  when  lie  informed  her 
and  the  Captain,  on  the  way  back,  that  now  he 
was  sure  he  had  no  hope,  you  know,  he  fell 
more  comfortable — at  least  not  exactly  more 


comfortable,  but  more  comfortably  and  com- 
pletely miserable. — Dombey  dr3  Son , Chap.  56. 

“Well  said,  my  lad,”  observed  the  Captain, 
nodding  his  head  thoughtfully;  “and  true. 
Now  look’ee  here:  You’ve  made  some  observa- 
tions to  me,  which  gives  me  to  understand  as 
you  admire  a certain  sweet  creetur.  Hey?” 

"Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  gesticulating 
violently  with  the  hand  in  which  he  held  his  hat, 
“ Admiration  is  not  the  word.  Upon  my  honor, 
you  have  no  conception  what  my  feelings  are. 
If  I could  be  dyed  black,  and  made  Miss  Dom- 
bey’s slave,  I should  consider  it  a compliment. 
If,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  my  property,  I could 
get  transmigrated  into  Miss  Dombey’s  dog — I 
— I really  think  I should  never  leave  off  wag- 
ging my  tail.  I should  be  so  perfectly  happy, 
Captain  Gills  !” 

Mr.  Toots  said  it  with  watery  eyes,  and  pressed 
his  hat  against  his  bosom  with  deep  emotion. 

“ My  lad,”  returned  the  Captain,  moved  to 
compassion,  “ if  you’re  in  arnest — ” 

“Captain  Gills,”  cried  Mr.  Toots,  “I’m  in 
such  a state  of  mind,  and  am  so  dreadfully  in 
earnest,  that  if  I could  swear  to  it  upon  a hot 
piece  of  iron,  or  a live  coal,  or  melted  lead,  or 
burning  sealing  wax,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  I 
should  be  glad  to  hurt  myself,  as  a relief  to  my 
feelings.”  And  Mr.  Toots  looked  hurriedly 
about  the  room,  as  if  for  some  sufficiently  painful 
means  of  accomplishing  his  dread  purpose. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  39. 

LOVE— An  outcast  from  a parent’s. 

“ Not  an  orphan  in  the  wide  world  can  be  so 
deserted  as  the  child  who  is  an  outcast  from  g, 
living  parent’s  love.” — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  24. 

LOVE— And  appetite. 

In  my  love-lorn  condition,  my  appetite  lan- 
guished ; and  I was  glad  of  it,  for  I felt  as 
though  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  perfidy 
towards  Dora  to  have  a natural  relish  for  my 
dinner. — David  Copperjield , Chap.  28. 

LOVE— And  tight  boots. 

Within  the  first  week  of  my  passion,  I bought 
four  sumptuous  waistcoats — not  for  myself:  /had 
no  pride  in  them  ; for  Dora — and  took  to  wear- 
ing straw  colored  kid  gloves  in  the  streets,  and 
laid  the  foundations  of  all  the  corns  I have  ever 
had.  If  the  boots  I wore  at  that  period  could 
only  be  produced  and  compared  with  the  natu- 
ral size  of  my  feet,  they  would  show  what  the 
state  of  my  heart  was,  in  a most  affecting  man- 
ner.— David  Copperjield,  Chap.  26. 

LOVE— Cymon  Tuggs  in. 

“ Walter  will  return  to-morrow,”  said  Mrs. 
Captain  Waters,  mournfully  breaking  silence. 

Mr.  Cymon  Tuggs  sighed  like  a gust  of  wind 
through  a forest  of  gooseberry  bushes,  as  he  re- 
plied, “Alas,  he  will.” 

“ Oh,  Cymon  ! ” resumed  Belinda,  “ the  chaste 
delight,  the  calm  happiness,  of  this  one  week  of 
Platonic  love,  is  too  much  for  me  ! ” 

Cymon  was  about  to  suggest  that  it  was  too 
little  for  him,  but  he  stopped  himself,  and  mur- 
mured unintelligibly. 

“ And  to  think  that  even  this  glimpse  of  hap- 
piness, innocent  as  it  is,”  exclaimed  Belinda, 

“ is  now  to  be  lost  for  ever  ! ” 


LOVE 


277 


LOVE- 


“ Oh,  do  not  say  for  ever,  Belinda,”  exclaimed 
the  excitable  Cymon,  as  two  strongly-defined 
tears  chased  each  other  down  his  pale  face — it 
was  so  long  that  there  was  plenty  of  room  for 
a chase—  “ Do  not  say  for  ever  ! ” 

“I  must,”  replied  Belinda. — Tales , Chap.  4. 

LOVE— First— Of  David  Copperfleld. 

All  was  over  in  a moment.  I had  fulfilled 
my  destiny.  I was  a captive  and  a slave.  I 
loved  Dora  Spenlow  to  distraction  ! 

She  was  more  than  human  to  me.  She  was  a 
Fairy,  a Sylph,  I don’t  know  what  she  was — 
anything  that  no  one  ever  saw,  and  everything 
that  every  body  ever  wanted.  I was  swallowed 
up  in  an  abyss  of  love  in  an  instant.  There  was 
no  pausing  on  the  brink  ; no  looking  down,  or 
looking  back  ; I was  gone,  headlong,  before  I 
had  sense  to  say  a word  to  her. 

***** 

What  a state  of  mind  I was  in  ! I was  jeal- 
ous of  everybody.  I couldn’t  bear  the  idea  of 
anybody  knowing  Mr.  Spenlow  better  than  I 
did.  It  was  torturing  to  me  to  hear  them  talk  of 
occurrences  in  which  I had  had  no  share.  When 
a most  amiable  person,  with  a highly  polished 
bald  head,  asked  me  across  the  dinner-table, 
if  that  were  the  first  occasion  of  my  seeing  the 
grounds,  I could  have  done  anything  to  him 
that  was  savage  and  revengeful. 

I don’t  remember  who  was  there,  except  Dora. 
I have  not  the  least  idea  what  we  had  for  din- 
ner, besides  Dora.  My  impression  is,  that  I 
dined  off  Dora  entirely,  and  sent  away  half-a- 
dozen  plates  untouched.  I sat  next  to  her.  I 
talked  to  her.  She  had  the  most  delightful  lit- 
tle voice,  the  gayest  little  laugh,  the  pleasantest 
.and  most  fascinating  little  ways  that  ever  led  a 
lost  youth  into  hopeless  slavery.  She  was 
rather  diminutive  altogether.  So  much  the 
more  precious,  I thought. 

All  I know  of  the  rest  of  the  evening  is,  that 
I heard  the  empress  of  my  heart  sing  enchant- 
ing ballads  in  the  French  language,  generally  to 
the  effect  that  whatever  was  the  matter,  we 
ought  always  to  dance,  Tara  la,  Tara  la!  ac- 
companying herself  on  a glorified  instrument, 
resembling  a guitar.  That  I was  lost  in  blissful 
delirium.  That  I refused  refreshment.  That 
my  soul  recoiled  from  punch  particularly.  That 
when  Miss  Murdstone  took  her  into  custody  and 
led  her  away,  she  smiled  and  gave  me  her  deli- 
cious hand.  That  I caught  a view  of  myself  in 
a mirror,  looking  perfectly  imbecile  and  idiotic. 
That  I retired  to  bed  in  a most  maudlin  state 
of  mind,  and  got  up  in  a crisis  of  feeble  infatu- 
ation.— David  Copperfield,  Chap.  26. 

There  was  dust,  I believe.  There  was  a good 
deal  of  dust,  I believe.  I have  a faint  impression 
that  Mr.  Spenlow  remonstrated  with  me  for  riding 
in  it ; but  I knew  of  none.  I was  sensible  of  a 
mist  of  love  and  beauty  about  Dora,  but  of  no- 
thing else.  He  stood  up  sometimes,  and  asked  me 
what  I thought  of  the  prospect.  I said  it  Was  de- 
lightful, and  I dare  say  it  was  ; but  it  was  all  Cora 
to  me.  The  sun  shone  Dora,  and  the  birds  sang 
Dora.  The  south  wind  blew  Dora,  and  the  wild 
flowers  in  the  hedges  were  all  Doras,  to  a bud. 
My  comfort  is,  Miss  Mills  understood  me.  Miss 
Mills  alone  could  enter  into  my  feelings  thor- 
oughly. — David  Copperfield , Chap.  33. 


LOVE-For  Little  Nell. 

The  people  of  the  village,  too,  of  whom  there 
was  not  one  but  grew  to  have  a fondness  for 
poor  Nell ; even  among  them  there  was  the 
same  feeling ; a tenderness  towards  her — a 
compassionate  regard  for  her,  increasing  every 
day.  The  very  schoolboys,  light-hearted  and 
thoughtless  as  they  were,  even  they  cared  for  her. 
The  roughest  among  them  was  sorry  if  he 
missed  her  in  the  usual  place  upon  his  way  to 
school,  and  would  turn  out  of  the  path  to  ask 
for  her  at  the  latticed  window.  If  she  were 
sitting  in  the  church,  they  perhaps  might  peep 
in  softly  at  the  open  door  ; but  they  never  spoke 
to  her,  unless  she  rose  and  went  to  speak  to 
them.  Some  feeling  was  abroad  which  raised 
the  child  above  them  all. 

So,  when  Sunday  came.  They  were  all  poor 
country  people  in  the  church,  for  the  castle  in 
which  the  old  family  had  lived  was  an  empty 
ruin,  and  there  were  none  but  humble  folks  for 
seven  miles  around.  There,  as  elsewhere,  they 
had  an  interest  in  Nell.  They  would  gather 
round  her  in  the  porch,  before  and  after  service  ; 
young  children  would  cluster  at  her  skirts,  and 
aged  men  and  women  forsake  their  gossips,  to 
give  her  kindly  greeting.  None  of  them,  young 
or  old,  thought  of  passing  the  child  without  a 
friendly  word.  Many  who  came  from  three  or 
four  miles  distant,  brought  her  little  presents  ; 
the  humblest  and  rudest  had  good  wishes  to 
bestow. 

She  had  sought  out  the  young  children  whom 
she  first  saw  playing  in  the  churchyard.  One 
of  these — he  who  had  spoken  of  his  brother 
— was  her  little  favorite  and  friend,  and  often 
sat  by  her  side  in  the  church,  or  climbed  with 
her  to  the  tower-top.  It  was  his  delight  to 
help  her,  or  to  fancy  that  he  did  so,  and 
they  soon  became  close  companions. 

It  happened,  that,  as  she  was  reading  in  the 
old  spot  by  herself  one  day,  this  child  came 
running  in  with  his  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  after 
holding  her  from  him,  and  looking  at  her  eagerly 
for  a moment,  clasped  his  little  arms  passion- 
ately about  her  neck. 

“What  now?”  said  Nell,  soothing  him. 
“What  is  the  matter?” 

“ She  is  not  one  yet,”  cried  the  boy,  embracing 
her  still  more  closely.  “ No,  no.  Not  yet.” 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly,  and  putting 
his  hair  back  from  his  face,  and  kissing  him, 
asked  what  he  meant. 

“ You  must  not  be  one,  dear  Nell,”  cried  the 
boy.  “ We  can’t  see  them.  They  never  come 
to  play  with  us,  or  talk  to  us.  Be  what  you  are. 
You  are  better  so.” 

“I  do  not  understand  you,”  said  the  child. 
“ Tell  me  what  you  mean.” 

“ Why,  they  say,”  replied  the  boy,  looking  up 
into  her  face,  “ that  you  will  be  an  Angel  before 
the  birds  sing  again.  But  you  won’t  be,  will 
you?  Don’t  leave  us,  Nell,  though  the  sky  is 
bright.  Do  not  leave  us  ! ” 

The  child  dropped  her  head,  and  put  her 
hands  before  her  face. 

“She  cannot  bear  the  thought!”  cried  the 
boy,  exulting  through  his  tears.  “ You  will  not 
go.  You  know  how  sorry  we  should  be.  Dear 
Nell,  tell  me  that  you’ll  stay  among  us.  Oh  ! 
pray,  pray,  tell  me  that  you  will.” 

The  little  creature  folded  his  hands,  and 
knelt  down  at  her  feet. 


LOVE 


278 


LOVE 


“Only  look  at  me,  Nell,”  said  the  boy,  “and 
tell  me  that  you'll  stop,  and  then  I shall  know 
that  they  are  wrong,  and  will  cry  no  more. 
Won’t  you  say  yes,  Nell?” 

Still  the  drooping  head  and  hidden  face,  and 
the  child  quite  silent — save  for  her  sobs. 

“ After  a time,”  pursued  the  boy,  trying  to 
draw  away  her  hand,  “ the  kind  angels  will  be 
glad  to  think  that  you  are  not  among  them,  and 
that  you  stayed  here  to  be  with  us.  Willie  went 
away,  to  join  them  ; but  if  he  had  known  how 
I should  miss  him  in  our  little  bed  at  night,  he 
never  would  have  left  me,  I am  sure.” 

Yet  the  child  could  make  him  no  answer,  and 
sobbed  as  though  her  heart  were  bursting. 

“Why  would  you  go,  dear  Nell?  I know 
you  would  not  be  happy  when  you  heard  that 
we  were  crying  for  your  loss.  They  say  that 
Willie  is  in  Heaven  now,  and  that  it’s  always 
summer  there,  and  yet  I’m  sure  he  grieves  when 
I lie  down  upon  his  garden  bed,  and  he  cannot 
turn  to  kiss  me.  But  if  you  do  go,  Nell,”  said 
the  boy,  caressing  her,  and  pressing  his  face  to 
hers,  “ be  fond  of  him  for  my  sake.  Tell  him 
how  I love  him  still,  and  how  much  I loved 
you  ; and  when  I think  that  you  two  are  to- 
gether, and  are  happy,  I’ll  try  to  bear  it,  and 
never  give  you  pain  by  doing  wrong — indeed  I 
never  will ! ” 

The  child  suffered  him  to  move  her  hands, 
and  put  them  round  his  neck.  There  was  a 
tearful  silence,  but  it  was  not  long  before  she 
looked  upon  him  with  a smile,  and  promised 
him,  in  a very  gentle,  quiet  voice,  that  she  would 
stay,  and  be  his  friend,  as  long  as  Heaven  would 
let  her.  He  clapped  his  hands  for  joy,  and 
thanked  her  many  times  ; and  being  charged  to 
tell  no  person  what  had  passed  between  them, 
gave  her  an  earnest  promise  that  he  never  would. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  55. 

LOVE— Its  sorcery. 

Caleb  was  no  sorcerer,  but  in  the  only  magic 
art  that  still  remains  to  us,  the  magic  of  devoted, 
deathless  love,  Nature  had  been  the  mistress  of 
his  study ; and  from  her  teaching  all  the  won- 
der came. 

The  Blind  Girl  never  knew  that  ceilings  were 
discolored,  walls  blotched  and  bare  of  plaster 
here  and  there,  high  crevices  unstopped  and 
widening  every  day,  beams  mouldering  and  tend- 
ing downward.  The  Blind  Girl  never  knew  that 
iron  was  rusting,  wood  rotting,  paper  peeling 
off ; the  size,  and  shape,  and  true  proportion  of 
the  dwelling,  withering  away.  The  Blind  Girl 
never  knew  that  ugly  shapes  of  delf  and  earth- 
enware were  on  the  board  ; that  sorrow  and 
faint-heartedness  were  in  the  house  ; that  Caleb’s 
scanty  hairs  were  turning  grayer  and  more  gray, 
before  her  sightless  face.  The  Blind  Girl  never 
knew  they  had  a master,  cold,  exacting,  and  un- 
interested— never  knew  that  Tackleton  was 
Tackleton,  in  short  ; but  lived  in  the  belief  of 
an  eccentric  humorist  who  loved  to  have  his  jest 
with  them,  and  who,  while  he  was  the  Guardian 
Angel  of  their  lives,  disdained  to  hear  one  word 
of  thankfulness. 

And  all  wa4  Caleb’s  doing  ; all  the  doing  of 
her  simple  father  ! But  he  too  had  a Cricket  on 
his  Hearth;  and  listening  sadly  to  its  music 
when  the  motherless  Blind  Child  was  very  young, 
that  Spirit  had  inspired  him  with  the  thought 
that  even  her  great  deprivation  might  be  almost 


changed  into  a blessing,  and  the  girl  made  happy 
by  these  little  means.  For  all  the  Cricket  tribe 
are  potent  Spirits,  even  though  the  people  who 
hold  converse  with  them  do  no'  know  it  (which 
is  frequently  the  case),  and  there  are  not  in  the 
unseen  world  voices  more  gentle  and  more  true, 
that  may  be  so  implicitly  relied  on,  or  that  are 
so  certain  to  give  none  but  tenderest  counsel, 
as  the  Voices  in  which  the  Spirits  of  the  Fire- 
side and  the  Hearth  address  themselves  to  hu- 
man kind. — Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  2. 

LOVE-MAKING  Pickwick’s  advice  on. 

“ I should  feel  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
any  advice,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Magnus,  taking  another 
look  at  the  clock ; the  hand  of  which  was  verg- 
ing on  the  five  minutes  past. 

“Well,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  the  pro- 
found solemnity  with  which  that  great  man  could, 
when  he  pleased,  render  his  remarks  so  deeply 
impressive  : “ I should  commence,  sir,  with  a 
tribute  to  the  lady’s  beauty  and  excellent  quali- 
ties ; from  them,  sir,  I should  diverge  to  my  own 
unworthiness.” 

“ Very  good,”  said  Mr.  Magnus. 

“Unworthiness  for  her  only,  mind,  sir,”  re- 
sumed Mr.  Pickwick;  “for  to  show  that  I was 
not  wholly  unworthy,  sir,  I should  take  a brief 
review  of  my  past  life,  and  present  condition.  I 
should  argue,  by  analogy,  that  to  anybody  else,  I 
must  be  a very  desirable  object.  I should  then 
expatiate  on  the  warmth  of  my  love,  and  the 
depth  of  my  devotion.  Perhaps  I might  then 
be  tempted  to  seize  her  hand.” 

“Yes,  I see,”  said  Mr.  Magnus  : “ that  would 
be  a very  great  point.” 

“ I should  then,  sir,”  continued.  Mr.  Pickwick, 
growing  warmer  as  the  subject  presented  itself 
in  more  glowing  colors  before  him  : “I  should 
then,  sir,  come  to  the  plain  and  simple  question, 
‘Will  you  have  me?’  I think  I am  justified  in 
assuming  that,  upon  this,  she  would  turn  away 
her  head.” 

“ You  think  that  may  be  taken  for  granted?  ” 
said  Mr.  Magnus  ; “ because,  if  she  did  not  do 
that  at  the  right  place,  it  would  be  embarrass- 
ing” 

“ I think  she  would,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 
“ Upon  this,  sir,  I should  squeeze  her  hand,  and 
I think — I think , Mr.  Magnus — that  after  I had 
done  that,  supposing  there  was  no  refusal,  I 
should  gently  draw  away  the  handkerchief,  which 
my  slight  knowledge  of  human  nature  leads  me 
to  suppose  the  lady  would  be  applying  to  her 
eyes  at  the  moment,  and  steal  a respectful  kiss. 
I think  I should  kiss  her,  Mr.  Magnus  ; and  at 
this  particular  point,  I am  decidedly  of  opinion 
that  if  the  lady  were  going  to  take  me  at  all, 
she  would  murmur  into  my  ears  a bashful  ac- 
ceptance.”— Pickwick , Chap.  24. 

LOVE— John  Chivery  in. 

She  preceded  the  visitor  into  a little  parlor 
behind  the  shop,  with  a little  window  in  it  com- 
manding a very  little  dull  back  yard.  In  this 
yard/ a wash  of  sheets  and  table-cloths  tried  (in 
vain,  for  want  of  air)  tp  get  itself  dried  on  a 
line  or  two  ; and  among  those  flapping  articles 
was,  sitting  in  a chair,  like  the  last  mariner  left 
alive  on  the  deck  of  a damp  ship  without  the 
power  of  furling  the  sails,  a little  woe  begone 
young  man. 

“ Our  John,”  said  Mrs.  Chivery. 


LOVE 


279 


LOVE 


Not  to  be  deficient  in  interest,  Clennam  asked 
what  he  might  be  doing  there? 

“ It’s  the  only  change  he  takes,”  said  Mrs. 
Chivery,  shaking  her  head  afresh.  “ He  won’t 
go  out,  even  in  the  back  yard,  when  there’s  no 
linen  ; but  when  there’s  linen  to  keep  the  neigh- 
bors’ eyes  off,  he’ll  sit  there,  hours.  Hours  he 
will.  Says  he  feels  as  if  it  was  groves  ! ” Mrs. 
Chivery  shook  her  head  again,  put  her  apron  in 
a motherly  way  to  her  eyes,  and  reconducted  her 
visitor  into  the  regions  of  the  business. 

“ Please  to  take  a seat,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Chivery. 
“ Miss  Dorrit  is  the  matter  with  Our  John,  sir  ; 
he’s  a breaking  his  heart  for  her,  and  I would 
wish  to  take  the  liberty  to  ask  how  it’s  to  be 
made  good  to  his  parents  when  bust  ? ” 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  22. 

LOVE— Of  Ruth  and  John  Westlock. 

Ah,  but  it  would  have  been  a good  thing  to 
have  had  a coat  of  invisibility,  wherein  to  have 
watched  little  Ruth,  when  she  was  left  to  herself 
in  John  Westlock’s  chambers,  and  John  and  her 
brother  were  talking  thus,  over  their  wine  ! The 
gentle  way  in  which  she  tried  to  get  up  a little 
conversation  with  the  fiery  faced  matron  in  the 
crunched  bonnet,  wdio  was  waiting  to  attend  her  ; 
after  making  a desperate  rally  in  regard  of  her 
dress,  and  attiring  herself  in  a washed-out  yel- 
low gown  with  sprigs  of  the  same  upon  it,  so 
that  it  looked  like  a tesselated  work  of  pats  of 
butter.  That  would  have  been  pleasant.  The 
grim  and  griffin-like  inflexibility  with  which  the 
fiery-faced  matron  repelled  these  engaging  ad- 
vances, as  proceeding  from  a hostile  and  danger- 
ous power,  who  could  have  no  business  there, 
unless  it  were  to  deprive  her  of  a customer,  or 
suggest  what  became  of  the  self-consuming  tea 
and  sugar,  and  other  general  trifles.  That  would 
have  been  agreeable.  The  bashful,  winning, 
glorious  curiosity,  with  which  little  Ruth,  when 
fiery  face  was  gone,  peeped  into  the  books  and 
nick-nacks  that  were  lying  about,  and  had  a 
particular  interest  in  some  delicate  paper-matches 
on  the  chimney-piece,  wondering  who  could  have 
made  them.  That  would  have  been  worth  see- 
ing. The  faltering  hand  with  which  she  tied 
those  flowers  together  ; with  which,  almost  blush- 
ing at  her  own  fair  self  as  imaged  in  the  glass, 
she  arranged  them  in  her  breast,  and  looking  at 
them  with  her  head  aside,  now  half  resolved  to 
take  them  out  again,  now  half  resolved  to  leave 
them  where  they  were.  That  would  have  been 
delightful  ! 

John  seemed  to  think  it  all  delightful  : for, 
coming  in  with  Tom  to  tea,  he  took  his  seat  be- 
side her  like  a man  enchanted.  And  when  the 
tea-service  had  been  removed,  and  Tom,  sitting 
down  at  the  piano,  became  absorbed  in  some  of 
his  old  organ  tunes,  he  was  still  beside  her  at 
the  open  window,  looking  out  upon  the  twi- 
iight. 

There  is  little  enough  to  see  in  Furnivars 
Inn.  It  is  a shady,  quiet  place,  echoing  to  the 
footsteps  of  the  stragglers  who  have  business 
there  ; and  rather  monotonous  and  gloomy  on 
summer  evenings.  What  gave  it  such  a charm 
to  them,  that  they  remained  at  the  window  as 
unconscious  of  the  flight  of  time  as  Tom  himself, 
the  dreamer,  while  the  melodies  which  had  so 
often  soothed  his  spirit,  were  hovering  again 
about  him  ? What  power  infused  into  the  fad- 
ing light,  the  gathering  darkness  ; the  stars  that 


here  and  there  appeared  ; the  evening  air  ; the 
City’s  hum  and  stir  ; the  very  chiming  of  the  old 
church  clocks  ; such  exquisite  enthralment,  that 
the  divinest  regions  of  the  earth  spread  out  be- 
fore their  eyes  could  not  have  held  them  captive 
in  a stronger  chain  ? 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  45. 

Brilliantly  the  Temple  Fountain  sparkled  in 
the  sun,  and  laughingly  its  liquid  music  played, 
and  merrily  the  idle  drops  of  water  danced  and 
danced,  and  peeping  out  in  sport  among  the 
trees,  plunged  lightly  down  to  hide  themselves, 
as  little  Ruth  and  her  companion  came  towards 
it. 

Hs  Ht  % 

What  a good  old  place  it  was  ! John  said, 
with  quite  an  earnest  affection  for  it. 

“ A pleasant  place,  indeed,”  said  little  Ruth. 
“ So  shady  ! ” 

Oh,  wicked  little  Ruth. 

They  came  to  a stop  when  John  began  to 
praise  it.  The  day  was  exquisite  ; and  stopping 
at  all,  it  was  quite  natural — nothing  could  be 
more  so — that  they  should  glance  down  Garden 
Court;  because  Garden  Court  ends  in  the  Gar- 
den, and  the  Garden  ends  in  the  River,  and  that 
glimpse  is  very  bright  and  fresh  and  shining  on 
a summer’s  day.  Then,  oh  little  Ruth,  why  not 
look  boldly  at  it  ? Why  fit  that  tiny,  precious, 
blessed  little  foot  into  the  cracked  corner  of  an 
insensible  old  flagstone  in  the  pavement  ; and 
be  so  very  anxious  to  adjust  it  to  a nicety  ? 

If  the  Fiery-faced  matron  in  the  crunched 
bonnet  could  have  seen  them  as  they  walked 
away,  how  many  years’  purchase  might  Fiery 
Face  have  been  disposed  to  take  for  her  situa- 
tion in  Furnival’s  Inn  as  laundress  to  Mr.  West- 
lock  ? 

They  went  away,  but  not  through  London’s 
streets  ! Through  some  enchanted  city,  where 
the  pavements  were  of  air  ; where  all  the  rough 
sounds  of  a stirring  town  were  softened  into 
gentle  music  ; • where  everything  was  happy  ; 
where  there  was  no  distance,  and  no  time. 
There  were  two  good-tempered  burly  draymen 
letting  down  big  butts  of  beer  into  a cellar, 
somewhere  ; and  when  John  helped  her — almost 
lifted  her — the  lightest,  easiest,  neatest  thing 
you  ever  saw — across  the  rope,  they  said  he 
owed  them  a good  turn  for  giving  him  the 
chance.  Celestial  draymen  ! 

Green  pastures  in  the  summer  tide,  deep  lit- 
tered straw-yards  in  the  winter,  no  stint  of  corn 
and  clover,  ever,  to  that  noble  horse  who  would 
dance  on  the  pavement  with  a gig  behind  him, 
and  who  frightened  her,  and  made  her  clasp  his 
arm  with  both  hands  (both  hands : meeting  one 
upon  the  other,  so  endearingly  !),  and  caused  her 
to  implore  him  to  take  refuge  in  the  pastry- 
cook’s ; and  afterwards  to  peep  out  at  the  door 
so  shrinkingly  ; and  then — looking  at  him  with 
those  eyes — to  ask  him  was  he  sure — now  was 
he  sure — they  might  go  safely  on  ! Oh  for  a 
string  of  rampant  horses!  For  a lion,  for  a 
bear,  for  a mad  bull,  for  anything  to  bring  the 
little  hands  together  on  his  arm,  again  ! 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  53. 

LOVE — The  disappointment  of  Dick  Swivel- 
ler. 

“ I came  here,”  said  Dick,  rather  oblivious  of 
the  purpose  with  which  he  had  really  come. 


LOVE 


280 


LOVELINESS  IN  WOMAN 


“ with  my  bosom  expanded,  my  heart  dilated, 
ancl  my  sentiments  of  a corresponding  descrip- 
tion. I go  away  with  feelings  that  may  be  con- 
ceived, but  cannot  be  described  , feeling  within 
myself  the  desolating  truth  that  my  best  affec- 
tions have  experienced,  this  night,  a stifler  ! ” 
Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  8. 

A day  or  two  after  the  Quilp  tea-party  at  the 
Wilderness,  Mr.  Swiveller  walked  into  Sampson 
Brass’s  office  at  the  usual  hour,  and  being  alone 
in  that  Temple  of  Probity,  placed  his  hat  upon 
the  desk,  and  taking  from  his  pocket  a small 
parcel  of  black  crape,  applied  himself  to  folding 
and  pinning  the  same  upon  it,  after  the  manner 
of  a hatband.  Having  completed  the  construc- 
tion of  this  appendage,  he  surveyed  his  work 
with  great  complacency,  and  put  his  hat  on 
again — very  much  over  one  eye,  to  increase  the 
mournfulness  of  the  effect.  These  arrange- 
ments perfected  to  his  entire  satisfaction,  he 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  office  with  measured  steps. 

“ It  has  always  been  the  same  with  me,”  said 
Mr.  Swiveller,  “ always.  ’Twas  ever  thus,  from 
childhood’s  hour,  I’ve  seen  my  fondest  hopes 
decay,  I never  loved  a tree  or  flower  but  ’twas 
the  first  to  fade  away  ; I never  nursed  a dear 
Gazelle,  to  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye,  but 
when  it  came  to  know  me  well,  and  love  me,  it 
was  sure  to  marry  a market-gardener.” 

Overpowered  by  these  reflections,  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller stopped  short  at  the  clients’  chair,  and 
flung  himself  into  its  open  arms. 

“And  this,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  with  a kind 
of  bantering  composure,  “ is  life,  I believe.  Oh, 
certainly ! Why  not ! I’m  quite  satisfied.  I 
shall  wear,”  added  Richard,  taking  off  his  hat 
again,  and  looking  hard  at  it,  as  if  he  were  only 
deterred  by  pecuniary  considerations  from  spurn- 
ing it  with  his  foot,  “ I shall  wear  this  emblem 
of  woman’s  perfidy,  in  remembrance  of  her  with 
whom  I shall  never  again  thread  the  windings 
of  the  mazy  ; whom  I shall  never  more  pledge 
in  the  rosy  ; who,  during  the  short  remainder 
of  my  existence,  will  murder  the  balmy.  Ha, 
ha,  ha!  ” — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  56. 

LOVE— The  disappointment  of  John  Chiv- 
ery. 

“And  good-bye,  John,”  said  Little  Dorrit. 
“ And  I hope  you  will  have  a good  wife  one 
day,  and  be  a happy  man.  I am  sure  you  will 
deserve  to  be  happy,  and  you  will  be,  John.” 

As  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  these 
words,  the  heart  that  was  under  the  waistcoat 
of  sprigs — mere  slop-work,  if  the  truth  must  be 
known — swelled  to  the  size  of  the  heart  of  a 
gentleman  ; and  the  poor,  common  little  fellow, 
having  no  room  to  hold  it,  burst  into  tears. 

“ O don’t  cry,”  said  Little  Dorrit,  piteously. 
“ Don’t,  don’t ! Good-bye,  John.  God  bless  you!  ” 

“ Good-bye,  Miss  Amy.  Good-bye  !” 

It  was  an  affecting  illustration  of  the  fallacy 
of  human  projects,  to  behold  her  lover,  with  the 
great  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  the  velvet  collar 
turned  up  as  if  it  rained,  the  plum-colored  coat 
buttoned  to  conceal  the  silken  waistcoat  of 
golden  sprigs,  and  the  little  direction-post 
pointing  inexorably  home,  creeping  along  by 
the  worst  back-streets,  and  composing  as  he 
went,  the  following  new  inscription  for  a tomb- 
stone in  Saint  George’s  Churchyard  : 


“ Here  lie  the  mortal  remains  of  John  Chiv- 
ery,  Never  anything  worth  mentioning,  Who 
died  about  the  end  of  the  year  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  twenty-six,  Of  a broken 
heart,  Requesting  with  his  last  breath  that  the 
word  Amy  might  be  inscribed  over  his  ashes, 
Which  was  accordingly  directed  to  be  done,  By 
his  afflicted  Parents.” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  18. 

LOVE  The  elements  of  its  growth. 

Mystery  and  disappointment  are  not  absolute- 
ly indispensable  to  the  growth  of  love,  but  they 
are,  very  often,  its  powerful  auxiliaries.  “Out 
of  sight,  out  of  mind,”  is  well  enough  as  a pro- 
verb applicable  to  cases  of  friendship,  though 
absence  is  not  always  necessary  to  hollowness 
of  heart,  even  between  friends,  and  truth  and 
honesty,  like  precious  stones,  are  perhaps  most 
easily  imitated  at  a distance,  when  the  counter- 
feits often  pass  for  real.  Love,  however,  is  very 
materially  assisted  by  a warm  and  active  imagi- 
nation, which  has  a long  memory,  and  will 
thrive  for  a considerable  time  on  very  slight  and 
sparing  food.  Thus  it  is,  that  it  often  attains  its 
most  luxuriant  growth  in  separation  and  under 
circumstances  of  the  utmost  difficulty  ; and  thus 
it  was,  that  Nicholas,  thinking  of  nothing  but 
the  unknown  young  lady,  from  day  to  day  and 
from  hour  to  hour,  began,  at  last,  to  think  that 
he  was  very  desperately  in  love  with  her,  and 
that  never  was  such  an  ill-used  and  persecuted 
lover  as  he. — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  40. 

LOVE— The  period  of. 

What  an  idle  time  ! What  an  unsubstantial, 
happy,  foolish  time  ! Of  all  the  times  of  mine 
that  Time  has  in  his  grip,  there  is  none  that  in 
one  retrospect  I can  smile  at  half  so  much,  and 
think  of  half  so  tenderly. 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  33. 

LOVELINESS  IN  WOMAN-The  influence 

of. 

Whether  there  was  life  enough  left  in  the 
slow  vegetation  of  Fountain  Court  for  the  smoky 
shrubs  to  have  any  consciousness  of  the  brightest 
and  purest-hearted  little  woman  in  the  world,  is 
a question  for  gardeners,  and  those  who  are 
learned  in  the  loves  of  plants.  But,  that  it  was 
a good  thing  for  that  same  paved  yard  to  have 
such  a delicate  little  figure  flitting  through  it  ; 
that  it  passed  like  a smile  from  the  grimy  old 
houses,  and  the  worn  flagstones,  and  left  them 
duller,  darker,  sterner  than  before,  there  is  no 
sort  of  doubt.  The  Temple  fountain  might  have 
leaped  up  twenty  feet  to  greet  the  spring  of 
hopeful  maidenhood,  that  in  her  person  stole  on, 
sparkling,  through  the  dry  and  dusty  channels 
of  the  Law  ; the  chirping  sparrows,  bred  in 
Temple  chinks  and  crannies,  might  have  held 
their  peace  to  listen  to  imaginary  skylarks,  as  so 
fresh  a little  creature  passed  : the  dingy  boughs, 
unused  to  droop,  otherwise  than  in  their  puny 
growth,  might  have  bent  down  in  a kindred 
gracefulness,  to  shed  their  benedictions  on  her 
graceful  head  ; old  love  letters,  shut  up  in  iron 
boxes  in  the  neighboring  offices,  and  made  of 
no  account  among  the  heaps  of  family  papers 
into  which  they  had  strayed,  and  of  which,  in 
their  degeneracy,  ifley  formed  a part,  might 
have  stirred  and  fluttered  with  a moment’s  recol- 
lection of  their  ancient  tenderness,  as  she  went 


LOVERS 


281 


LUNATI 


lightly  by.  Anything  might  have  happened  that 
did  not  happen,  and  never  will,  for  the  love  of 
Ruth. — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  45. 

LOVERS— Their  power  of  condensation. 

Though  lovers  are  remarkable  for  leaving  a 
great  deal  unsaid  on  all  occasions,  and  very 
properly  desiring  to  come  back  and  say  it,  they 
are  remarkable  also  for  a wonderful  power  of 
condensation  ; and  can,  in  one  way  or  other, 
give  utterance  to  more  language — eloquent  lan- 
guage— in  .any,  given  short  space  of  time,  than 
all  the  six  hundred  and  fifty-eight  members  in 
the  Commons  House  of  Parliament  of  the 
United  Kingdom  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  ; 
who  are  strong  lovers,  no  doubt,  but  of  their 
country  only,  which  makes  all  the  difference  ; 
for  in  a passion  of  that  kind  (which  is  not  al- 
ways returned)  it  is  the  custom  to  use  as  many 
words  as  possible,  and  express  nothing  what- 
ever.— Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  43. 

LUNATIC. 

“ He’s  a deal  pleasanter  without  his  senses 
than  with  ’em.  He  was  the  cruellest,  wicked- 
est, out-and-outerest  old  flint  that  ever  drawed 
breath.” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  41. 

LUNATIC  ASYLUM- An  American. 

One  day,  during  my  stay  in  New  York,  I paid 
a visit  to  the  different  public  Institutions  on 
Long  Island,  or  Rhode  Island,  I forget  which. 
One  of  them  is  a Lunatic  Asylum.  The  build- 
ing is  handsome,  and  is  remarkable  for  a spacious 
and  elegant  staircase.  The  whole  structure  is 
not  yet  finished,  but  it  is  already  one  of  con- 
siderable size  and  extent,  and  is  capable  of  ac- 
commodating a very  large  number  of  patients. 

I cannot  say  that  I derived  much  comfort 
from  the  inspection  of  this  charity.  The  differ- 
ent wards  might  have  been  cleaner  and  better 
ordered  ; I saw  nothing  of  that  salutary  system 
which  had  impressed  me  so  favorably  elsewhere  ; 
and  everything  had  a lounging,  listless,  mad- 
house air,  which  was  very  painful.  The  moping 
idiot,  cowering  down,  with  long  dishevelled  hair  ; 
the  gibbering  maniac,  with  his  hideous  laugh 
and  pointed  linger:  the  vacant  eye,  the  fierce 
wild  face,  the  gloomy  picking  of  the  hands  and 
lips,  and  munching  of  the  nails  ; there  they  were 
all,  without  disguise,  in  naked  ugliness  and  hor- 
ror. In  the  dining-room,  a bare,  dull,  dreary 
place,  with  nothing  for  the  eye  to  rest  on  but 
the  empty  walls,  a woman  was  locked  up  alone. 
She  was  bent,  they  told  me,  on  committing  sui- 
cide. If  anything  could  have  strengthened  her 
in  her  resolution,  it  would  certainly  have  been 
the  insupportable  monotony  of  such  an  exist- 
ence. 

The  terrible  crowd  with  which  these  halls  and 
galleries  were  filled  so  shocked  me,  that  I 
abridged  my  stay  within  the  shortest  limits,  and 
declined  to  see  that  portion  of  the  building  in 
which  the  refractory  and  violent  were  under 
closer  restraint.  I have  no  doubt  that  the  gen- 
tleman who  presided  over  this  establishment  at 
the  time  I write  of  was  competent  to  manage  it, 
and  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  promote  its 
usefulness  ; but  will  it  be  believed  that  the  mis- 
erable strife  of  Party  feeling  is  carried  even  into 
this  sad  refuge  of  afflicted  and  degraded  human- 
ity? Will  it  be  believed  that  the  eyes  which 
are  to  watch  over  and  control  the  wanderings 


of  minds  o.  which  the  most  dreadful  visitation 
to  which  our  nature  is  exposed  has  fallen,  must 
wear  the  glasses  of  some  wretched  side  in  Poli- 
tics? Will  it  be  believed  that  the  governor  of 
such  a house  as  this  is  appointed  and  deposed 
and  changed  perpetually,  as  Parties  fluctuate 
and  vary,  and  as  their  despicable  weathercocks 
are  blown  this  way  or  that  ? A hundred  times 
in  every  week  some  new,  most  paltry,  exhibition 
of  that  narrow-minded  and  injurious  Party 
Spirit  which  is  the  Simoom  of  America,  sicken- 
ing and  blighting  everything  of  wholesome  life 
within  its  reach,  was  forced  upon  my  notice  ; 
but  I never  turned  my  back  upon  it  with  feel- 
ings of  such  deep  disgust  and  measureless  con- 
tempt as  when  I crossed  the  threshold  of  this 
madhouse. — American  Notes , Chap.  6. 

LUNATIC -His  courtship  of  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

Kate  looked  very  much  perplexed,  and  was 
apparently  about  to  ask  for  further  explanation, 
when  a shouting  and  scuffling  noise,  as  of  an 
elderly  gentleman  whooping,  and  kicking  up  his 
legs  on  loose  gravel,  with  great  violence,  was 
heard  to  proceed  from  the  same  direction  as  the 
former  sounds  ; and,  before  they  had  subsided,  a 
large  cucumber  was  seen  to  shoot  up  in  the  air 
with  the  velocity  of  a sky-rocket,  whence  it  de- 
scended, tumbling  over  and  over,  until  it  fell  at 
Mrs.  Nickleby’s  feet. 

This  remarkable  appearance  was  succeeded 
by  another  of  a precisely  similar  description  ; 
then  a fine  vegetable  marrow,  of  unusually  large 
dimensions,  was  seen  to  w'birl  aloft,  and  come 
toppling  down  ; then,  several  cucumbers  shot 
up  together  ; finally,  the  air  was  darkened  by  a 
shower  of  onions,  turnip-radishes,  and  other 
small  vegetables,  which  fell,  rolling  and  scatter- 
ing, and  bumping  about  in  all  directions. 

As  Kate  rose  from  her  seat,  in  some  alarm, 
and  caught  her  mother’s  hand  to  run  with  her 
into  the  house,  she  felt  herself  rather  retarded 
than  assisted  in  her  intention  ; and  following 
the  direction  of  Mrs.  Nickleby’s  eyes,  was  quite 
terrified  by  the  apparition  of  an  old  black  velvet 
cap,  which,  by  slow  degrees,  as  if  its  wearer  were 
ascending  a ladder  or  pair  of  steps,  rose  above 
the  wall  dividing  their  garden  from  that  of  the 
next  cottage  (which,  like  their  own,  was  a de- 
tached building),  and  was  gradually  followed  by 
a very  large  head,  and  an  old  face  in  which  were 
a pair  of  most  extraordinary  gray  eyes : very 
wild,  very  wide  open,  and  rolling  in  their 
sockets,  with  a dull,  languishing,  leering  look, 
most  ugly  to  behold. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  41. 

“Very  good,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  raising 
his  voice,  “ then  bring  in  the  bottled  lightning, 
a clean  tumbler,  and  a corkscrew.” 

Nobody  executing  this  order,  the  old  gentle- 
man, after  a short  pause,  raised  his  voice  again 
and  demanded  a thunder  sandwich.  This  arti- 
cle not  being  forthcoming  either,  he  requested 
to  be  served  with  a fricassee  of  boot-tops  and 
goldfish  sauce,  and  then,  laughing  heartily,  grati- 
fied his  hearers  with  a very  long,  very  loud,  and 
most  melodious  bellow. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  49. 

“ I have  estates,  ma’am,”  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, flourishing  his  right  hand  negligently,  as 
if  he  made  very  light  of  such  matters,  and  speak- 


LYONS 


282 


MADMAN 


ing  very  fast ; “jewels,  light-houses,  fish-ponds,  a 
vvhalery  of  my  own  in  the  North  Sea,  and  several 
oyster-beds  of  great  profit  in  the  Pacific  Ocean. 
If  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  step  down  to 
the  Royal  Exchange  and  to  take  the  cocked  hat 
off  the  stoutest  beadle’s  head,  you  will  find  my 
card  in  the  lining  of  the  crown,  wrapped  up  in 
a piece  of  blue  paper.  My  walking-stick  is  also 
to  be  seen  on  application  to  the  chaplain  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  who  is  strictly  forbidden  to 
take  any  money  for  showing  it.  1 have  enemies 
about  me,  ma’am,”  he  looked  towards  his  house 
and  spoke  very  low,  “ who  attack  me  on  all  oc- 
casions, and  wish  to  secure  my  property.  If  you 
bless  me  with  your  hand  and  heart,  you  can 
apply  to  the  Lord  Chancellor  or  call  out  the 
military  if  necessary — sending  my  toothpick  to 
the  commander-in-chief  will  be  sufficient — and 
so  clear  the  house  of  them  before  the  ceremony 
is  performed.  After  that,  love,  bliss,  and  rap- 
ture ; rapture,  love,  and  bliss.  Be  mine,  be 
mine  !” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  41. 

LYONS. 

What  a city  Lyons  is  ! Talk  about  people 
feeling,  at  certain  unlucky  times,  as  if  they  had 
tumbled  from  the  clouds ! Here  is  a whole 
town  that  has  tumbled,  anyhow,  out  of  the  sky  ; 
having  been  first  caught  up,  like  other  stones 
that  tumble  down  from  that  region,  out  of  fens 
and  barren  places,  dismal  to  behold  ! The  two 
great  streets  through  which  the  two  great  rivers 
dash,  and  all  the  little  streets  whose  name  is 
Legion,  were  scorching,  blistering,  and  swelter- 
ing. The  houses,  high  and  vast,  dirty  to  excess, 
rotten  as  old  cheeses,  and  as  thickly  peopled. 
All  up  the  hills  that  hem  the  city  in,  these  houses 
swarm  ; and  the  mites  inside  were  lolling  out  of 
the  windows,  and  drying  their  ragged  clothes 
on  poles,  and  crawling  in  and  out  at  the  doors, 
and  coming  out  to  pant  and  gasp  upon  the  pave- 
ment, and  creeping  in  and  out  among  huge  piles 
and  bales  of  fusty,  musty,  stifling  goods : and 
living,  or  rather  not  dying  till  their  time  should 
come,  in  an  exhausted  receiver.  Every  manu- 
facturing town,  melted  into  one,  would  hardly 
convey  an  impression  of  Lyons  as  it  presented 
itself  to  me : for  all  the  undrained,  unscaven- 
gered  qualities  of  a foreign  town,  seemed  grafted 
there,  upon  the  native  miseries  of  a manufactur- 
ing one  ; and  it  bears  such  fruit  as  I would  go 
some  miles  out  of  my  way  to  avoid  encounter- 
ing again. — Pictures  from  Italy. 


M 

MACHINERY- Oar  Making-. 

I have  no  present  time  to  think  about  it,  for  I 
ain  going  to  see  the  workshops  where  they  make 
all  the  oars  used  in  the  British  Navy.  A pretty 
large  pile  of  building,  I opine,  and  a pretty  long 
job!  As  to  the  building,  I am  soon  disappoint- 
ed, because  the  work  is  all  done  in  one  loft. 
And*as  to  a long  job — what  is  this?  Two 
rather  large  mangles,  with  a swarm  of  butterflies 
hovering  over  them  ! What  can  there  be  in  the 
mangles  that  attracts  butterflies  ? 


Drawing  nearer,  I discern  that  these  are  not 
mangles,  but  intricate  machines,  set  with  knives 
and  saws  and  planes,  which  cut  smooth  and 
straight  here,  and  slantwise  there,  and  now  cut 
such  a depth,  and  now  miss  cutting  altogether, 
according  to  the  predestined  requirements  of  the 
pieces  of  wood  that  are  pushed  on  below  them, 
— each  of  which  pieces  is  to  be  an  oar,  and  is 
roughly  adapted  to  that  purpose  before  it  takes 
its  final  leave  of  far-off  forests,  and  sails 
for  England.  Likewise  I discern  that  the  but- 
terflies are  not  true  butterflies,  but  wooden 
shavings,  which,  being  spirted  up  from  the 
wood  by  the  violence  of  the  machinery,  and  kept 
in  rapid  and  not  equal  movement  by  the  impulse 
of  its  rotation  on  the  air,  flutter  and  play,  and 
rise  and  fall,  and  conduct  themselves  as  like 
butterflies  as  heart  could  wish.  Suddenly  the 
noise  and  motion  cease,  and  the  butterflies  drop 
dead.  An  oar  has  been  made  since  I came  in, 
wanting  the  shaped  handle.  As  quickly  as  I 
can  follow  it  with  my  eye  and  thought,  the  same 
oar  is  carried  to  a turning-lathe.  A whirl  and  a 
nick  ! Handle  made.  Oar  finished. 

The  exquisite  beauty  and  efficiency  of  this 
machinery  need  no  illustration,  but  happen  to 
have  a pointed  illustration  to-day.  A pair  of 
oars  of  unusual  size  chance  to  be  wanted  for  a 
special  purpose,  and  they  have  to  be  made  by 
hand.  Side  by  side  with  the  subtle  and  facile 
machine,  and  side  by  side  with  the  fast-growing 
pile  of  oars  on  the  floor,  a man  shapes  out  these 
special  oars  with  an  axe.  Attended  by  no  butter- 
flies, and  chipping  and  dinting,  by  comparison, 
as  leisurely  as  if  he  were  a laboring  Pagan  get- 
ting them  ready  against  his  decease,  at  three- 
score and  ten,  to  take  with  him  as  a present  to 
Charon  for  his  boat,  the  man  (aged  about  thirty) 
plies  his  task.  The  machine  would  make  a 
regulation  oar  while  the  man  wipes  his  forehead. 
The  man  might  be  buried  in  a mound  made  of 
the  strips  of  thin,  broad,  wooden  ribbon  torn 
from  the  wood  whirled  into  oars  as  the  minutes 
fall  from  the  clock,  before  he  had  done  a fore- 
noon’s work  with  his  axe. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  24. 

MADMAN— The  raving-  of  a. 

“ Yes  ! — a madman’s  ! How  that  word  wrould 
have  struck  to  my  heart,  many  years  ago  ! How 
it  would  have  roused  the  terror  that  used  to 
come  upon  me  sometimes  ; sending  the  blood 
hissing  and  tingling  through  my  veins,  till  the 
cold  dew  of  fear  stood  in  large  drops  upon  my 
skin,  and  my  knees  knocked  together  with 
fright ! I like  it  now  though.  It’s  a fine  name. 
Show  me  the  monarch  whose  angry  frown  was 
ever  feared  like  the  glare  of  a madman’s  eye — 
whose  cord  and  axe  were  ever  half  so  sure  as  a 
madman’s  gripe.  Ho  ! ho  ! It’s  a grand  thing 
to  be  mad  ! to  be  peeped  at  like  a wild  lion 
through  the  iron  bars — to  gnash  one’s  teeth  and 
howl,  through  the  long  still  night,  to  the  merry 
ring  of  a heavy  chain — and  to  roll  and  twine 
among  the  straw,  transported  with  such  brave 
music.  Hurrah  for  the  madhouse!  Oh,  it’s  a 
rare  place  ! 

“ I remember  days  when  I was  afraid' of  be- 
ing mad  ; when  I used  to  start  from  my  sleep, 
and  fall  upon  my  knees,  and  pray  to  be  spared 
from  the  curse  of  my  race  : when  I rushed  from 
the  sight  of  merriment  or  happiness,  to  hide 
myself  in  some  lonely  place,  and  spend  the 


MAGNATE 


233 


MAN 


weary  hours  in  watching  the  progress  of  the 
fever  that  was  to  consume  my  brain.  I knew 
that  madness  was  mixed  up  with  my  very  blood 
and  the  marrow  of  my  bones  ; that  one  genera- 
tion had  passed  away  without  the  pestilence 
appearing  among  them,  and  that  I was  the  first 
in  whom  it  would  revive.  I knew  it  must  be 
so,  that  so  it  always  had  been,  and  so  it  ever 
would  be  ; and  when  I cowered  in  some  obscure 
corner  of  a crowded  room,  and  saw  men  whis- 
per, and  point,  and  turn  their  eyes  towards  me, 
I knew  they  were  telling  each  other  of  the 
doomed  madman  ; and  I slunk  away  again  to 
mope  in  solitude. 

***** 

“ At  last  it  came  upon  me,  and  I w'ondered 
how  I could  ever  have  feared  it.  I could  go  in- 
to the  world  now,  and  laugh  and  shout  with  the 
best  among  them.  I knew  I was  mad,  but  they 
did  not  even  suspect  it.  How  I used  to  hug  my- 
self with  delight,  when  I thought  of  the  fine  trick 
I was  playing  them  after  their  old  pointing  and 
leering,  when  I was  not  mad,  but  only  dreading 
that  I might  one  day  become  so ! And  how  I 
used  to  laugh  for  joy,  wdien  I was  alone,  and 
thought  how  well  I kept  my  secret,  and  how 
quickly  my  kind  friends  would  have  fallen  from 
me,  if  they  had  known  the  truth.  I could  have 
screamed  with  ecstasy  when  I dined  alone  with 
some  fine,  roaring  fellow,  to  think  how  pale  he 
would  have  turned,  and  how  fast  he  would  have 
run,  if  he  had  known  that  the  dear  friend  who 
sat  close  to  him,  sharpening  a bright,  glittering 
knife,  was  a madman,  with  all  the  power,  and 
half  the  will,  to  plunge  it  in  his  heart.  Oh,  it 
was  a merry  life  ! 

***** 

“ Straight  and  swift  I ran,  and  no  one  dared 
to  stop  me.  I heard  the  noise  of  feet  behind 
and  redoubled  my  speed.  It  grew  fainter  and 
fainter  in  the  distance,  and  at  length  died  away 
altogether ; but  on  I bounded,  through  marsh 
and  rivulet,  over  fence  and  wall,  with  a wild 
shout  which  was  taken  up  by  the  strange  beings 
that  flocked  around  me  on  every  side,  and 
swelled  the  sound  till  it  pierced  the  air.  I was 
borne  upon  the  arms  of  demons  who  swept  along 
upon  the  wind,  and  bore  down  bank  and  hedge 
before  them,  and  spun  me  round  and  round  with 
a rustle  and  a speed  that  made  my  head  swim, 
until  at  last  they  threw  me  from  them  with  a 
violent  shock,  and  I fell  heavily  upon  the  earth. 
When  I woke  I found  myself  here — here  in  this 
gay  cell  where  the  sunlight  seldom  comes,  and 
the  moon  steals  in,  in  rays  which  only  serve  to 
show  the  dark  shadows  about  me  and  that  silent 
figure  in  its  old  corner.  When  I lie  awake,  I 
can  sometimes  hear  strange  shrieks  and  cries 
from  distant  parts  of  this  large  place.  What 
they  are,  I know  not  ; but  they  neither  come 
from  that  pale  form  nor  does  it  regard  them. 
For  from  the  first  shades  of  dusk  ’till  the  earliest 
light' of  morning.it  still  stands  motionless  in 
the  same  place,  listening  to  the  music  of  my  iron 
chain,  and  watching  my  gambols  on  my  straw 
bed.” — Pickwick , Chap.  n. 

MAGNATE— Bounderby  as  a local. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  exasperating  attributes 
of  Bounderby,  that  he  not  only  sang  his  own 
praises  but  stimulated  other  men  to  sing  them. 
There  was  a moral  infection  of  clap-trap  in  him. 
Strangers,  modest  enough  elsewhere,  started  up 


at  dinners  in  Coketown,  and  boasted,  in  quite 
a rampant  way,  of  Bounderby.  They  made  him 
out  to  be  the  Royal  Arms,  the  Union  Jack, 
Magna  Charta,  John  Bull,  Habeas  Corpus, 
the  Bill  of  Rights,  An  Englishman’s  house  is 
his  castle,  Church  and  State,  and  God  save  the 
Queen,  all  put  together. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  7. 

MAGISTRATE— An  American. 

On  our  way  to  Portland  we  passed  a “ Magis- 
trate’s Office,”  which  amused  me,  as  looking  far 
more  like  a dame  school  than  any  police  estab- 
lishment ; for  this  awful  institution  was  nothing 
but  a little  lazy  good-for-nothing  front  parlor, 
open  to  the  street ; wherein  two  or  three  figures 
(I  presume  the  magistrate  and  his  myrmidons) 
were  basking  in  the  sunshine,  the  very  effigies 
of  languor  and  repose.  It  was  a perfect  picture 
of  Justice  retired  from  business  for  want  of  cus- 
tomers ; her  sword  and  scales  sold  off ; napping 
comfortably  with  her  legs  upon  the  table. 

American  Notes , Chap.  12. 

MAGISTRATE-Office  of  a. 

Although  the  presiding  Genii  in  such  an  office 
as  this,  exercise  a summary  and  arbitrary  power 
over  the  liberties,  the  good  name,  the  character, 
almost  the  lives,  of  Her  Majesty’s  subjects,  es- 
pecially of  the  poorer  class  ; and  although,  with- 
in such  walls,  enough  fantastic  tricks  are  daily 
played  to  make  the  angels  blind  with  weeping, 
they  are  closed  to  the  public,  save  through  the  me 
dium  of  the  daily  press.  Mr.  Fang  was  conse- 
quently not  a little  indignant  to  see  an  unbid- 
den guest  enter  in  such  irreverent  disorder. 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  11. 

MAGISTRATE— The  Police. 

This  functionary,  being,  of  coiirse,  well  used 
to  such  scenes  ; looking  on  all  kinds  of  robbery, 
from  petty  larceny  up  to  housebreaking  or  ven- 
tures on  the  highway,  as  matters  in  the  regular 
course  of  business  ; and  regarding  the  perpetra- 
tors in  the  light  of  so  many  customers  coming  to 
be  served  at  the  wholesale  and  retail  shop  of 
criminal  law  where  he  stood  behind  the  counter  ; 
received  Mr.  Brass’s  statement  of  facts  with 
about  as  much  interest  and  surprise  as  an  un- 
dertaker might  evince  if  required  to  listen  to  a 
circumstantial  account  of  the  last  illness  of  a 
person  whom  he  was  called  in  to  wait  upon  pro- 
fessionally ; and  took  Kit  into  custody  with  a 
decent  indifference. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  60. 

MAN— An  Emaciated. 

“ Think  so,  sir  ! Why,  as  he  is  now,”  said 
the  manager,  striking  his  knee  emphatically  ; 
“ without  a pad  upon  his  body,  and  hardly  a 
touch  of  paint  upon  his  face,  he’d  make  such  an 
actor  for  the  starved  business  as  was  never  seen 
in  this  country.  Only  let  him  be  tolerably  well 
up  in  the  Apothecary  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  with 
the  slightest  possible  dab  of  red  on  the  tip  of  his 
nose,  and  he’d  be  certain  of  three  rounds  the  mo- 
ment he  put  his  head  out  of  the  practicable 
door  in  the  front  grooves  O.  P.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  22. 

MAN— A surly. 

“ He  is  very  rich,  I have  heard,”  rejoined 
Kate.  “ I don’t  know  that  he  is,  but  I believe  so.” 


MAN 


284 


MANHOOD 


“ Ah,  you  may  depend  upon  it  he  is,  or  he 
wouldn’t  be  so  surly,”  remarked  Miss  La  Creevy, 
who  was  an  odd  little  mixture  of  shrewdness 
and  simplicity.  “ When  a man’s  a bear,  he  is 
generally  pretty  independent.” 

“ His  manner  is  rough,”  said  Kate. 

“ Rough  ! ” cried  Miss  La  Creevy,  “ a porcu- 
pine’s a feather  bed  to  him  ! I never  met  with 
such  a cross-grained  old  savage.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  io. 

MAN— Mr.  Pecksniff’s  views  of. 

“What  are  we,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  “but 
coaches  ? Some  of  us  are  slow  coaches — ” 

“ Goodness,  Pa  ! ” cried  Charity. 

“ Some  of  us,  I say,”  resumed  her  parent  with 
increased  emphasis,  “ are  slow  coaches  ; some  of 
us  are  fast  coaches.  Our  passions  are  the  horses  ; 
and  rampant  animals  too  ! — ” 

“ Really,  Pa ! ” cried  both  the  daughters  at 
once.  “ How  very  unpleasant ! ” 

“ And  rampant  animals  too ! ” repeated  Mr. 
Pecksniff,  with  so  much  determination,  that  he 
may  be  said  to  have  exhibited,  at  the  moment,  a 
sort  of  moral  rampancy  himself : “ and  Virtue  is 
the  drag.  We  start  from  The  Mother’s  Arms, 
and  we  run  to  The  Dust  Shovel.” 

When  he  had  said  this,  Mr.  Pecksniff,  be- 
ing exhausted,  took,  some  further  refreshment. 
When  he  had  done  that,  he  corked  the  bottle 
tight,  with  the  air  of  a man  who  had  effectually 
corked  the  subject  also  ; and  went  to  sleep  for 
three  stages. 

The  tendency  of  mankind  when  it  falls  asleep 
in  coaches,  is  to  wake  up  cross  ; to  find  its  legs 
in  its  way  ; and  its  corns  an  aggravation. 

Martin  Chuzzlezvit,  Chap.  8. 

MANHOOD  — A vigorous  (Sir  Lawrence 

Boythorn). 

Now,  who  was  Boythorn?  we  all  thought. 
And  I dare  say  we  all  thought,  too — I am  sure 
I did,  for  one — would  Boythorn  at  all  interfere 
with  what  was  going  forward  ? 

“ I went  to  school  with  this  fellow,  Lawrence 
Boythorn,”  said  Mr.  Jarndyce,  tapping  the  let- 
ter as  he  laid  it  on  the  table,  “ more  than  five- 
and-forty  years  ago.  He  was  then  the  most  im- 
petuous boy  in  the  world,  and  he  is  now  the 
most  impetuous  man.  He  was  then  the  loudest 
boy  in  the  world,  and  he  is  now  the  loudest 
man.  He  was  then  the  heartiest  and  sturdiest 
boy  in  the  world,  and  he  is  now  the  heartiest 
and  sturdiest  man.  He  is  a tremendous  fel- 
low.” 

“ In  stature,  sir?”  asked  Richard. 

“ Pretty  well,  Rick,  in  that  respect,”  said  Mr. 
Jarndyce  ; “ being  some  ten  years  older  than  I, 
and  a couple  of  inches  taller,  with  his  head 
thrown  back  like  an  old  soldier,  his  stalwart 
chest  squared,  his  hands  like  a clean  black- 
smith’s, and  his  lungs  ! — there’s  no  simile  for 
his  lungs.  Talking,  laughing,  or  snoring,  they 
make  thq  beams  of  the  house  shake.” 

As  Mr.  Jarndyce  sat  enjoying  the  image  of 
his  friend  Boythorn,  we  observed  the  favorable 
omen  that  there  was  not  the  least  indication  of 
any  change  in  the  wind. 

“But  it’s  the  inside  of  the  man,  the  warm 
heart  of  the  man,  the  passion  of  the  man,  the 
fresh  blood  of  the  man,  Rick- — and  Ada,  and 
little  Cobweb  too,  for  you  are  all  interested  in 
a visitor!—  that  I speak  of,”  he  pursued.  “ 1 1 is 


language  is  as  sounding  as  his  voice.  He  is  al- 
ways in  extremes  ; perpetually  in  the  superlative 
degree.  In  his  condemnation  he  is  all  ferocity. 
You  might  suppose  him  to  be  an  Ogre,  from 
what  he  says  ; and  I believe  he  has  the  reputa- 
tion of  one  with  some  people.  There ! I tell 
you  no  more  of  him  beforehand.  You  must 
not  be  surprised  to  see  him  take  me  under  his 
protection  ; for  he  has  never  forgotten  that  I 
was  a low  boy  at  school,  and  that  our  friendship 
began  in  his  knocking  two  of  my  head  tyrant’s 
teeth  out  (he  says  six)  before  breakfast.” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  9. 

MANHOOD— A boisterous. 

“ By  my  soul !”  exclaimed  Mr.  Boythorn,  sud- 
denly firing  another  volley,  “ that  fellow  is, 
and  his  father  was,  and  his  grandfather  was, 
the  most  stiff-necked,  arrogant,  imbecile,  pig- 
headed numskull,  ever,  by  some  inexplicable 
mistake  of  Nature,  born  in  any  station  of  life 
but  a walking-stick’s  ! The  whole  of  that  family 
are  the  most  solemnly  conceited  and  consummate 
blockheads ! — But  it’s  no  matter  ; he  should 
not  shut  up  my  path  if  he  were  fifty  baronets 
melted  into  one,  and  living  in  a hundred  Ches- 
ney  Wolds,  one  within  another,  like  the  ivory 
balls  in  a Chinese  carving. 

***** 

“ The  fellow  sends  a most  abandoned  villain 
with  one  eye,  to  construct  a gateway.  I play 
upon  that  execrable  scoundrel  with  a fire-engine, 
until  the  breath  is  nearly  driven  out  of  his  body. 
The  fellow  erects  a gate  in  the  night.  I chop  ic 
down  and  burn  it  in  the  morning.  He  sends 
his  myrmidons  to  come  over  the  fence,  and  pass 
and  re  pass.  I catch  them  in  humane  man  traps, 
fire  split  peas  at  their  legs,  play  upon  them  with 
the  engine — resolve  to  free  mankind  from  the 
insupportable  burden  of  the  existence  of  those 
lurking  ruffians.  He  brings  actions  for  trespass  ; 
I bring  actions  for  trespass.  He  brings  actions 
for  assault  and  battery : I defend  them,  and  con- 
tinue to  assault  and  batter.  Ha,  Ha.  Ha  ! ” 

To  hear  him  say  all  this  with  unimaginable 
energy,  one  might  have  thought  him  the  angriest 
of  mankind.  To  see  him  at  the  very  same  time, 
looking  at  the  bird  now  perched  upon  his  thumb, 
and  softly  smoothing  its  feathers  with  his  fore- 
finger, one  might  have  thought  him  the  gentlest. 
To  hear  him  laugh,  and  see  the  broad  good 
nature  of  his  face  then,  one  might  have  sup- 
posed that  he  had  not  a care  in  the  world,  or  a 
dispute,  or  a dislike,  but  that  his  whole  exis- 
tence was  a summer  joke. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  9. 

“ He  is  a great  favorite  with  my  girls,”  said 
Mr.  Jarndyce,  “and  I have  promised  for  them.” 

“ Nature  forgot  to  shade  him  off,  I think!” 
observed  Mr.  Skimpole  to  Ada  and  me.  “ A lit- 
tle too  boisterous — like  the  sea ! A little  too 
vehement — like  a bull,  who  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  consider  every  color  scarlet  ! But,  I 
grant  a sledge-hammering  sort  of  merit  in  him  !” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  15. 

MANHOOD— A useful  and  gentle. 

He  had  not  become  a great  man  ; he  had  not 
grown  rich  ; he  had  not  forgotten  the  scenes  and 
friends  of  his  youth  ; he  had  not  fulfilled  any 
one  of  the  Doctor’s  old  predictions.  But,  in 
his  useful,  patient,  unknowing  visiting  of  poor 


MANTALINI 


285 


MANTALINI 


men’s  homes  : and  in  his  watching  of  sick  beds  ; 
and  in  his  daily  knowledge  of  the  gentleness  and 
goodness;  flowering  the  by-paths  of  this  world, 
not  to  be  trodden  down  beneath  the  heavy  foot 
of  poverty,  but  springing  up,  elastic,  in  its  track, 
and  making  its  way  beautiful  ; he  had  better 
learned  and  proved,  in  each  succeeding  year, 
the  truth  of  his  old  faith.  The  manner  of  his 
life,  though  quiet  and  remote,  had  shown  him 
how  often  men  still  entertained  angels,  unawares, 
as  in  the  olden  time  ; and  how  the  most  un- 
likely forms — even  some  that  were  mean  and 
ugly  to  the  view,  and  poorly  clad — became  irra- 
diated by  the  couch  of  sorrow,  want,  and  pain, 
and  changed  to  ministering  spirits  with  a glory 
round  their  heads. — Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  3. 

MANTALINI— His  characteristics. 

The  dress-maker  was  a buxom  person,  hand- 
somely dressed  and  rather  good-looking,  but 
much  older  than  the  gentleman  in  the  Turkish 
trousers,  whom  she  had  wedded  some  six  months 
before.  His  name  was  originally  Muntle  ; but 
it  had  been  converted,  by  an  easy  transition, 
into  Mantalini ; the  lady  rightly  considering 
that  an  English  appellation  would  be  of  serious 
injury  to  the  business.  He  had  married  on  his 
whiskers  ; upon  which  property  he  had  previ- 
ously subsisted,  in  a genteel  manner,  for  some 
years  ; and  which  he  had  recently  improved, 
after  patient  cultivation,  by  the  addition  of  a 
moustache,  which  promised  to  secure  him  an 
easy  independence  ; his  share  in  the  labors  of 
the  business  being  at  present  confined  to  spend- 
ing the  money,  and  occasionally,  when  that  ran 
short,  driving  to  Mr.  Ralph  Nickleby  to  procure 
discount — at  a percentage — for  the  customers’ 
bills. 

“ My  life,”  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  “ what  a demd 
devil  of  a time  you  have  been  ! ” 

“ I didn’t  even  know  Mr.  Nickleby  was  here, 
my  love,”  said  Madame  Mantalini. 

“Then  what  a doubly  demd  infernal  rascal 
that  footman  must  be,  my  soul,”  remonstrated 
Mr.  Mantalini. 

“ My  dear,”  said  Madame,  “ that  is  entirely 
your  fault.” 

“ My  fault,  my  heart’s  joy?” 

“Certainly,”  returned  the  lady;  “what  can 
you  expect,  dearest,  if  you  will  not  correct  the 
man  ? ” 

“ Correct  the  man,  my.  soul’s  delight  ? ” 

“ Yes  ; I am  sure  he  wants  speaking  to,  badly 
enough,”  said  Madame,  pouting. 

“ Then  do  not  vex  itself,”  said  Mr.  Mantalini  ; 
“he  shall  be  horsewhipped  till  he  cries  out 
demnebly.”  With  this  promise  Mr.  Mantalini. 
kissed  Madame  Mantalini,  and,  after  that  per- 
formance, Madame  Mantalini  pulled  Mr.  Man- 
talini playfully  by  the  ear  ; which  done,  they 
descended  to  business. 

“Now,  ma’am,”  said  Ralph,  who  had  looked 
on,  at  all  this,  with  such  scorn  as  few  men  can  ex- 
press in  looks,  “ this  is  my  niece.” 

“Just  so,  Mr.  Nickleby,”  replied  Madame 
Mantalini,  surveying  Kate  from  head  to  foot, 
and  back  again.  “ Can  you  speak  French, 
child?  ” 

“ Yes,  ma’am,”  replied  Kate,  not  daring  to 
look  up  ; for  she  felt  that  the  eyes  of  the  odi- 
ous man  in  the  dressing-gown  were  directed 
towards  her. 

"'Like  a demd  native?”  asked  the  husband. 


Miss  Nickleby  offered  no  reply  to  this 
inquiry,  but  turned  her  back  upon  the  ques- 
tioner, as  if  addressing  herself  to  make  answer 
to  what  his  wife  might  demand. 

“ We  keep  twenty  young  women  constantly 
employed  in  the  establishment,”  said  Madame. 

“Indeed,  ma’am!”  replied  Kate,  timidly. 

“Yes  ; and  some  of  'em  demd  handsome, 
too,”  said  the  master. 

“Mantalini!”  exclaimed  his  wife,  in  an  aw- 
ful voice. 

“ My  senses’  idol ! ” said  Mantalini. 

“Do  you  wish  to  break  my  heart?” 

“ Not  for  twenty  thousand  hemispheres  pop- 
ulated with — with — with  little  ballet-dancers,” 
replied  Mantalini,  in  a poetical  strain. 

“ Then  you  will,  if  you  persevere  in  that 
mode  of  speaking,”  said  his  wife.  “What  can 
Mr.  Nickleby  think  when  he  hears  you?” 

“Oh!  Nothing,  ma’am,  nothing,”  replied 
Ralph.  “ I know  his  amiable  nature,  and 
yours, — mere  little  remarks  that  give  a zest  to 
your  daily  intercourse — lovers’  quarrels  that 
add  sweetness  to  those  domestic  joys  which 
promise  to  last  so  long — that’s  all  ; that’s  all.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  10. 

There  was  not  much  to  amuse  in  the  room  ; 
of  which  the  most  attractive  feature  was,  a half- 
length  portrait  in  oil,  of  Mr.  Mantalini,  whom 
the  artist  had  depicted  scratching  his  head  in  an 
easy  manner,  and  thus  displaying  to  advantage 
a diamond  ring,  the  gift  of  Madame  Mantalini 
before  her  marriage.  There  was,  however,  the 
sound  of  voices  in  conversation  in  the  next 
room  ; and  as  the  conversation  was  loud  and 
the  partition  thin,  Kate  could  not  help  dis- 
covering that  they  belonged  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mantalini. 

“ If  you  will  be  odiously,  demnebly  outn- 
geously  jealous,  my  soul,”  said  Mr.  Mantalini, 
“ you  will  be  very  miserable — horrid  miserable 
— demnition  miserable.”  And  then  there  was 
a sound  as  though  Mr.  Mantalini  were  sipping 
his  coffee. 

“ I am  miserable,”  returned  Madame  Mants.- 
lini,  evidently  pouting. 

“ Then  you  are  an  ungrateful,  unworthy,  demd 
unthankful  little  fairy,”  said  Mr.  Mantalini. 

“ I am  not,”  returned  Madame,  with  a sob. 

“ Do  not  put  itself  out  of  humor,”  said  Mr. 
Mantalini,  breaking  an  egg.  “ It  is  a pretty,  be- 
witching little  demd  countenance,  and  it  should 
not  be  out  of  humor,  for  it  spoils  its  loveliness, 
and  makes  it  cross  and  gloomy  like  a fright- 
ful, naughty,  demd  hobgoblin.” 

“ I am  not  to  be  brought  round  in  that  way, 
always,”  rejoined  Madame,  sulkily. 

“ It  shall  be  brought  round  in  any  way  it  likes 
best,  and  not  brought  around  at  all  if  it  likes  that 
better,”  retorted  Mr.  Mantalini,  with  his  egg- 
spoon  in  his  mouth. 

“ It’s  very  easy  to  talk,”  said  Mrs.  Mantalini. 

“ Not  so  easy  when  one  is  eating  a demnition 
egg,”  replied  Mr.  Mantalini : “ for  the  yolk  runs 
down  the  waistcoat,  and  yolk  of  egg  does  not 
match  any  waistcoat  but  a yellow  waistcoat, 
demmit.” 

“You  were  flirting  with  her  during  the  whole 
night,”  said  Madame  Mantalini,  apparently  de- 
sirous to  lead  the  conversation  back  to  the  point 
from  which  it  had  strayed. 

“ No,  no,  my  life.” 


MANTALINI 


230 


MANTALINI 


“ Vou  were,”  said  Madame  ; “ I had  my  eye 
upon  you  all  the  time.” 

“ Bless  the  little  winking,  twinkling  eye  ; was 
it  on  me  all  the  time?  ” cried  Mantalini,  in  a sort 
of  lazy  rapture.  “Oh,  demmit ! ” 

“And  I say  once  more,”  resumed  Madame, 
“ that  you  ought  not  to  waltz  with  anybody  but 
your  own  wife  ; and  I will  not  bear  it,  Mantalini, 
if  I take  poison  first.” 

“ She  will  not  take  poison  and  have  horrid 
pains,  will  she?”  said  Mantalini;  who,  by  the 
altered  sound  of  his  voice,  seemed  to  have  moved 
his  chair,  and  taken  up  his  position  nearer  to  his 
wife.  “ She  will  not  take  poison,  because  she  had 
a demd  fine  husband  who  might  have  married 
two  countesses  and  a dowager — ” 

“Two  countesses,”  interposed  Madame. 
“ You  told  me  one  before  ! ” 

“ Two  !”  cried  Mantalini.  “ Two  demd  fine 
women,  real  countesses  and  splendid  fortunes, 
demmit.” 

“And  why  didn’t  you?”  asked  Madame, 
playfully. 

“ Why  didn’t  I ! ” replied  her  husband.  “ Had 
I not  seen,  at  a morning  concert,  the  demdest 
little  fascinator  in  all  the  world  ; and  while  that 
little  fascinator  is  my  wife,  may  not  all  the  count- 
esses and  dowagers  in  England  be — ” 

Mr.  Mantalini  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but 
he  gave  Madame  Mantalini  a very  loud  kiss, 
which  Madame  Mantalini  returned  ; after  which, 
there  seemed  to  be  some  more  kissing  mixed  up 
with  the  progress  of  the  breakfast. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  17. 

“ What’s  the  demd  total?  ” was  the  first  ques- 
tion he  asked. 

“ Fifteen  hundred  and  twenty-seven  pound, 
four  and  ninepence  ha’penny,”  replied  Mr. 
Scaley,  without  moving  a limb. 

“ The  half-penny  be  demd,”  said  Mr.  Manta- 
lini, impatiently. 

“ By  all  means,  if  you  vish  it,”  retorted  Mr. 
Scaley  ; “ and  the  ninepence.” 

“ It  don’t  matter  to  us  if  the  fifteen  hundred 
and  twenty-seven  pound  went  along  with  it,  that 
I know  on,”  observed  Mr.  Tix. 

‘ Not  a button,”  said  Scaley. 

“Well,”  said  the  same  gentleman,  after  a 
pause,  “ Wot’s  to  be  done — anything?  Is  it  only 
a small  crack,  or  a out-and-out  smash  ? A break- 
up of  the  constitootion  is  it — werry  good.  Then 
Mr.  Tom  Tix,  esk-vire,  you  must  inform  your 
angel  wife  and  lovely  family  as  you  won’t  sleep 
at  home  for  three  nights  to  come,  along  of  being 
in  possession  here.  Wot’s  the  good  of  the  lady 
a fretting  herself?  ” continued  Mr.  Scaley,  as 
Madame ' Mantalini  sobbed.  “A  good  half  of 
wot’s  here  isn’t  paid  for,  I des-say,  and  wot 
a consolation  oughtn’t  that  to  be  to  her  feel- 
ings ! ” 

With  these  remarks,  combining  great  pleas- 
antry with  sound  moral  encouragement  under 
difficulties,  Mr.  Scaley  proceeded  to  take  the 
inventory,  in  which  delicate  task  he  was  mate- 
rially assisted  by  the  uncommon  tact  and  expe- 
rience of  Mr.  Tix,  the  broker. 

* # # # * 

“My  cup  of  happiness’s  sweetener,”  said 
Mantalini,  approaching  his  wife  with  a peni- 
tent air;  “will  you  listen  to  me  for  two  min- 
utes ?” 

“Oh!  don’t  sj^calc  to  me,”  replied  his  wife, 


sobbing.  “You  have  ruined  me,  and  that's 
enough.” 

“Ruined!”  cried  Mr.  Mantalini.  “Have  I 
brought  ruin  upon  the  best  and  purest  creature 
that  ever  blessed  a demnition  vagabond  1 Dem- 
mit,  let  me  go.”  At  this  crisis  of  his  ravings 
Mr.  Mantalini  made  a pluck  at  the  breakfast 
knife,  and  being  restrained  by  his  wife’s  grasp, 
attempted  to  dash  his  head  against  the  wall — 
taking  very  good  care  to  be  at  least  six  feet 
from  it. 

* * * * * 

Mr.  Mantalini  put  the  tips  of  his  whiskers, 
and,  by  degrees,  his  head,  through  the  half- 
opened  door,  and  cried  in  a soft  voice — 

“ Is  my  life  and  soul  there?” 

“ No,”  replied  his  wife. 

“ How  can  it  say  so,  when  it  is  blooming  in 
the  front  room  like  a little  rose  in  a demnition 
flower-pot?”  urged  Mantalini.  “ May  its  pop- 
pet come  in  and  talk?” 

“Certainly  not,”  replied  Madame:  “you 
know  I never  allow  you  here.  Go  along  !” 

The  poppet,  however,  encouraged  perhaps  by 
the  relenting  tone  of  this  reply,  ventured  to 
rebel,  and,  stealing  into  the  room,  made  toward 
Madame  Mantalini  on  tiptoe,  blowing  her  a kiss 
as  he  came  along. 

“Why  will  it  vex  itself,  and  twist  its  little 
face  into  bewitching  nutcrackers?”  said  Man- 
talini, putting  his  left  arm  round  the  waist  of  his 
life  and  soul,  and  drawing  her  toward  him  with 
his  right. 

“ Oh  ! I can’t  bear  you,”  replied  his  wife. 

“Not — eh,  not  bear  me /”  exclaimed  Man- 
talini. “Fibs,  fibs.  It  couldn’t  be.  There’s 
not  a woman  alive  that  could  tell  me  such  a 
thing  to  my  face — to  my  own  face.”  Mr.  Man- 
talini stroked  his  chin  as  he  said  this,  and 
glanced  complacently  at  an  opposite  mirror. 

“ Such  destructive  extravagance,”  reasoned 
his  wife,  in  a low  tone. 

“ All  in  its  joy  at  having  gained  such  a lovely 
creature,  such  a little  Venus,  such  a demd  en- 
chanting, bewitching,  engrossing,  captivating 
little  Venus,”  said  Mantalini. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  21. 

“ What  a demnition  long  time  you  have  kept 
me  ringing  at  this  confounded  old  cracked  tea- 
kettle of  a bell,  every  tinkle  of  which  is  enough 
to  throw  a strong  man  into  blue  convulsions, 
upon  my  life  and  soul,  oh  demmit.”  said  Mr. 
Mantalini  to  Newman  Noggs,  scraping  his  boots, 
as  he  spoke,  on  Ralph  Nickleby’s  scraper. 

“ I didn’t  hear  the  bell  more  than  once,”  re- 
plied Newman. 

“ Then  you  are  most  immensely  and  out- 
rageously deaf,”  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  “ as  deaf  as 
a demnition  post.” 

Mr.  Mantalini  had  got  by  this  time  into  the 
passage,  and  was  making  his  way  to  the  door  of 
Ralph’s  office  with  very  little  ceremony,  when 
Newman  interposed  his  body  ; and  hinting  that 
Mr.  Nickleby  was  unwilling  to  be  disturbed,  in- 
quired whether  the  client’s  business  was  of  a 
pressing  nature. 

“ It  is  most  demnebly  particular,”  said  Mr. 
Mantalini.  “ It  is  to  melt  some  scraps  of  dirty 
paper  into  bright,  shining,  chinking,  tinkl'ug, 
demd  mint  sauce.” 

* * * * * 

“ You  have  brought  it  upon  yourself,  Alfred,” 


MANTALINI 


287 


MANTALINI 


returned  Madame  Mantalini — still  reproachfully, 
but  in  a softened  tone. 

“ I am  a demd  villain  ! ” cried  Mr.  Mantalini, 
smiting  himself  on  the  head.  “ I will  fill  my 
pockets  with  change  for  a sovereign  in  halfpence 
and  drown  myself  in  the  Thames  ; but  I will  not 
be  angry  with  her,  even  then,  for  I will  put  a 
note  in  the  twopenny-post  as  I go  along,  to 
tell  her  where  the  body  is.  She  will  be  a lovely 
widow.  I shall  be  a body.  Some  handsome 
women  will  cry  ; she  will  laugh  demnebly.” 

“Alfred,  you  cruel,  cruel  creature,”  said  Ma- 
dame Mantalini,  sobbing  at  the  dreadful  picture. 

“ She  calls  me  cruel — me — me — who  for  her 
sake  will  become  a demd,  damp,  moist,  unpleas- 
ant body!”  exclaimed  Mr.  Mantalini. 

“ You  know  it  almost  breaks  my  heart,  even 
to  hear  you  talk  of  such  a thing,”  replied  Ma- 
dame Mantalini. 

“Can  I live  to  be  mistrusted  ? ” cried  her  hus- 
band. “ Have  I cut  my  heart  into  a demd  ex- 
traordinary number  of  little  pieces,  and  given 
them  all  away,  one  after  another,  to  the  same 
little  engrossing  demnition  captivator,  and  can  I 
live  to  be  suspected  by  her  ! Demmit,  no,  I can’t.” 

“Ask  Mr.  Nickleby  whether  the  sum  I have 
mentioned  is  not  a proper  one,”  reasoned  Ma- 
dame Mantalini. 

“ I don’t  want  any  sum,”  replied  her  discon- 
solate husband  ; “ I shall  require  no  demd  allow- 
ance. I will  be  a body.  ” 

***** 

“ Oh,  you  are  here,”  said  Madame  Mantalini, 
tossing  her  head. 

“Yes,  my  life  and  soul,  I am,”  replied  her 
husband,  dropping  on  his  knees,  and  pouncing 
with  kitten-like  playfulness  upon  a stray  sover- 
eign. “ I am  here,  my  soul’s  delight,  upon  Tom 
Tiddler’s  ground,  picking  up  the  demnition  gold 
and  silver.” 

“ I am  ashamed  of  you,”  said  Madame  Man- 
talini, with  much  indignation.  k 

“ Ashamed  ! Of  me,  my  joy  ? It  knows  it  is 
talking  demd  charming  sweetness,  but  naughty 
fibs,”  returned  Mr.  Mantalini.  “It  knows  it  is 
not  ashamed  of  its  own  popolorum  tibby,” 

Whatever  were  the  circumstances  which  had 
led  to  such  a result,  it  certainly  appeared  as 
though  the  popolorum  tibby  had  rather  miscal- 
culated, for  the  nonce,  the  extent  of  his  lady’s 
affection.  Madame  Mantalini  only  looked 
scornful  in  reply,  and,  turning  to  Ralph,  begged 
him  to  excuse  her  intrusion. 

“ Which  is  entirely  attributable,”  said  Ma- 
dame, “to  the  gross  misconduct  and  most  im- 
proper behavior  of  Mr.  Mantalini.” 

“Of  me,  my  essential  juice  of  pine-apple!” 

“ Of  you,”  returned  his  wife.  “ But  I will  not 
allow  it.  I will  not  submit  to  be  ruined  by  the 
extravagance  and  profligacy  of  any  man.  I call 
Mr.  Nickleby  to  witness  the  course  I intend  to 
pursue  with  you.” 

“ Pray  don’t  call  me  to  witness  anything, 
ma’am,”  said  Ralph.  “ Settle  it  between  your- 
selves, settle  it  between  yourselves.” 

“ No,  but  I must  beg  you  as  a favor,”  said 
Madame  Mantalini,  “ to  hear  me  give  him  no- 
tice of  what  it  is  my  fixed  intention  to  do — my 
fixed  intention,  sir,”  repeated  Madame  Manta- 
lini, dirting  an  angry  look  at  her  husband. 

“Will  she  call  me,  ‘Sir!’”  cried  Mantalini. 
“ Me,  who  doat  upon  her  with  the  demdest  ar- 
dor ! She,  who  coils  her  fascinations  round  me 


like  a pure  and  angelic  rattlesnake  ! It  will  be 
all  up  with  my  feelings  ; she  will  throw  me  into 
a demd  state.” — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  34. 

“ Nickleby,”  said  Mr.  Mantalini  in  tears,  “ you 
have  been  made  a witness  to  this  demnition 
cruelty,  on  the  part  of  the  demdest  enslaver  and 
captivator  that  never  was,  oh  dem  ! I forgive 
that  woman.” 

“ Forgive  ! ” repeated  Madame  Mantalini,  an- 
grily. 

“ I do  forgive  her,  Nickleby,”  said  Mr.  Manta- 
lini. “ You  will  blame  me,  the  world  will  blame 
me,  the  women  will  blame  me  ; everybody  will 
laugh,  and  scoff,  and  smile,  and  grin  most  dem- 
nebly. They  will  say,  ‘ She  had  a blessing.  She 
did  not  know  it.  He  was  too  weak  ; he  was  toe 
good  ; he  was  a demd  fine  fellow,  but  he  loved 
too  strong  ; he  could  not  bear  her  to  be  cross, 
and  call  him  wicked  names.  It  was  a demd 
case,  there  never  was  a demder.’  But  I forgive 
her.” — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  44. 

“You  nasty,  idle,  vicious,  good-for-nothing 
brute,”  cried  the  woman,  stamping  on  the  ground, 
“why  don’t  you  turn  the  mangle?” 

“ So  I am,  my  life  and  soul  ! ” replied  a man’s 
voice.  “ I am  always  turning,  I am  perpetually 
turning,  like  a demd  old  horse  in  a demnition 
mill.  My  life  is  one  demd  horrid  grind  ! ” 

“ Then  why  don’t  you  go  and  list  for  a sol- 
dier? ” retorted  the  woman,  “ you’re  welcome  to.” 

“ For  a soldier  ! ” cried  the  man.  “ For  a 
soldier!  Would  his  joy  and  gladness  see  him 
in  a coarse  red  coat  with  a little  tail  ? Would 
she  hear  of  his  being  slapped  and  beat  by  drum- 
mers demnebly?  Would  she  have  him  fire  off 
real  guns,  and  have  his  hair  cut,  and  his  whiskers 
shaved,  and  his  eyes  turned  right  and  left,  and 
his  trousers  pipeclayed  ? ” 

“ Dear  Nicholas,”  whispered  Kate,  “ you  don’t 
know  who  that  is.  It’s  Mr.  Mantalini,  I am 
confident.” 

“ Do  make  sure  ! Peep  at  him  while  I ask 
the  way,”  said  Nicholas.  “ Come  down  a step 
or  two.  Come  ! ” 

Drawing  her  after  him,  Nicholas  crept  down 
the  steps,  and  looked  into  a small  boarded  cellar. 
There,  amidst  clothes-baskets  and  clothes,  strip- 
ped to  his  shirt-sleeves,  but  wearing  still  an  old 
patched  pair  of  pantaloons  of  superlative  make, 
a once  brilliant  waistcoat,  and  moustache  and 
whiskers  as  of  yore,  but  lacking  their  lustrous 
dye — there,  endeavoring  to  mollify  the  wrath  of 
a buxom  female — not  the  lawful  Madame  Mant- 
alini, but  the  proprietress  of  the  concern — and 
grinding  meanwhile  as  if  for  very  life  at  the 
mangle,  whose  creaking  noise,  mingled  with  her 
shrill  tones,  appeared  almost  to  deafen  him — 
there  was  the  graceful,  elegant,  fascinating,  and 
once  dashing  Mantalini. 

“ Oh,  you  false  traitor  ! ” cried  the  lady,  threat- 
ening personal  violence  on  Mr.  Mantalini’s  face. 

“ False.  Oh  dem  ! Now,  my  soul,  my  gentle, 
captivating,  bewitching,  and  most  demnebly  en- 
slaving chick-a-biddy,  be  calm,”  said  Mr.  Man- 
talini, humbly. 

“ I won’t ! ” screamed  the  woman.  “ I’ll  tear 
your  eyes  out ! ” 

“ Oh  ! what  a demd  savage  lamb  ! ” cried  Mr. 
Mantalini. 

“You’re  never  to  be  trusted,”  screamed  the 
woman,  “ you  were  out  all  day  yesterday,  and 


1,1  AUK  TAPLEY 


288 


MARK  TAPLEY 


gallivanting  somewhere  I know.  You  know  you 
were  ! Isn’t  it  enough  that  I paid  two  pound 
fourteen  for  you,  and  took  you  out  of  prison  and 
let  you  live  here  like  a gentleman,  but  must 
tfou  go  on  like  this  ; breaking  my  heart  besides?” 
^ “ I will  never  break  its  heart,  I will  be  a good 
boy,  and  never  do  so  any  more  ; I will  never  be 
naughty  again  ; I beg  its  little  pardon,”  said 
Mr.  Mantalini,  dropping  the  handle  of  the  man- 
gle, and  folding  his  palms  together,  “ it  is  all  up 
with  its  handsome  friend  ! He  has  gone  to  the 
demnition  bow-wows.  It  will  have  pity?  It 
will  not  scratch  and  claw,  but  pet  and  comfort? 
Oh,  demmit.” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  64. 

MARK  TAPLEY  Wants  misfortune. 

“ I used  to  think,  sometimes,”  said  Mr.  Tap- 
ley,  “ as  a desolate  island  would  suit  me,  but  I 
should  only  have  had  myself  to  provide  for  there, 
and  being  naterally  a easy  man  to  manage, 
there  wouldn’t  have  been  much  credit  in  that. 
Now  here  I’ve  gc»t  my  partner  to  take  care  on, 
and  he’s  something  like  the  sort  of  man  for 
the  purpose.  I want  a man  as  is  always  a slid- 
ing off  his  legs  when  he  ought  to  be  on  ’em.  I 
want  a man  as  is  so  low  down  in  the  school  of 
life,  that  lie’s  always  a making  figures  of  one  in 
his  copy-book,  and  can’t  get  no  further.  I want 
a man  as  is  his  own  great-coat  and  cloak,  and  is 
always  a wrapping  himself  up  in  himself.  And 
1 have  got  him  too,”  said  Mr.  Tapley,  after  a 
moment’s  silence.  “ What  a happiness  1 ” 

He  paused  to  look  round,  uncertain  to  which 
of  the  log-houses  he  should  repair. 

“ I don’t  know  which  to  take,”  he  observed  ; 
“that’s  the  truth.  They’re  equally  prepossess- 
ing outside,  and  equally  commodious,  no  doubt, 
within  ; being  fitted  up  with  every  convenience 
that  a Alligator,  in  a state  of  natur’,  could  pos- 
sibly require.  Let  me  see  ! The  citizen  as 
turned  out  last  night,  lives  under  water,  in  the 
right-hand  dog-kennel  at  the  corner.  I don’t 
want  to  trouble  him  if  I can  help  it,  poor  man, 
for  he  is  a melancholy  object : a reg’lar  Settler 
in  every  respect.  There’s  a house  with  a win- 
der, but  I am  afraid  of  their  being  proud.  I 
don’t  know  whether  a door  ain’t  too  aristocratic  ; 
but  here  goes  for  the  first  one  ! ” 

Martin  Chuzzlezuit , Chap.  33. 

MARK  TAPLEY— His  opinion  of  Pecksniff. 

“Well,  but  we  know  beforehand,”  returned 
the  politic  Mr.  Tapley,  “ that  Pecksniff  is  a waga- 
bond,  a scoundrel,  and  a willain.” 

“ A most  pernicious  villain  ! ” said  Martin. 

“ A most  pernicious  willain.  We  know  that 
beforehand,  sir  : and,  consequently,  it’s  no  shame 
to  be  defeated  by  Pecksniff.  Blow  Pecksniff!” 
cried  Mr.  Tapley,  in  the  fervor  of  his  eloquence, 
“Who’s  he?  It’s  not  in  the  natur  of  Peck- 
sniff to  shame  us,  unless  he  agreed  with  us,  or 
done  us  a service  ; and,  in  case  he  offered  any 
outdacity  of  that  description,  we  could  express  our 
sentiments  in  the  English  language,  I hope.  Peck- 
sniff! ” repeated  Mr.  Tapley,  with  ineffable  dis- 
dain. “ What’s  Pecksniff,  who’s  Pecksniff,  where’s 
Pecksniff,  that  he’s  to  be  so  much  considered? 
We’re  not  a calculating  for  ourselves  ; ” he  laid 
uncommon  emphasis  on  the  last  syllable  of  that 
word,  and  looked  full  in  Martin’s  face:  “we’re 
making  a effort  for  a young  lady  likewise  as  has 
undergone  her  share  ; and  whatever  little  hope  we 
have,  this  here  Pecksniff  is  not  to  stand  in  its  way, 


I expect.  I never  heard  of  any  act  of  Parliament 
as  was  made  by  Pecksniff.  Pecksniff!  Why, 
I wouldn’t  see  the  man  myself ; I wouldn’t  hear 
him  ; I wouldn’t  choose  to  know  he  was  in  com- 
pany. I’d  scrape  my  shoes  on  the  scraper  of 
the  door,  and  call  that  Pecksniff,  if  you  liked  ; 
but  I wouldn’t  condescend  no  further.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  43. 

MARK  TAPLEY— Cannot  do  himself  jus- 
tice. 

“J  must  look  for  a private  service,  I suppose, 
sir.  I might  be  brought  out  strong,  perhaps,  in 
a serious  family,  Mr.  Pinch.” 

“ Perhaps  you  might  come  out  rather  too 
strong  for  a serious  family’s  taste,  Mark.” 

“ That’s  possible,  sir.  If  I could  get  into  a 
wicked  family,  I might  do  myself  justice : but 
the  difficulty  is  to  make  sure  of  one’s  ground, 
because  a young  man  can’t  very  well  advertise 
that  he  wants  a place,  and  wages  an’t  so  much 
an  object  as  a wicked  sitivation  ; can  he,  sir?” 

“Why  no,”  said  Mr.  Pinch,  “I  don’t  think 
he  can.” 

“ An  envious  family,”  pursued  Mark,  with  a 
thoughtful  face  ; “or  a quarrelsome  family,  or  a 
malicious  family,  or  even  a good  out-and-out 
mean  family,  would  open  a field  of  action  as  I 
might  do  something  in.  The  man  as  would 
have  suited  me  of  all  other  men  was  that  old 
gentleman  as  was  took  ill  here,  for  he  really  was  a 
trying  customer.  Howsever,  I must  wait  and 
see  what  turns  up,  sir ; and  hope  for  the  worst.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  7. 

MARK  TAPLEY— No  credit  in  being1  jolly. 

Mr.  Tapley  nodded  assent.  “ Well  sir  ! But 
bein’  at  that  time  full  of  hopeful  wisions,  I ar- 
rives at  the  conclusion  that  no  credit  is  to  be 
got  out  of  such  a way  of  life  as  that,  where  every- 
thing agreeable  would  be  ready  to  one’s  hand. 
Lookin’  on  the  bright  side  of  human  life,  in 
short,  one  of  my  hopeful  wisions  is,  that  there’s 
a deal  of  misery  a-waitin’  for  me  ; in  the  midst 
of  which  I may  come  out  tolerable  strong,  and 
be  jolly  under  circumstances  as  reflects  some 
credit.  I goes  into  the  world,  sir,  wery  boyant, 
and  I tries  this.  I goes  aboard  ship  first,  and 
wery  soon  discovers  (by  the  ease  with  which  I’m 
jolly,  mind  you)  as  there’s  no  credit  to  be  got 
there.  I might  have  took  warning  by  this,  and 
gave  it  up  ; but  I didn’t.  I gets  to  the  U-nited 
States  ; and  then  I do  begin,  I won’t  deny  it,  to 
feel  some  little  credit  in  sustaining  my  spirits. 
What  follows?  Jest  as  I’m  a beginning  to  come 
out,  and  am  a treadin’  on  the  werge,  my  master 
deceives  me.” 

“ Deceives  you  ! ” cried  Tom. 

“Swindles  me,”  retorted  Mr.  Tapley,  with  a 
beaming  face.  “ Turns  his  back  on  ev’ry- 
thing  as  made  his  service  a creditable  one,  and 
leaves  me,  high  and  dry,  without  a leg  to  stand 
upon.  In  which  state  I returns  home.  Wery 
good.  Then  all  my  hopeful  wisions  be- 
in’ crushed ; and  findin’  that  there  ain’t  no 
credit  for  me  nowhere  ; I abandons  myself  to 
despair,  and  says,  ‘ Let  me  do  that  as  has  the 
least  credit  in  it,  of  all  ; marry  a dear,  sweet 
creetur,  as  is  wery  fond  of  me  : me  being,  at  the 
same  time,  wery  fond  of  her : lead  a happy  life, 
and  struggle  no  more  again’  the  blight  which 
settles  on  my  prospects.’  ” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  4S. 


MARK  TAPLEY 


289 


MARK 


MARK  TAPLEY — No  credit  in  being1  jolly. 

Mr.  Pinch  was  jogging  along,  full  of  pleasant 
thoughts  and  cheerful  influences,  when  he  saw, 
upon  the  path  before  him,  going  in  the  same  di- 
rection with  himself,  a traveller  on  foot,  who 
walked  with  a light,  quick  step,  and  sang  as  he 
went — for  certain  in  a very  loud  voice,  but  not 
unmusically.  He  was  a young  fellow,  of  some 
five  or  six-and-twenty  perhaps,  and  was  dressed 
in  such  a free  and  fly-away  fashion,  that  the 
long  ends  of  his  loose  red  neckcloth  were  stream- 
ing out  behind  him  quite  as  often  as  before  ; 
and  the  bunch  of  bright  winter  berries  in  the 
buttonhole  of  his  velveteen  coat,  was  as  visible 
to  Mr.  Pinch’s  rearward  observation,  as  if  he 
had  worn  that  garment  wrong  side  foremost. 
He  continued  to  sing  with  so  much  energy,  that 
he  did  not  hear  the  sound  of  wheels  until  it  was 
close  behind  him  ; when  he  turned  a whimsical 
face  and  a very  merry  pair  of  blue  eyes  on  Mr. 
Pinch,  and  checked  himself  directly. 

“Why,  Mark!”  said  Tom  Pinch,  stopping. 
“ Who’d  have  thought  of  seeing  you  here  ? 
Well ! this  is  surprising  ! ” 

Mark  touched  his  hat,  and  said,  with  a very 
sudden  decrease  of  vivacity,  that  he  was  going 
to  Salisbury. 

“And  how  spruce  you  are,  too!”  said  Mr. 
Pinch,  surveying  him  with  great  pleasure. 
“ Really,  I didn’t  think  you  were  half  such  a 
tight-made  fellow,  Mark!  ” 

“ Thankee,  Mr.  Pinch.  Pretty  well  for  that, 
I believe.  It’s  not  my  fault,  you  know.  With 
regard  to  being  spruce,  sir,  that’s  where  it  is, 
you  see.  And  here  he  looked  particularly 
gloomy. 

“ Where  what  is?”  Mr.  Pinch  demanded. 

“ Where  the  aggravation  of  it  is.  Any  man 
may  be  in  good  spirits  and  good  temper  when 
he’s  well  dressed.  There  ain’t  much  credit  in 
that.  If  I was  very  ragged  and  very  jolly,  then 
I should  begin  to  feel  I had  gained  a point, 
Mr.  Pinch.” 

“ So  you  were  singing  just  now,  to  bear  up, 
as  it  were,  against  being  well  dressed,  eh, 
Mark?”  said  Pinch. 

“Your  conversation’s  always  equal  to  print, 
sir,”  rejoined  Mark,  with  a broad  grin.  “ That 
was  it.” 

* * * * ‘ * 

“ Lord  bless  you,  sir,”  said  Mark,  “you  don’t 
half  know  me,  though.  I ‘don’t  believe  there 
ever  was  a man  as  could  come  out  so  strong  un- 
der circumstances  that  would  make  other  men 
miserable,  as  I could,  if  I could  only  get  a chance. 
But  I can  t get  a chance.  It’s  my  opinion,  that 
nobody  never  will  know  half  of  what’s  in  me, 
unless  something  very  unexpected  turns  up. 
And  I don’t  see  any  prospect  of  that.  I’m  a 
going  to  leave  the  Dragon,  sir.” 

“Going  to  leave  the  Dragon!”  cried  Mr. 
Pinch,  looking  at  him  with  great  astonishment. 
“ Why,  Mark,  you  take  my  breath  away  ! ” 

“Yes,  sir,”  he  rejoined,  looking  straight  be- 
fore him  and  a long  way  off,  as  men  do  some- 
times when  they  cogitate  profoundly.  “ What’s 
the  use  of  my  stopping  at  the  Dragon  ? It  ain’t 
at  all  the  sort  of  place  for  me  '.  When  I left 
London  (I’m  a Kentish  man  by  birth,  though), 
and  took  that  sitivation  here,  I quite  made  up 
my  mind  that  it  was  the  dullest  little  out-of-the- 
way  corner  in  England,  and  that  there*  would  be 
some  credit  in  being  jolly  under  such  circum- 


stances. But,  Lord,  there’s  no  dullness  at  the 
Dragon  ! Skittles,  cricket,  quoits,  nine-pins, 
comic  songs,  choruses,  company  round  the 
chimney  corner  every  winter’s  evening.  Any 
man  could  be  jolly  at  the  Dragon.  There’s  no 
credit  in  that.” 

“ But  if  common  report  be  true  for  once, 
Mark,  as  I think  it  is,  being  able  to  confirm  it 
by  what  I know  myself,”  said  Mr.  Pinch,  “ you 
are  the  cause  of  half  this  merriment,  and  set  it 
going.” 

“ There  may  be  something  in  that,  too,  sir,” 
answered  Mark.  “ But  that’s  no  consolation.” 

* * * * * 

“ I’m  looking  out  this  morning  for  something 
new  and  suitable,”  he  said,  nodding  towards  the 
city. 

“What  kind  of  thing  now?”  Mr.  Pinch  de- 
manded. 

“ I was  thinking,”  Mark  replied,  “of  some- 
thing in  the  grave-digging  way.” 

“ Good  Gracious,  Mark  ! ” cried  Mr.  Pinch. 

. a Sood-  damP>  wormy  sort  of  business, 

sir,”  said  Mark,  shaking  his  head  argumentative- 
ly,  “ and  there  might  be  some  credit  in  being 
jolly,  with  one’s  mind  in  that  pursuit,  unless 
grave  diggers  is  usually  given  that  way  ; which 
would  be  a drawback.  You  don’t  happen  to 
know  how  that  is,  in  general,  do  you,  sir  ? ” 

“No,”  said  Mr.  Pinch,  “ I don’t  indeed,  I 
never  thought  upon  the  subject.” 

“ In  case  of  that  not  turning  cut  as  well  as 
one  could  wish,  you  know,”  said  Mark,  musing 
again,  “there’s  other  businesses.  Undertaking 
now.  That’s  gloomy.  There  might  be  credit  to  be 
gained  there.  A broker’s  man  in  a poor  neigh- 
borhood wouldn’t  be  bad  perhaps.  A jailor  sees 
a deal  of  misery.  A doctor’s  man  is  in  the  very 
midst  of  murder.  A bailiff’s  an’t  a lively  office 
nat’rally.  Even  a tax-gatherer  must  find  his 
feelings  rather  worked  upon,  at  times.  There’s 
lots  of  trades,  in  which  I should  have  an  oppor- 
tunity, I think.” 

***** 

“ But  bless  my  soul,  Mark  ” said  Mr.  Pinch, 
who  in  the  progress  of  his  observation  just  then 
made  the  discovery  that  the  bosom  of  his  com- 
panion s shirt  was  as  much  exposed  as  if  it  were 
Midsummer,  and  was  ruffled  by  every  breath  of 
air,  “why  don’t  you  wear  a waistcoat?” 

“ What’s  the  good  of  one,  sir  ? ” asked  Mark. 

“ Good  of  one  ? ” said  Mr.  Pinch.  “ Why,  to 
keep  your  chest  warm.” 

“ Lord  love  you,  sir  ! ” cried  Mark,  “ you  don’t 
know  .me.  My  chest  don’t  want  no  warming. 
Even  if  it  did,  what  would  no  waistcoat  bring  it 
to  ? Inflammation  of  the  lungs,  perhaps  ? Well, 
there’d  be  some  credit  in  being  jolly,  with  a in- 
flammation of  the  lungs.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit.  Chap.^. 

MANHOOD— Modest  (Tom  Pinch). 

To  say  that  1 om  had  no  idea  of  playing  first 
fiddle  in  any  social  orchestra,  but  was  always 
quite  satisfied  to  be  set  down  for  the  hundred 
and  fiftieth  violin  in  the  band,  or  thereabouts, 
is  to  express  his  modesty  in  very  inadequate 
terms. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  12. 

MARK-Up  to  the. 

“ I may  not  myself,”  said  Mr.  Sparkler  man- 
fully, be  up  to  the  mark  on  some  other  subjects 
at  a short  notice,  and  I am  aware  that  if  you  were 


MAUXET 


290 


MARKET-DAY 


to  poll  Society  the  general  opinion  would  be 
that  I am  not ; but  on  the  subject  of  Amy,  I 
AM  up  to  the  mark  ! ” 

Mr.  Sparkler  kissed  her,  in  witness  thereof. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  14. 

iVE  A RKET— Fleet. 

Fleet  Market,  at  that  time,  was  a long  irregu- 
lar row  of  wooden  sheds  and  pent-houses,  occu- 
pying the  centre  of  what  is  now  called  Farring- 
don  Street.  They  were  jumbled  together  in  a 
most  unsightly  fashion,  in  the  middle  of  the  road  ; 
to  the  great  obstruction  of  the  thoroughfare  and 
the  annoyance  of  passengers,  who  were  fain  to 
make  their  way,  as  they  best  could,  among  carts, 
baskets,  barrows,  trucks,  casks,  bulks,  and 
benches,  and  to  jostle  with  porters,  hucksters, 
wagoners,  and  a motley  crowd  of  buyers,  sellers, 
pickpockets,  vagrants,  and  idlers.  The  air  was 
perfumed  with  the  stench  of  rotten  leaves  and 
faded  fruit,  the  refuse  of  the  butchers’  stalls, 
and  offal  and  garbage  of  a hundred  kinds.  It 
was  indispensable  to  most  public  conveniences 
in  those  days,  that  they  should  be  public  nui- 
sances likewise  : and  Fleet  Market  maintained 
the  principle  to  admiration. 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  60. 

MARKET-A  French. 

In  the  Place  d’Armes  of  this  town,  a little 
decayed  market  is  held,  which  seems  to  slip 
through  the  old  gateway,  like  water,  and  go  rip- 
pling down  the  hill,  to  mingle  with  the  murmur- 
ing market  in  the  lower  town,  and  get  lost  in  its 
movement  and  bustle.  It  is  very  agreeable  on 
an  idle  summer  morning  to  pursue  this  market- 
stream  from  the  hill-top.  It  begins  dozingly 
and  dully,  \Vith  a few  sacks  of  corn  ; starts  into  a 
surprising  collection  of  boots  and  shoes  ; goes 
brawling  down  the  hill  in  a diversified  channel  of 
old  cordage,  old  iron,  old  crockery,  old  clothes, 
civil  and  military,  old  rags,  new  cotton  goods, 
flaming  prints  of  saints,  little  looking-glasses  and 
incalculable  lengths  of  tape  ; dives  into  a backway, 
keeping  out  of  sight  for  a little  while,  as  streams 
will,  or  only  sparkling  for  a moment  in  the  shape 
of  a market  drinking-shop  ; and  suddenly  reap- 
pears behind  the  great  church,  shooting  itself 
into  a bright  confusion  of  white-capped  women 
and  blue-bloused  men,  poultry,  vegetables,  fruits, 
flowers,  pots,  pans,  praying-chairs,  soldiers, 

■ country  butter,  umbrellas  and  other  sunshades, 
girl-porters  waiting  to  be  hired,  with  baskets  at 
their  backs,  and  one  weazen  little  old  man  in  a 
cocked  hat,  wearing  a cuirass  of  drinking-glasses, 
and  carrying  on  his  shoulder  a crimson  temple 
fluttering  with  flags,  like  a glorified  pavior’s 
rammer  without  the  handle,  who  rings  a little 
bell  in  all  parts  of  the  scene,  and  cries  his  cool- 
ing drink  Ilola,  Idola,  H-0-0 ! in  a shrill 
cracked  voice  that  somehow  makes  itself  heard 
above  all  the  chaffering  and  vending  hum. 
Early  in  the  afternoon,  the  whole  course  of  the 
stream  is  dry.  The  praying-chairs  are  put  back 
in  the  church,  the  umbrellas  are  folded  up,  the 
unsold  goods  are  carried  away,  the  stalls  and 
stands  disappear,  the  square  is  swept,  the  hack- 
ney coaches  lounge  there  to  be  hired,  and  on 
all  the  country  roads  (if  you  walk  about  as  much 
as  we  do)  you  will  see  the  peasant  women, 
al  i)  neatly  and  comfortably  dressed,  riding 
home,  with  the  pleasantest  saddle  furniture  of 
clean  milk  pails,  bright  butter-kegs,  and  the 


like,  on  the  jolliest  little  donkeys  in  the 
world. 

Our  French  Watering  Place.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

MARKET  A stroll  in  Covent  Garden. 

Many  and  many  a pleasant  stroll  they  had  in 
Covent  Garden  Market : snuffing  up  the  per- 
fume of  the  fruits  and  flowers,  wondering  at  the 
magnificence  of  the  pine-apples  and  melons : 
catching  glimpses  down  side  avenues,  of  rows 
and  rows  of  old  women,  seated  on  inverted 
baskets, shelling  peas  ; looking  unutterable  things 
at  the  fat  bundles  of  asparagus  with  which  the 
dainty  shops  were  fortified  as  with  a breast- 
work ; and,  at  the  herbalists’  doors,  gratefully 
inhaling  scents  as  of  veal-stuffing  yet  uncooked, 
dreamily  mixed  up  with  capsicums,  brown-paper, 
seeds:  even  with  hints  of  lusty  snails  and  fine 
young  curly  leeches.  Many  and  many  a pleas- 
ant stroll  they  had  among  the  poultry  markets 
where  ducks  and  fowls,  with  necks  unnaturally 
long,  lay  stretched  out  in  pairs,  ready  for  cook- 
ing ; where  there  were  speckled  eggs  in  mossy 
baskets,  white  country  sausages  beyond  impeach- 
ment by  surviving  cat  or  dog,  or  horse  or  don- 
key, new  cheeses  to  any  wild  extent,  live  birds  in 
coops  and  cages,  looking  much  too  big  to  be 
natural,  in  consequence  of  those  receptacles  be- 
ing much  too  little  ; rabbits,  alive  and  dead,  in- 
numerable. Many  a pleasant  stroll  they  had 
among  the  cool,  refreshing,  silvery  fish-stalls, 
with  a kind  of  moonlight  effect  about  their  stock 
in  trade,  excepting  always  for  the  ruddy  lobsters. 
Many  a pleasant  stroll  among  the  wagon-loads 
of  fragrant  hay,  beneath  which  dogs  and  tired 
wagoners  lay  fast  asleep,  oblivious  of  the  pie-man 
and  the  public-house.  But  never  half  so  good 
a stroll,  as  down  among  the  steam-boats  on  a 
bright  morning. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  40. 

MARKET— At  Salisbury. 

Oh  ! what  a different  town  Salisbury  was  in 
Tom  Pinch’s  eyes  to  be  sure,  when  the  substan- 
tial Pecksniff  of  his  heart  melted  away  into  an 
idle  dream  ! He  possessed  the  same  faith  in  the 
wonderful  shops,  the  same  intensified  apprecia- 
tion of  the  mystery  and  wickedness  of  the  place  ; 
made  the  same  exalted  estimate  of  its  wealth, 
population,  and  resources  ; and  yet  it  was  not 
the  old  city  nor  anything  like  it.  He  walked 
into  the  market  while  they  were  getting  break- 
fast ready  for  him  at  the  Inn  : and  though  it  was 
the  same  market  as  of  old,  crowded  by  the  same 
buyers  and  sellers  ; brisk  with  the  same  busi- 
ness ; noisy  with  the  same  confusion  of  tongues 
and  cluttering  of  fowls  in  coops  ; fair  with  the 
same  display  of  i-olls  of  butter,  newly  made,  set 
forth  in  linen  cloths  of  dazzling  whiteness ; 
green  with  the  same  fresh  show  of  dewy  vegeta- 
bles ; dainty  with  the  same  array  in  higglers’ 
baskets  of  small  shaving-glasses,  laces,  braces, 
trouser-straps,  and  hardware  ; savory  with  the 
same  unstinted  show  of  delicate  pigs’  feet,  and 
pies  made  precious  by  the  pork  that  once  had 
walked  upon  them  : still  it  was  strangely  changed 
to  Tom*  For,  in  the  centre  of  the  market-place, 
he  missed  a statue  he  had  set  up  there,  as  in  all 
other  places  of  his  personal  resort  ; and  it  looked 
cold  and  bare  without  that  ornament. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  36. 

MARKET-DAY  And  city  scenes. 

Mr.  Pinch  had  a shrewd  notion  that  Salisbury 


MARKET-DAY 


MARKET-DAYS 


291 


was  a very  desperate  sort  of  place  : an  exceed- 
ing wild  and  dissipated  city  ; and  when  he  had 
put  up  the  horse,  and  given  the  hostler  to  under- 
stand that  he  would  look  in  again  in  the  course 
of  an  hour  or  two  to  see  him  take  his  corn,  he 
set  forth  on  a stroll  about  the  streets  with  a 
vague  and  not  unpleasant  idea  that  they  teemed 
with  all  kinds  of  mystery  and  bedevilment.  To 
one  of  his  quiet  habits  this  little  delusion  was 
greatly  assisted  by  the  circumstance  of  its  being 
market-day,  and  the  thoroughfares  about  the 
market-place  being  filled  with  carts,  horses, 
donkeys,  baskets,  wagons,  garden-stuff,  meat, 
tripe,  pies,  poultry,  and  hucksters’  wares  of 
every  opposite  description  and  possible  variety 
of  character.  Then  there  were  young  farmers 
and  old  farmers,  with  smock-frocks,  biiown  great- 
coats, drab  great-coats,  red  worsted  comforters, 
leather-leggings,  wonderful  shaped  hats,  hunt- 
ing-whips, and  rough  sticks,  standing  about  in 
groups,  or  talking  noisily  together  on  the  tavern 
steps,  or  paying  and  receiving  huge  amounts  of 
greasy  wealth,  with  the  assistance  of  such  bulky 
pocket-books  that  when  they  were  in  their 
pockets  it  was  apoplexy  to  get  them  out,  and 
when  they  were  out  it  was  spasms  to  get  them 
in  again.  Also  there  were  farmers’  wives  in 
beaver  bonnets  and  red  cloaks,  riding  shaggy 
horses  purged  of  all  earthly  passions,  who  went 
soberly  into  all  manner  of  places  without  desir- 
ing to  know  why,  and  who,  if  required,  would 
have  stood  stock  still  in  a china-shop,  with  a 
complete  dinner-service  at  each  hoof.  Also  a 
great  many  dogs,  who  were  strongly  interested  in 
the  state  of  the  market  and  the  bargains  of  their 
mastSrs  ; and  a great  confusion  of  tongues,  both 
brute  and  human. 

* * * * * 

First  of  all,  there  were  the  jewellers’  shops, 
with  all  the  treasures  of  the  earth  displayed 
therein,  and  such  large  silver  watches  hanging 
up  in  every  pane  of  glass,  that  if  they  were  any- 
thing but  first-rate  goers  it  certainly  was  not  be- 
cause the  works  could  decently  complain  of 
want  of  room.  In  good  sooth,  they  were  big 
enough,  and  perhaps,  as  the  saying  is,  ugly 
enough,  to  be  the  most  correct  of  all  mechanical 
performers  ; in  Mr.  Pinch’s  eyes,  however,  they 
were  smaller  than  Geneva  ware  ; and  when  he 
saw  one  very  bloated  watch  announced  as  a 
repeater,  gifted  with  the  uncommon  power  of 
striking  every  quarter  of  an  hour  inside  the 
pocket  of  its  happy  owner,  he  almost  wished 
that  he  were  rich  enough  to  buy  it. 

But  what  were  even  gold  and  silver,  precious 
stones  and  clockwork,  to  the  bookshops,  whence 
a pleasant  smell  of  paper  freshly  pressed  came 
issuing  forth,  awakening  instant  recollections  of 
some  new  grammar  had  at  school,  long  time 
j ago,  with,  “ Master  Pinch,  Grove  House  Acad- 
emy,” inscribed  in  faultless  writing  on  the  fly- 
leaf! That  whiff  of  Russia  leather,  too,  and  all 
those  rows  on  rows  of  volumes,  neatly  ranged 
• within  ; what  happiness  did  they  suggest  ! And 
in  the  window  were  the  spick-and-span  new 
works  from  London,  with  the  title-pages,  and 
' sometimes  even  the  first  page  of  the  first  chap- 
ter, laid  wide  open  ; tempting  unwary  men  to 
('  begin  to  read  the  book,  and  then,  in  the  impos- 
sibility of  turning  over,  to  rush  blindly  in,  and 
j buy  it ! Here  too  were  the  dainty  frontispiece 
and  trim  vignette,  pointing  like  handposts  on 
the  outskirts  of  great  cities,  to  the  rich  stock  of 


incident  beyond  ; and  store  of  books,  with 
many  a grave  portrait  and  time-honored  name, 
whose  matter  he  knew  well,  and  would  have 
given  mines  to  have,  in  any  form,  upon  the  nar- 
row shelf  beside  his  bed  at  Mr.  Pecksniff’s. 
What  a heart-breaking  shop  it  was  l 

There  was  another  ; not  quite  so  bad  at  first, 
but  still  a trying  shop  ; where  children’s  books 
were  sold,  and  where  poor  Robinson  Crusoe  stood 
alone  in  his  might,  with  dog  and  hatchet,  goat- 
skin cap  and  fowling-pieces  ; calmly  surveying 
Philip  Quarll  and  the  host  of  imitators  round 
him,  and  calling  Mr.  Pinch  to  witness  that  he, 
of  all  the  crowd,  impressed  one  solitary  foot- 
print on  the  shore  of  boyish  memory,  whereof 
the  tread  of  generations  should  not  stir  the 
lightest  grain  of  sand.  And  there  too  were  the 
Persian  tales,  with  flying  chests  and  students  of 
enchanted  books  shut  up  for  years  in  caverns  ; 
and  there  too  was  Abudah,  the  merchant,  with 
the  terrible  little  old  woman  hobbling  out  of 
the  box  in  his  bed-room  ; and  there  the  mighty 
talisman,  the  rare  Arabian  Nights,  with  Cassim 
Baba,  divided  by  four,  like  the  ghost  of  a dread- 
ful sum,  hanging  up,  all  gory,  in  the  robbers’ 
cave.  Which  matchless  wonders,  coming  fast 
on  Mr.  Pinch’s  mind,  did  so  rub  up  and  chafe 
that  wonderful  lamp  within  him,  that  when  he 
turned  his  face  toward  the  busy  street,  a crowd 
of  phantoms  waited  on  his  pleasure,  and  he 
lived  again,  with  new  delight,  the  happy  days 
before  the  Pecksniff  era. 

He  had  less  interest  now  in  the  chemist’s 
shops,  with  their  great  glowing  bottles  (with 
smaller  repositories  of  brightness  in  their  very 
stoppers)  ; and  in  their  agreeable  compromises 
between  medicine  and  perfumery,  in  the  shape 
of  toothsome  lozenges  and  virgin  honey.  Neither 
had  he  the  least  regard  (but  he  never  had  much) 
for  the  tailors’,  where  the  newest  metropolitan 
waistcoat  patterns  were  hanging  up,  which  by 
some  strange  transformation  always  looked 
amazing  there,  and  never  appeared  at  all  like 
the  same  thing  anywhere  else.  But  he  stopped 
to  read  the  playbill  at  the  theatre,  and  surveyed 
the  doorway  with  a kind  of  awe,  which  was  not 
diminished  when  a sallow  gentleman  with  long 
dark  hair  came  out,  and  told  a boy  to  run  home 
to  his  lodgings  and  bring  down  his  broadsword. 
Mr.  Pinch  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  on  hearing 
this,  and  might  have  stood  there  until  dark,  but 
that  the  old  cathedral  bell  began  to  ring  for  ves- 
per service,  on  which  he  tore  himself  away. 

Martin  Chuzzlezvit,  Chap.  5. 

MARKET-DAYS. 

On  market-days  alone,  its  Great  Place  sudden- 
ly leaped  out  of  bed.  On  market-days,  some 
friendly  enchanter  struck  his  staff  ^on  the 
stones  of  the  Great  Place,  and  instantly  arose 
the  liveliest  booths  and  stalls  and  sittings  and 
standings,  and  a pleasant  hum  of  chaffering  and 
huckstering  from  many  hundreds  of  tongues, 
and  a pleasant,  though  peculiar  blending  of 
colors — white  caps,  blue  blouses,  and  green 
vegetables — and  at  last  the  Knight  destined  for 
the  adventure  seemed  to  have  come  in  earnest, 
and  all  the  Vaubanois  sprang  up  awake.  And 
now,  by  long,  low-lying  avenues  of  trees,  jolting 
in  white-hooded  donkey-cart,  and  on  donkey- 
back,  and  in  tumbril  and  wagon,  and  cart  and 
cabriolet,  and  afoot,  with  barrow  and  burden — 
and  along  the  dikes  and  ditches  and  canals,  in 


MARKET-MORNING 


292 


MARRIAGE 


little  peak-prowed  country  boats — came  peasant 
men  and  women  in  flocks  and  crowds,  bringing 
articles  for  sale.  And  here  you  had  boots  and 
shoes,  and  sweetmeats,  and  stuffs  to  wear,  and 
here  (in  the  cool  shade  of  the  Town  Ilall)  you 
had  milk  and  cream  and  butter  and  cheese,  and 
here  you  had  fruits  and  onions  and  carrots,  and 
all  things  needful  for  your  soup,  and  here  you  had 
poultry  and  flowers  and  protesting  pigs,  and  here 
new  shovels,  axes,  spades,  and  bill-hooks  for 
your  farming  work,  and  here  huge  mounds  of 
bread,  and  here  your  unground  grain  in  sacks, 
and  here  your  children’s  dolls,  and  here  the  cake- 
seller  announcing  his  wares  by  beat  and  roll  of 
drum.  And  hark  ! fanfaronade  of  trumpets,  and 
here  into  the  Great  Place,  resplendent  in  an 
open  carriage,  with  four  gorgeously  attired  servi- 
tors up  behind,  playing  horns,  drums,  and  cym- 
bals, rolled  “ the  Daughter  of  a Physician,”  in 
massive  golden  chains  and  ear-rings,  and  blite- 
feathered  hat,  shaded  from  the  admiring  sun  by 
two  immense  umbrellas  of  artificial  i*oses,  to  dis- 
pense (from  motives  of  philanthropy)  that  small 
and  pleasant  dose  which  had  cured  so  many 
thousands!  Toothache,  earache,  headache, 
heartache,  stomach-ache,  debility,  nervousness, 
fits,  fainting,  fever,  ague,  all  equally  cured  by 
the  small  and  pleasant  dose  of  the  great  Phy- 
sician’s great  daughter  ! 

Somebody' s Luggage , Chap.  2. 

MARKET-MORNING-Covent  Garden. 

Covent  Garden  Market,  when  it  was  market- 
morning, was  wonderful  company.  The  great 
wagons  of  cabbages,  with  growers’  men  and  boys 
lying  asleep  under  them,  and  with  sharp  dogs 
from  market-garden  neighborhoods  looking  after 
the  whole,  were  as  good  as  a party.  But  one  of 
the  worst  night  sights  I know  in  Londop  is  to 
be  found  in  the  children  who  prowl  about  this 
place  ; who  sleep  in  the  baskets,  fight  for  the 
offal,  dart  at  any  object  they  think  they  can  lay 
their  thieving  hands  on,  dive  under  the  carts 
and  barrows,  dodge  the  constables,  and  are  per- 
petually making  a blunt  pattering  on  the  pave- 
ment of  the  Piazza  with  the  rain  of  their  naked 
feet.  A painful  and  unnatural  result  comes  of 
the  comparison  one  is  forced  to  institute  be- 
tween the  growth  of  corruption  as  displayed  in 
the  so  much  improved  and  cared  for  fruits  of 
the  earth,  and  the  growth  of  corruption  as  dis- 
played in  these  all  uncared  for  (except  inasmuch 
as  ever  hunted)  savages. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  13. 

It  was  market-morning.  The  ground  was 
covered,  nearly  ankle-deep,  with  filth  and  mire  ; 
and  a thick  steam,  perpetually  rising  from  the 
reeking Tiodies  of  the  cattle,  and  mingling  with 
the  fog,  which  seemed  to  rest  upon  the  chim- 
ney-tops,  hung  heavily  above.  All  the  pens  in 
the  centre  of  the  large  area — and  as  many  tem- 
porary ones  as  could  be  crowded  into  the  vacant 
space — were  filled  with  sheep  ; tied  up  to  posts 
by  the  gutter  side  were  long  lines  of  beasts  and 
oxen,  three  or  four  deep.  Countrymen,  butchers, 
drovers,  hawkers,  boys,  thieves,  idlers,  and  vaga- 
bonds of  every  low  grade,  were  mingled  together 
ma  ; the  whi  tling  of  drovers,  the 
barking  of  dogs,  the  bellowing  and  plunging  of 
oxen,  the  bleating  of  sheep,  the  grunting  and 
squeaking  of  pigs,  the  cries  of  hawkers,  the 
shouts,  oaths,  and  quarrelling  on  all  sides  ; the 


ringing  of  bells  and  roar  of  voices,  that  issued 
from  every  public-house  ; the  crowding,  pushing, 
driving,  beating,  whooping,  and  yelling;  the 
hideous  and  discordant  din  that  resounded  from 
every  corner  of  the  market ; and  the  unwashed, 
unshaven,  squalid,  and  dirty  figures  constantly 
running  to  and  fro,  and  bursting  in  and  out  of 
the  throng,  rendered  it  a stunning  and  bewil- 
dering scene,  which  quite  confounded  the  senses. 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  21. 

MARRIAGE. 

Marriage  is  a civil  contract  ; people  many  to 
better  their  worldly  condition  and  improve  ap- 
pearances ; it  is  an  affair  of  house  and  furniture, 
of  liveries,  servants,  equipage,  and  so  forth.  The 
lady  being  poor  and  you  poor  also,  there  is  an 
end  of  the  matter.  You  cannot  enter  upon  these 
considerations,  and  have  no  manner  of  business 
with  the  ceremony,  f drink  her  health  in  this 
glass,  and  respect  and  honor  her  for  her  extreme 
good  sense.  It  is  a lesson  to  you. 

Barnaby  Budge , Chap.  32. 

Matrimony  is  proverbially  a serious  undertak- 
ing. Like  an  overweening  predilection  for 
brandy-and-water,  it  is  a misfortune  into  which 
a man  easily  falls,  and  from  which  he  finds  it 
remarkably  difficult  to  extricate  himself.  It  is 
of  no  use  telling  a man  who  is  timorous  on  these 
points,  that  it  is  but  one  plunge  and  all  is  over. 
They  say  the  same  thing  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and 
the  unfortunate  victims  derive  as  much  comfort 
from  the  assurance  in  the  one  case  as  in  the 
other. — Tales , Chap.  10. 

Horses  prance  and  caper ; coachmen  and  foot- 
men shine  in  fluttering  favors,  flowers,  and  new- 
made  liveries.  Away  they  dash  and,  rattle 
through  the  streets : and  as  they  pass  along,  a 
thousand  heads  are  turned  to  look  at  them,  and 
a thousand  sober  moralists  revenge  themselves 
for  not  being  married  too,  that  morning,  by  re- 
flecting that  these  people  little  think  such  hap- 
piness can’t  last. — Dombey  Sf  Son , Chap.  31. 

MARRIAGE— A ceremony  of  facts. 

Meanwhile  the  marriage  was  appointed  to  be 
solemnized  in  eight  weeks’  time,  and  Mr.  Bound- 
erby  went  every  evening  to  Stone  Lodge  as  an 
accepted  wooer.  Love  was  made  on  these  occa- 
sions in  the  form  of  bracelets  ; and,  on  all  occa- 
sions during  the  period  of  betrothal,  took  a 
manufacturing  aspect.  Dresses  were  made  jew- 
elry was  made,  cakes  and  gloves  were  made, 
settlements  were  made,  and  an  extensive  assort-  1 
ment  of  Facts  did  appropriate  honor  to  the 
contract.  The  business  was  all  Fact,  from  first 
to  last.  The  Hours  did  not  go  through  any  of 
those  rosy  performances,  which  foolish  poets 
have  ascribed  to  them  at  such  times  ; neither 
did  the  clocks  go  any  faster  or  any  slower  than 
at  other  seasons.  The  deadly  statistical  recorder 
in  the  Gradgrind  observatory  knocked  every 
second  on  the  head  as  it  was  born,  and  buried 
it  with  his  accustomed  regularity. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  15. 

MARRIAGE  After. 

It  was  a strange  condition  of  things,  the 
honey-moon  being  over,  and  the  bridesmaids 
gone  home,  when  I found  myself  sitting  down 
in  my  own  small  house  with  Dora  ; quite  thrown 


MARRIAGE 


293 


MARRIAGE 


out  of  employment,  as  I may  say,  in  respect  of 
the  delicious  old  occupation  of  making  love. 

It  seemed  such  an  extraordinary  thing  to  have 
Dora  always  there.  It  was  so  unaccountable 
not  to  be  obliged  to  go  out  to  see  her,  not  to 
have  any  occasion  to  be  tormenting  myself  about 
her,  not  to  have  to  write  to  her,  not  to  be  schem- 
ing and  devising  opportunities  of  being  alone 
with  her.  Sometimes,  of  an  evening,  when  I 
looked  up  from  my  writing,  and  saw  her  seated 
opposite,  I would  lean  back  in  my  chair,  and 
think  how  queer  it  was  that  there  we  were,  alone 
together  as  a matter  of  course — nobody’s  busi- 
ness any  more — all  the  romance  of  our  engage- 
ment put  away  upon  a shelf,  to  rust — no  one  to 
please  but  one  another — one  another  to  please, 
for  life. 

When  there  was  a debate,  and  I was  kept  out 
very  late,  it  seemed  so  strange  to  me,  as  I was 
walking  home,  to  think  that  Dora  was  at  home  ! 
It  was  such  a wonderful  thing,  at  first,  to  have 
her  coming  softly  down  to  talk  to  me  as  I ate 
my  supper.  It  was  such  a stupendous  thing  to 
know  for  certain  that  she  put  her  hair  in  papers. 
It  was  altogether  such  an  astonishing  event  to 
see  her  do  it ! 

I doubt  whether  two  young  birds  could  have 
known  less  about  keeping  house,  than  I and  my 
pretty  Dora  did.  We  had  a servant,  of  course. 
She  kept  house  for  us.  I have  still  a latent 
belief  that  she  must  have  been  Mrs.  Crupp’s 
daughter  in  disguise,  we  had  such  an  awful  time 
of  it  with  Mary  Anne. 

Her  name  was  Paragon.  Her  nature  was 
represented  to  us,  when  we  engaged  .her,  as  be- 
ing feebly  expressed  in  her  name.  She  had  a 
written  character  as  large  as  a proclamation  ; 
and,  according  to  this  document,  could  do  every- 
thing of  a domestic  nature  that  ever  I heard  of, 
and  a great  many  things  that  I never  did  hear 
of.  She  was  a woman  in  the  prime  of  life  ; of  a 
severe  countenance  ; and  subject  (particularly 
in  the  arms)  to  a sort  of  perpetual  measles  or 
fiery  rash.  She  had  a cousin  in  the  Life  Guards, 
with  such  long  legs  that  he  looked  like  the  after- 
noon shadow  of  somebody  else.  His  shell-jacket 
was  as  much  too  little  for  him  as  he  was  too  big 
for  the  premises.  He  made  the  cottage  smaller 
than  it  need  have  been,  by  being  so  very 
much  out  of  proportion  to  it.  Besides  which, 
the  walls  weire  not  thick,  and  whenever  he 
passed  the  evening  at  our  house,  we  always 
knew  of  it  by  hearing  one  continual  growl  in  the 
kitchen. 

Our  treasure  was  warranted  sober  and  honest. 
I am  therefore  willing  to  believe  that  she  was 
in  a fit  when  we  found  her  under  the  boiler  ; 
and  that  the  deficient  teaspoons  were  attributa- 
ble to  the  dustman. 

But  she  preyed  upon  our  minds  dreadfully. 
We  felt  our  inexperience,  and  were  unable  to 
help  ourselves.  We  should  have  been  at  her 
mercy,  if  she  had  had  any  ; but  she  was  a re- 
morseless woman,  and  had  none. 

David  Copperjield,  Chap.  44. 

MARRIAGE— Housekeeping  after. 

The  next  domestic  trial  we  went  through,  was 
the  Ordeal  of  Servants.  Mary  Anne’s  cousin 
deserted  into  our  coal-hole,  and  was  brought 
out,  to  our  great  amazement,  by  a.  piquet  of  his 
companions  in  arms',  who  took  him  away  hand- 
cuffed in  a procession  that  covered  our  front- 


garden  with  ignominy.  This  nerved  me  to  get 
rid  of  Mary  Anne,  who  went  so  mildly,  on  re- 
ceipt of  wages,  that  I was  surprised,  until  I 
found  out  about  the  tea-spoons,  and  also  about 
the  little  sums  she  had  borrowed  in  my  name 
of  the  trades-people  without  authority.  After 
an  interval  of  Mrs.  Kidgerbury — the  oldest  in- 
habitant of  Kentish  Town,  I believe,  who  went 
out  charing,  but  was  too  feeble  to  execute  her 
conceptions  of  that  art — we  found  another  treas- 
ure, who  was  one  of  the  most  amiable  of  women, 
but  who  generally  made  a point  of  falling  either 
up  or  down  the  kitchen  stairs  with  the  tray,  and 
almost  plunged  into  the  parlor,  as  into  a bath, 
with  the  tea-things.  The  ravages  committed 
by  this  unfortunate  rendering  her  dismissal 
necessary,  she  was  succeeded  (with  intervals  of 
Mrs.  Kidgerbury)  by  a long  line  of  Incapables  ; 
terminating  in  a young  person  of  genteel  ap- 
pearance, who  went  to  Greenwich  Fair  in 
Dora’s  bonnet.  After  whom  I remember  noth- 
ing but  an  average  equality  of  failure. 

Everybody  we  had  anything  to  do  with 
seemed  to  cheat  us.  Our  appearance  in  a shop 
was  a signal  for  the  damaged  goods  10  be 
brought  out  immediately.  If  we  bought  a lob- 
ster, it  was  full  of  water.  All  our  meat  turned 
out  to  be  tough,  and  there  was  hardly  any  crust 
to  our  loaves.  In  search  of  the  principle  on 
which  joints  ought  to  be  roasted,  to  be  roasted 
enough,  and  not  too  much,  I myself  referred  to 
the  Cookery  Book,  and  found  it  there  estab- 
lished as  the  allowance  of  a quarter  of  an  hour 
to  every  pound,  and  say  a quarter  ovei\  But 
the  principle  always  failed  us  by  some  curious 
fatality,  and  we  never  could  hit  any  medium  be- 
tween redness  and  cinders. 

I had  reason  to  believe  that  in  accomplishing 
these  failures  we  incurred  a far  greater  expense 
than  if  we  had  achieved  a series  of  triumphs. 
It  appeared  to  me,  on  looking  over  the  trades- 
men’s books,  as  if  we  might  have  kept  the  base- 
ment story  paved  with  butter,  such  was  the  ex- 
tensive scale  of  our  consumption  of  that  article. 
I don’t  know  whether  the  Excise  returns  of  the 
peribd  may  have  exhibited  any  increase  in  the 
demand  for  pepper  ; but  if  our  performances  did 
not  affect  the  market,  I should  say  several  fami- 
lies must  have  left  off  using  it.  And  the  most 
wonderful  fact  of  all  was,  that  we  never  had 
anything  in  the  house. 

As  to  the  washerwoman  pawning  the  clothes, 
and  coming  in  a state  of  penitent  intoxication 
to  apologize,  I suppose  that  might  have  hap- 
pened several  times  to  anybody.  Also  the 
chimney  on  fire,  the  parish  engine,  and  perjury 
on  the  part  of  the  Beadle.  But  I apprehend 
that  we  were  personally  unfortunate  in  enga- 
ging a servant  with  a taste  for  cordials,  who 
swelled  our  running  account  for  porter  at  the 
public-house  by  such  inexplicable  items  as 
“ quartern  rum  shrub  (Mrs.  C.) “ Half-quartern 
gin  and  cloves  (Mrs.  C.) ; ” “ Glass  rum  and  pep- 
permint (Mrs.  C.) ; ” — the  parentheses  always 
referring  to  Dora,  who  was  supposed,  it  ap- 
peared on  explanation,  to  have  imbibed  the 
whole  of  these  refreshments. 

David  Copperjield,  Chap.  44. 

MARRIAGE— In  society. 

Mrs.  Merdle  reviewed  the  bosom  which  Soci* 
ety  was  accustomed  to  review  ; and  having  as- 
certained that  show-window  of  Mr.  Merdle’s  and 


MARRIAGE 


294 


MARRIAGE 


the  London  jewellers  to  be  in  good  order,  re- 
plied : 

“As  to  marriage  on  the  part  of  a man,  my 
dear,  Society  requires  that  he  should  retrieve 
his  fortunes  by  marriage.  Society  requires  that 
he  should  gain  by  marriage.  Society  requires 
that  he  should  found  a handsome  establishment 
by  marriage.  Society  does  not  see,  otherwise, 
what  he  has  to  do  with  marriage. 

“Young  men,  and  by  young  men  you  know 
what  I mean,  my  love — I mean  people’s  sons 
who  have  the  world  before  them — must  place 
themselves  in  a better  position  towards  Society 
by  marriage,  or  Society  really  will  not  have  any 
patience  with  their  making  fools  of  themselves. 
Dreadfully  worldly  all  this  sounds,”  said  Mrs. 
Merdle,  leaning  back  in  her  nest  and  putting 
up  her  glass  again,  “ does  it  not  ? ” 

“ But  it  is  true,”  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  with  a high- 
ly moral  air. 

“ My  dear,  it  is  not  to  be  disputed  for  a mo- 
ment,” returned  Mrs.  Merdle  ; “because  Soci- 
ety has  made  up  its  mind  on  the  subject,  and 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  If  we  were 
in  a more  primitive  state,  if  we  lived  under  roofs 
of  leaves,  and  kept  cows  and  sheep  and  crea- 
tures, instead  of  banker’s  accounts  (which  would 
be  delicious  ; my  dear,  I am  a pastoral  to  a degree 
by  nature),  well  and  good.  But  we  don’t  live 
under  leaves,  and  keep  cows  and  sheep  and 
creatures  ! ” — Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  33. 

MARRIAGE— An  unequal. 

“ Youth  has  many  generous  impulses  which  do 
not  last  ; and  among  them  are  some  which, 
being  gratified,  become  only  the  more  fleeting. 
Above  all,  I think,”  said  the  lady,  fixing  her 
eyes  on  her  son’s  face,  “that  if  an  enthusias- 
tic, ardent,  and  ambitious  man  marry  a wife  on 
whose  name  there  is  a stain,  which,  though  it 
originate  in  no  fault  of  hers,  may  be  visited  by 
cold  and  sordid  people  upon  her,  and  upon  his 
children  also  ; and,  in  exact  proportion  to  his 
success  in  the  world,  be  cast  in  his  teeth  and 
made  the  subject  of  sneers  against  him  ; he 
may,  no  matter  how  generous  and  good  his  na- 
ture, one  day  repent  of  the  connection  he  formed 
in  early  life.  And  she  may  have  the  pain  and 
torture  of  knowing  that  he  does  so.” 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  34. 

The  barrier  between  Mr.  Dombey  and  his 
wife  was  not  weakened  by  time.  Ill-assorted 
couple,  unhappy  in  themselves  and  in  each  other, 
bound  together  by  no  tie  but  the  manacle  that 
joined  their  fettered  hands,  and  straining  that 
so  harshly,  in  their  shrinking  asunder,  that  it 
wore  and  chafed  to  the  bone,  Time,  consoler  of 
affliction  and  softener  of  anger,  could  do  noth- 
ing to  help  them.  Their  pride,  however  differ- 
ent in  kind  and  object,  was  equal  in  degree  ; 
and,  in  their  flinty  opposition,  struck  out  fire 
between  them  which  might  smoulder  or  might 
blaze,  as  circumstances  wei*c,  but  burned  up 
everything  within  their  mutual  reach,  and  made 
their  marriage  way  a road  of  ashes. 

* Vc  * * * 

A mnrblc  rock  could  not  have  stood  more  ob- 
durately in  his  way  than  she  ; and  no  chilled 
spring,  lying  uncheered  by  any  ray  of  light  in 
the  depths  of  a deep  cave,  could  be  more  sul- 
len or  more  cold  than  lie. 

Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  47. 


MARRIAGE  Its  bickerings. 

In  their  matrimonial  bickerings  they  were, 
upon  the  whole,  a well-matched,  fairly-balanced, 
give-and-take  couple.  It  would  have  been,  gen- 
erally speaking,  very  difficult  to  have  bet- 
ted on  the  winner.  Often  when  Mr.  Chick 
seemed  beaten,  he  would  suddenly  make  a start, 
turn  the  tables,  clatter  them  about  the  ears  of 
Mrs.  Chick,  and  carry  all  before  him.  Being 
liable  himself  to  similar  unlooked-for  checks 
from  Mrs.  Chick,  their  little  contests  usually 
possessed  a character  of  uncertainty  that  was 
very  animating. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  1. 

MARRIAGE— Of  Dora  and  David  Copper- 

field. 

The  church  is  calm  enough,  I am  sure  ; but 
it  might  be  a steam-power  loom  in  full  action, 
for  any  sedative  effect  it  has  on  me.  I am  too 
far  gone  for  that. 

The  rest  is  all  a more  or  less  incoherent 
dream. 

A dream  of  their  coming  in  with  Dora  ; of 
the  pew-opener  arranging  us,  like  a drill-ser- 
geant, before  the  altar  rails  ; of  my  wondering, 
even  then,  why  pew-openers  must  always  be  the 
most  disagreeable  females  procurable,  and  whe- 
ther there  is  any  religious  dread  of  a disas- 
trous  infection  of  good-humor  which  renders  it 
indispensable  to  set  those  vessels  of  vinegar 
upon  the  road  to  Heaven. 

Of  the  clergyman  and  clerk  appearing  ; of  a 
few  boatmen  and  some  other  people  strolling  in  ; 
of  an  ancient  mariner  behind  me,  strongly  fla- 
voring the  church  with  rum  ; of  the  service 
beginning  in  a deep  voice,  and  our  all  being 
very  attentive. 

Of  Miss  Lavinia,  who  acts  as  a semi-auxiliary 
bridesmaid,  being  the  first  to  cry,  and  of  her 
doing  homage  (as  I take  it)  to  the  memory  of 
Pidger,  in  sobs  ; of  Miss  Clarissa  applying  a 
smelling-bottle  ; of  Agnes  taking  care  of  Dora  ; 
of  my  aunt  endeavoring  to  represent  herself  as 
a model  of  sternness,  with  tears  rolling  down 
her  face  ; of  little  Dora  trembling  very  much, 
and  making  her  responses  in  faint  whispers. 

Of  our  kneeling  down  together,  side  by  side  ; 
of  Dora’s  trembling  less  and  less,  but  always 
clasping  Agnes  by  the  hand  ; of  the  service  be- 
ing  got  through,  quietly  and  gravely  ; of  our  all 
looking  at  .each  other  in  an  April  state  of  smiles 
and  tears,  when  it  is  over ; of  my  young 
wife  being  hysterical  in  the  vestry,  and  crying 
for  her  poor  papa,  her  dear  papa. 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  43. 

MARRIAGE— Of  young1  people. 

“ Poor  little  couple  ! And  so  you  think  you 
were  formed  for  one  another,  and  are  to  go 
through  a party-supper-table  kind  of  life,  like 
two  pretty  pieces  of  confectionery,  do  you,  T rot  ? ** 
David  Copper  field , Chap.  35. 

MARRIAGE  -The  Anniversary. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilfer  had  seen  a full  quarter 
of  a hundred  more  anniversaries  of  their  wed- 
ding-day than  Mi*,  and  Mrs.  Lammle  had  seen 
of  theirs,  but  they  still  celebrated  the  occasion 
in  the  bosom  of  their  family.  Not  that  these 
celebrations  ever  resulted  in  anything  particu 
larly  agreeable,  or  that  the  family  was  ever  dis- 
appointed by  that  circumstance  on  account  of 
having  looked  forward  to  the  return  of  the  aifk- 


MARRIAGE 


235 


MARRIED  C0UPLE3 


picious  day  with  sanguine  anticipations  of  en- 
joyment. It  was  kept  morally,  rather  as  a Fast 
than  a Feast,  enabling  Mrs.  Wilfer  to  hold  a 
sombre,  darkling  state,  which  exhibited  that  im- 
pressive woman  in  her  choicest  colors. 

The  noble  lady’s  condition  on  these  delight- 
ful occasions  was  one  compounded  of  heroic  en- 
durance and  heroic  forgiveness.  Lurid  indica- 
tions of  the  better  marriages  she  might  have 
made,  shone  athwart  the  awful  gloom  of  her 
composure,  and  fitfully  revealed  the  cherub  as 
a little  monster  unaccountably  favored  by 
Heaven,  who  had  possessed  himself  of  a bless- 
ing for  which  many  of  his  superiors  had  sued 
and  contended  in  vain.  So  firmly  had  this  his 
position  towards  his  treasure  become  established, 
that  when  the  anniversary  arrived,  it  always 
found  him  in  an  apologetic  state.  It  is  not  im- 
possible that  his  modest  penitence  may  have 
even  gone  the  length  of  sometimes  severely  re- 
proving him  for  that  he  ever  took  the  liberty 
of  making  so  exalted  a character  his  wife. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  III.,  Chap.  4. 

. MARRIAGE— Of  Bunsby. 

The  Captain  made  many  attempts  to  accost 
the  philosopher,  if  only  in  a monosyllable  or  a 
signal ; but  always  failed,  in  consequence  of  the 
vigilance  of  the  guard,  and  the  difficulty  at  all 
times  peculiar  to  Bunsby’s  constitution,  of  hav- 
ing his  attention  aroused  by  any  outward  and 
visible  sign  whatever.  Thus  they  approached 
the  chapel,  a neat  whitewashed  edifice,  recently 
engaged  by  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  Plowler, 
who  had  consented,  on  very  urgent  solicitation, 
to  give  the  world  another  two  years  of  existence, 
but  had  informed  his  followers  that,  then,  it 
must  positively  go. 

While  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  was  offer- 
ing up  some  extemporary  orisons,  the  Captain 
found  an  opportunity  of  growling  in  the  bride- 
groom’s ear : 

“ What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer?” 

To  which  Bunsby  replied,  with  a forgetfulness 
of  the  Reverend  Melchisedech,  which  nothing 
but  his  desperate  circumstances  could  have  ex- 
cused : 

“ D — d bad.” 

“Jack  Bunsby,”  whispered  the  Captain,  “do 
you  do  this  here,  o’  your  own  free  will  ? ” 

Mr.  Bunsby  answered  “ No.” 

“Why  do  you  do  it  then,  my  lad?”  inquired 
the  Captain,  not  unnaturally. 

Bunsby,  still  looking,  and  always  looking  with 
an  immoveable  countenance,  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  world,  made  no  reply. 

“ Why  not  sheer  off?  ” said  the  Captain. 

“ Eh  ? ” whispered  Bunsby,  with  a momentary 
gleam  of  hope. 

“ Sheer  off,”  said  the  Captain. 

“Where’s  the  good?”  retorted  the  forlorn 
sage.  “ She’d  capter  me  agen.”  4 

“Try!”  replied  the  Captain.  “Cheer  up! 
Come!  Now’s  your  time.  Sheer  off,  Jack 
Bunsby ! ” 

Jack  Bunsby,  however,  instead  of  profiting 
by  the  advice,  said  in  a doleful  whisper  : 

“ It  all  began  in  that  there  chest  o’  yourn.  Why 
did  I ever  conwoy  her  into  port  that  night?  ” 

“ My  lad,”  faltered  the  Captain,  “ I thought 
as  you  had  come  over  her  ; not  as  she  had  come 
over  you.  A man  as  has  got  such  opinions  as 
you  have ! ” 


Mr.  Bunsby  merely  uttered  a suppressed  groan. 

“ Come  ! ” said  the  Captain,  nudging  him  with 
his  elbow,  “now’s  your  time  ! Sheer  off!  I’ll 
cover  your  retreat.  The  time’s  a flying.  Buns- 
by ! It’s  for  liberty.  Will  you  once  ? ” 

Bunsby  was  immoveable. 

“ Bunsby  ! ” whispered  the  Captain,  “ will 
you  twice?” 

Bunsby  wouldn’t  twice. 

“ Bunsby  ! ” urged  the  Captain,  “ its  for  liber- 
ty ; will  you  three  times  ? Now  or  never!  ” 

Bunsby  didn’t  then,  and  didn’t  ever  ; for  Mrs. 
MacStinger  immediately  afterwards  married 
him. 

One  of  the  most  frightful  circumstances  of  the 
ceremony  to  the  Captain,  was  the  deadly  interest 
exhibited  therein  by  Juliana  MacStinger:  and 
the  fatal  concentration  of  her  faculties,  with 
which  that  promising  child,  already  the  image 
of  her  parent,  observed  the  whole  proceedings. 
The  Captain  saw  in  this  a succession  of  man- 
traps  stretching  out  infinitely  ; a series  of  ages 
of  oppression  and  coercion,  through  which  the 
seafaring  line  was  doomed.  It  was  a more 
memorable  sight  than  the  unflinching  steadiness 
of  Mrs.  Bokum  and  the  other  lady,  the  exulta- 
tion of  the  short  gentleman  in  the  tall  hat,  or 
even  the  fell  inflexibility  of  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  60. 

MARRIED  COUPLES— Advice  to  young-. 

Before  marriage  and  afterwards,  let  them 
learn  to  centre  all  their  hopes  of  real  and  lasting 
happiness  in  their  own  fireside  ; let  them  cherish 
the  faith  that  in  home,  and  all  the  English 
virtues  which  the  love  of  home  engenders,  lies 
the  only  true  source  of  domestic  felicity  ; let 
them  believe  that  round  the  household  gods 
Contentment  and  Tranquillity  cluster  in  their 
gentlest  and  most  graceful  forms  ; and  that  many 
weary  hunters  of  happiness  through  the  noisy 
.W0rld  have  learnt  this  truth  too  late,  and  found 
a cheerful  spirit  and  a quiet  mind  only  at  home 
at  last. 

How  much  may  depend  on  the  education  of 
daughters,  and  the  conduct  of  mothers — how 
much  of  the  brightest  part  of  our  old  national 
character  may  be  perpetuated  by  their  wisdom 
or  frittered  away  by  their  folly — how  much  of  it 
may  have  been  lost  already,  and  how  much  more 
in  danger  of  vanishing  every  day — are  questions 
too  weighty  for  discussion  here,  but  well  deserv- 
ing a little  serious  consideration  from  all  young 
couples,  nevertheless. 

To  that  one  young  couple  on  whose  bright 
destiny  the  thoughts  of  nations  are  fixed,  may 
the  youth  of  England  look,  and  not  in  vain,  for 
an  example.  From  that  one  couple,  blest  and 
favored  as  they  are,  may  they  learn,  that  even 
the  glare  and  glitter  of  a court,  the  splendor  of 
a palace,  and  the  pomp  and  glory  of  a throne, 
yield  in  their  power  of  conferring  happiness  to 
domestic  worth  and  virtue.  From  that  one 
young  couple  may  they  learn  that  the  crown  of 
a great  empire,  costly  and  jewelled  though  it  be, 
gives  place  in  the  estimation  of  a Queen  to  the 
plain  gold  ring  that  links  her  woman’s  nature  to 
that  of  tens  of  thousands  of  her  humble  subjects, 
and  guards  in  her  woman’s  heart  one  secret  store 
of  tenderness,  whose  proudest  boast  shall  be 
that  it  knows  no  Royalty  save  Nature’s  own, 
and  no  px*ide  of  birth  but  being  the  child  of 
Heaven  ! 


MARRIED-LIFE 


290 


MATRIMOi;\ 


So  shall  the  highest  young  couple  in  the  land 
for  once  hear  the  truth,  when  men  throw  up 
their  caps,  and  cry  with  loving  shouts — 

God  bless  them  ! 

Sketches  of  Couples. 

MARRIED  LIFE— Betsy  Trotwood  on. 

“ These  are  early  days,  Trot,”  she  pursued, 
“ and  Rome  was  not  built  in  a day,  nor  in  a year. 
You  have  chosen  freely  for  yourself;”  a cloud 
passed  over  her  face  for  a moment,  I thought  ; 
“ and  you  have  chosen  a very  pretty  and  a very 
affectionate  creature.  It  will  be  your  duty,  and 
it  will  be  your  pleasure  too — of  course  I know 
that  ; I am  not  delivering  a lecture — to  estimate 
her  (as  you  chose  her)  by  the  qualities  she  has, 
and  not  by  the  qualities  she  may  not  have.  The 
latter  you  must  develop  in  her,  if  you  can.  And 
if  you  cannot,  child,”  here  my  aunt  rubbed  her 
nose,  “you  must  just  accustom  yourself  to  do 
without  ’em.  But  remember,  my  dear,  your 
future  is  between  you  two.  No  one  can  assist 
you  ; you  are  to  work  it  out  for  yourselves.  This 
is  marriage,  Trot  ; and  Heaven  bless  you  both 
in  it,  for  a pair  of  babes  in  the  wood  as  you 
are  !,” — ■ David  Copperfield,  Chap.  44. 

MARSEILLAISE— The. 

“ When  these  people  howl,  they  howl  to  be 
heard.” 

“ Most  people  do,  I suppose.” 

“ Ah ! But  these  people  are  always  howl- 
ing. Never  happy  otherwise.” 

“ Do  you  mean  the  Marseilles  people?” 

“I  mean  the  French  people.  They’re  always 
at  it.  As  to  Marseilles,  we  know  what  Mar- 
seilles is.  It  sent  the  most  insurrectionary  tune 
into  the  world  that  was  ever  composed.  It 
couldn’t  exist  without  allonging  and  marshong- 
ing  to  something  or  other — victory  or  death,  or 
blazes,  or  something.” 

The  speaker,  with  a whimsical  good  humor 
upon  him  all  the  time,  looked  over  the  parapet- 
wall  with  the  greatest  disparagement  of  Mar- 
seilles ; and  taking  up  a determined  position  by 
putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  rattling 
his  money  at  it,  apostrophised  it  with  a short 
laugh. 

“ Allong  and  marshong,  indeed.  It  would  be 
more  creditable  to  you,  I think,  to  let  other 
people  allong  and  marshong  about  their  lawful 
business,  instead  of  shutting  ’em  up  in  quaran- 
tine !” — Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

MATRIMONIAL  QUARREL— A. 

In  this  mood  they  sat  down  to  breakfast.  The 
little  Tetterbys  were  not  habituated  to  regard 
that  meal  in  the  light  of  a sedentary  occupation, 
but  discussed  it  as  a dance  or  trot ; rather  re- 
sembling a savage  ceremony,  in  the  occasional 
shrill  whoops,  and  brandishings  of  bread  and 
butter,  with  which  it  was  accompanied,  as  well 
as  in  the  intricate  filings  off  into  the  street  and 
back  again,  and  the  hoppings  up  and  down  the 
doorsteps,  which  were  incidental  to  the  perform- 
ance. I11  the  present  instance,  the  contentions 
between  these  Tetterby  children  for  the  milk 
and  water  jug,  common  to  all,  which  stood  upon 
the  table,  presented  so  lamentable  an  instance 
of  angry  passions  risen  very  high  indeed,  that  it 
was  an  outrage  on  the  memory  of  Dr.  Watts. 
It  was  not  until  Mr.  Tetterby  had  driven  the 
whole  herd  out  of  the  front  door,  that  a mo- 


ment’s peace  was  secured  ; and  even  that  was 
broken  by  the  discovery  that  Johnny  had  sur- 
reptitiously come  back,  and  was  at  that  instant 
choking  in  the  jug  like  a ventriloquist,  in  his 
indecent  and  rapacious  haste. 

Haunted  Man , Chap.  3. 

MATRIMONY  Mr.  Weller  on. 

While  the  old  gentleman  was  thus  engaged,  a 
very  buxom-looking  cook,  dressed  in  mourning, 
who  had  been  bustling  about  in  the  bar,  glided 
into  the  room,  and  bestowing  many  smirks  of 
recognition  upon  Sam,  silently  stationed  herself 
at  the  back  of  his  father’s  chair,  and  announced 
her  presence  by  a slight  cough  ; the  which, 
being  disregarded,  was  followed  by  a louder 
one. 

“Hallo!”  said  the  elder  Mr.  Weller,  drop- 
ping the  poker  as  he  looked  round,  and  hastily 
drew  his  chair  away.  “ Wot’s  the  matter  now  ? ” 

“ Have  a cup  of  tea,  there’s  a good  soul,”  re- 
plied the  buxom  female,  coaxingly. 

“ I von’t,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  in  a somewhat 
boisterous  manner.  “ I’ll  see  you — .”  Mr. 
Weller  hastily  checked  himself,  and  added  in  a 
low  tone,  “ furder  fust.” 

“ Oh,  dear,  dear  ! I low  adversity  does  change 
people  ! ” said  the  lady,  looking  upwards. 

“ It’s  the  only  think  ’twixt  this  and  the  doc- 
tor as  shall  change  my  condition,”  muttered  Mr. 
Weller. 

“ I really  never  saw  a man  so  cross,”  said  the 
buxom  female. 

“ Never  mind.  It’s  all  for  my  own  good  ; 
vicli  is  the  reflection  vith  wich  the  penitent 
school-boy  comforted  his  feelin’s  ven  they 
flogged  him,”  rejoined  the  old  gentleman. 

The  buxom  female  shook  her  head  with  a 
compassionate  and  sympathizing  air ; and,  ap  - 
pealing to  Sam,  inquired  whether  his  father 
really  ought  not  to  make  an  effort  to  keep  up, 
and  not  give  way  to  that  lowness  of  spirits. 

* % % * * 

“ As  I don’t  rekvire  any  o’  your  conversation 
just  now,  mum,  vill  you  have  the  goodness  to 
re-tire?”  inquired  Mr.  Weller,  in  a grave  and 
steady  voice. 

“ Well,  Mr.  Weller,”  said  the  buxom  female, 
“ I’m  sure  I only  spoke  to  you  out  of  kindness.” 

“ Wery  likely,  mum,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 
“Samivel,  show  the  lady  out,  and  shut  the  door 
arter  her.” 

This  hint  was  not  lost  upon  the  buxom  fe- 
male ; for  she  at  once  left  the  room,  and  slam- 
med the  door  behind  her,  upon  which  Mr.' 
Weller,  senior,  falling  back  in  his  chair  in  a vio- 
lent perspiration,  said  : 

“ Sammy,  if  I vvos  to  stop  here  alone  vim 
veek- — only  van  veek,  my  boy — that  ’ere  ’ooman 
’ud  marry  me  by  force  and  wiolence  afore  it  was 
over.” 

“Wot!  Is  she  so  wery  fond  on  you?”  in- 
quired Sam. 

“Fond!”  replied  his  father,  “I  can’t  keep 
her  avay  from  me.  If  I was  locked  i^p  in  a 
fire-proof  chest,  vith  a patent  Brahmin,  she’d 
find  means  to  get  at  me,  Sammy.” 

“ Wot  a thing  it  is,  to  be  so  sought  arter!” 
observed  Sam,  smiling. 

“ I don’t  take  no  pride  out  on  it,  Sammy,” 
replied  Mr.  Weller,  poking  the  fire  vehemently, 
“ it’s  a horrid  sitiwation.  I’m  aetiwally  drove 
out  o’  house  and  home  by  it.  The  breath  was 


MATRIMONY 


297 


MARRIAGE 


scarcely  out  o’  your  poor  mother-in-law’s  body 
ven  vun  old  ’ooman  sends  me  a pot  o’  jam,  and 
another  a pot  o’  jelly,  and  another  brews  a 
blessed  large  jug  o’  camomile-tea,  vich  she 
brings  in  vith  her  own  hands.”  Mr.  Weller 
paused  with  an  aspect  of  intense  disgust,  and, 
looking  round,  added  in  a whisper  : “ They 
wos  all  widders,  Sammy,  all  on  ’em,  ’cept  the 
camomile-tea  one,  as  wos  a single  young  lady  o’ 
fifty-three.” 

Sam  gave  a comical  look  in  reply,  and  the 
old  gentleman  having  broken  an  obstinate  lump 
of  coal,  with  a countenance  expressive  of  as 
much  earnestness  and  malice  as  if  it  had  been 
the  head  of  one  of  the  widows  last  mentioned, 
said  : 

“ In  short,  Sammy,  I feel  that  I ain’t  safe 
anyveres  but  on  the  box.” 

“ How  are  you  safer  there  than  anyveres 
else?  ” interrupted  Sam. 

“ ’Cos  a coachman’s  a privileged  indiwidual,” 
replied  Mr.  Weller,  looking  fixedly  at  his  son. 
“ ’Cos  a coachman  may  do  vithout  suspicion 
wot  other  men  may  not  ; ’cos  a coachman  may 
be  on  the  wery  amicablest  terms  with  eighty 
mile  o’  females,  and  yet  nobody  think  that  he 
ever  means  to  marry  any  vun  among  ’em.  And 
wot  other  man  can  say  the  same,  Sammy  ? ” 

“Veil,  there’s  somethin’  in  that,”  said  Sam. 

“ If  your  gov’ner  had  been  a coachman,”  rea- 
soned *Mr.  Weller,  “ do  you  s’pose  as  that  ’ere 
jury  ’ud  ever  ha’  conwicted  him,  s’posin’  it  pos- 
sible as  the  matter  could  ha’  gone  to  that  ex- 
tremity? They  dustn’t  ha’  done  it.” 

“ Wy  not  ? ” said  Sam,  rather  disparagingly. 

“ Wy  not?”  rejoined  Mr.  Weller;  “’cos  it 
’ud  ha’  gone  agin  their  consciences.  A reg’lar 
coachman’s  a sort  o’  con-nectin’  link  betwixt 
singleness  and  matrimony,  and  every  practica- 
ble man  knows  it.” 

“Wot!  You  mean  theyTe  gen’ral  fav’rites, 
and  nobody  takes  ad  wantage  on  'em,  p’raps  ? ” 
said  Sam. 

His  father  nodded. 

“ How  it  ever  come  to  that  ’ere  pass,”  re- 
sumed the  parent  Weller,  “ I can’t  say.  Wy  it 
is  that  long-stage  coachmen  possess  such  insini- 
wations,  and  is  always  looked  up  to — a-dored  I 
may  say — by  ev’ry  young  ’ooman  in  ev’ry  town 
he  vurks  through,  I don’t  know.  I only  know 
that  so  it  is.  It’s  a reg’lation  of  natur — a dis- 
pensary, as  your  poor  mother-in-law  used  to 
say.” 

“A  dispensation,”  said  Sam,  correcting  the 
old  gentleman. 

“Wery  good,  Samivel,  a dispensation  if  you 
like  it  better,”  returned  Mr.  Weller  ; “/  call  it 
a dispensary,  and  it’s  always  writ  up  so,  at  the 
places  vere  they  gives  you  physic  for  nothin’  in 
your  own  bottles  ; that’s  all.” 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Weller  re-filled  and 
re-lighted  his  pipe,  and  once  more  summoning 
up  a meditative  expression  of  countenance,  con- 
tinued as  follows : 

“ Therefore,  my  boy,  as  I do  not  see  the  ad- 
wisability  o’  stoppin’  here  to  be  marri’d  vether 
I vant  to  or  not,  and  as  at  the  same  time  I do 
not  vish  to  separate  myself  from  them  interest- 
in’ members  o’  society  altogether,  I have  come 
to  the  determination  o’  drivin’  the  Safety,  and 
puttin’  up  vunce  more  at  the  Bell  Savage,  vich 
is  my  natural  born  element,  Sammy.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  52. 


MATRIMONY— Mr.  Weller  on  the  mar- 
riage of  Sam. 

“You  are  not  an  advocate  for  matrimony,  I 
think,  Mr.  Weller?” 

Mr.  Weller  shook  his  head.  He  was  wholly 
unable  to  speak  : vague  thoughts  of  some  wicked 
widow  having  been  successful  in  her  designs  on 
Mr.  Pickwick,  choked  his  utterance. 

“ Did  you  happen  to  see  a young  girl  down 
stairs,  when  you  came  in  just  now  with  your 
son  ? ” inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Yes.  I see  a young  gal,”  replied  Mr.  Weller, 
shortly. 

“ What  did  you  think  of  her,  now?  Candidly, 
Mr.  Weller,  what  did  you  think  of  her?” 

“ I thought  she  wos  wery  plump,  and  veil 
made,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  with  a critical  air. 

“So  she  is,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  “so  she  is. 
What  did  you  think  of  her  manner,  from  what 
you  saw  of  her?  ” 

“ Wery  pleasant,”  rejoined  Mr.  Weller.  “ Wery 
pleasant  and  comfortable.” 

The  precise  meaning  which  Mr.  Weller  at- 
tached to  this  last-mentioned  adjective,  did  not 
appear  ; but,  as  it  was  evident  from  the  tone  in 
which  he  used  it  that  it  was  a favorable  expres- 
sion, Mr.  Pickwick  was  as  well  satisfied  as  if  he 
had  been  thoroughly  enlightened  on  the  sub- 
ject. 

“ I take,  a great  interest  in  her,  Mr.  Weller,” 
said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

Mr.  Weller  coughed. 

“ I mean  an  interest  in  her  doing  well,”  re- 
sumed Mr.  Pickwick  ; “ a desire  that  she  may  be 
comfortable  and  prosperous.  You  understand  ? ” 

“ Wery  clearly,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  who  un- 
derstood^nothing  yet. 

“ That  young  person,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
“ is  attached  to  your  son.” 

“ To* Samivel  Veller?”  exclaimed  the  parent. 

“Yes,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“It’s  nat’ral.”  said  Mr.  Weller,  after  some- 
consideration,  “nat’ral,  but  rayther  alarmin. 
Sammy  must  be  careful.” 

“How  do  you  mean?”  inquired  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. 

“Wery  careful  that  he  don’t  say  nothin’ to 
her,”  responded  Mr.  Weller.  “ Wery  careful  that 
he  ain’t  led  away,  in  a innocent  moment,  to  say 
anythink  as  may  lead  to  a conwiction  for  breach. 
You’re  never  safe  with  ’em,  Mr.  Pickwick,  ven 
they  vunce  has  designs  on  you  ; there’s  no  know- 
in’  vere  to  have  ’em  ; and  vile  you’re  a-consid- 
ering  of  it,  they  have  you.  I wos  married  fust 
that  vay  myself,  sir,  and  Sammy  wos  the  con- 
sekens  o’  the  manoover.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  56. 

MARRIAGE-Mr.  Weller’s  advice. 

“ I’m  a goin’  to  leave  you,  Samivel  my  boy, 
and  there’s  no  telling  ven  I shall  see  you  again. 
Your  mother-in-law  may’  ha’  been  too  much  for 
me,  or  a thousand  things  may  have  happened  by 
the  time  you  next  hears  any  news  o’  the  celebrat- 
ed Mr.  Veller  o’  the  Bell  Savage.  The  family 
name  depends  wery  much  upon  you,  Samivel, 
and  I hope  you’ll  do  wot’s  right  by  it.  Upon  all 
little  p’ints  o’  breedin’,  I know  I may  trust  you 
as  veil  as  if  it  was  my  own  self.  So  I’ve  only 
this  here  one  little  bit  of  adwice  to  give  you.  If 
ever  you  gets  to  up’ards  o’  fifty,  and  feels  dis- 
posed to  go  a marryin’  anybody — no  matter  who 
— jist  you  shut  yourself  up  in  your  own  room,  if 


“MEANDERING” 


298 


MEMORY 


you’ve  got  one,  and  pison  yourself  off  hand. 
Hangin’s  wulgar,  so  don’t  you  have  nothin’  to 
say  to  that.  Pison  yourself,  Samivel,  my  boy, 
pison  yourself,  and  you’re  be  glad  on  it  arter- 
wards.” — Pickwick,  Chap.  23. 

“ MEANDERING -Let  us  have  no.” 

It  is  a fact  which  will  be  long  remembered  as 
remarkable  down  there,  that  she  was  never 
drowned,  but  died  triumphantly  in  bed,  at 
ninety-two.  I have  understood  that  it  was,  to 
the  last,  her  proudest  boast,  that  she  never  had 
been  on  the  water  in  her  life,  except  upon  a 
bridge  ; and  that  over  her  tea  (to  which  she  was 
extremely  partial)  she,  to  the  last,  expressed  her 
indignation  at  the  impiety  of  mariners  and 
others,  who  had  the  presumption  to  go  “ me- 
andering” about  the  world.  It  was  in  vain  to 
represent  to  her  that  some  conveniences,  tea  per- 
haps included,  resulted  from  this  objectionable 
practice.  She  always  returned,  with  greater 
emphasis  and  with  an  instinctive  knowledge  of 
the  strength  of-her  objection,  “Let  us  have  no 
meandering.” — David  Copperfield , Chap.  1. 

MEANNESS— The  difference  on  two  and 
four  leg’s. 

Fledgeby  deserved  Mr.  Alfred  Lammle’s  eu- 
logium.  He  was  the  meanest  cur  existing,  with 
a single  pair  of  legs.  And  instinct  (a  word  we 
all  clearly  understand)  going  largely  on  four  legs, 
and  reason  always  on  two,  meanness  on  four  legs 
never  attains  the  perfection  of  meanness  on  two. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap.  5. 

MEANNESS. 

“ All  awry,  as  if  his  mean  soul  griped  his 
body.” — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  25. 

MEANS  AND  THE  END. 

In  the  Eastern  story,  the  heavy  slab  that  was 
to  fall  on  the  bed  of  state  in  the  flush  of  con- 
quest was  slowly  wrought  out  of  the  quarry,  the 
tunnel  for  the  rope  to  hold  it  in  its  place  was 
slowly  carried  through  the  leagues  of  rock,  the 
slab  was  slowly  raised  and  fitted  in  the  roof,  the 
rope  was  rove  to  it  and  slowly  taken  through  the 
miles  of  hollow  to  the  great  iron  ring.  All  be- 
ing made  ready  with  much  labor,  and  the  hour 
come,  the  sultan  was  aroused  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  and  the  sharpened  axe  that  was  to  sever 
the  rope  from  the  great  iron  ring  was  put  into 
his  hand,  and  he  struck  with  it,  and  the  rope 
parted  and  rushed  away,  and  the  ceiling  fell. 
So,  in  my  case  ; all  the  work,  near  and  afar,  that 
tended  to  the  end,  had  been  accomplished  ; and 
in  an  instant  the  blow  was  struck,  and  the  roof 
of  my  stronghold  dropped  upon  me. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  38. 

MEDICAL  STUDENTS -Conversation  of. 

“ Nothing  like  dissecting,  to  give  one  an  ap- 
petite,” said  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer,  looking  round  the 
table. 

Mr.  Pickwick  slightly  shuddered. 

“ By  the  bye,  Bob," said  Mr.  Allen, “have  you 
finished  that  leg  yet?" 

“ Nearly,"  replied  Sawyer,  helping  himself  to 
half  a fowl  as  he  spoke.  “ It’s  a very  muscular 
one  for  a child’s." 

“ Is  it?  " inquired  Mr.  Allen,  carelessly. 

“ Very,"  said  Bob  Sawyer,  with  his  mouth 

full. 


“ I’ve  put  my  name  down  for  an  arm,  at  out 
place,”  said  Mr.  Allen.  “ We’re  clubbing  for  a 
subject,  and  the  list  is  nearly  full,  only  we  can't 
get  hold  of  any  fellow  that  want’s  a head.  I 
wish  you’d  take  it.” 

“No,"  replied  Bob  Sawyer;  “can’t  afford 
expensive  luxuries.” 

“ Nonsense  ! ’’  said  Allen. 

“ Can’t  indeed,”  rejoined  Bob  Sawyer.  “ I 
wouldn’t  mind  a brain,  but  I couldn’t  stand  a 
whole  head.” — Pickwick,  Chap.  30. 

MEDICINE— Mrs.  Joe’s  administration  of. 

My  sister  made  a dive  at  me,  and  fished  me 
up  by  the  hair : saying  nothing  more  than  the 
awful  words,  “You  come  along  and  be  dosed.” 

Some  medical  beast  had  revived  Tar-water  in 
those  days  as  a fine  medicine,  and  Mrs.  Joe  al- 
ways kept  a supply  of  it  in  the  cupboard  ; hav- 
ing a belief  in  its  virtues  correspondent  to  its 
nastiness.  At  the  best  of  times,  so  much  of  this 
elixir  was  administered  to  me  as  a choice  re- 
storative, that  I was  conscious  of  going  about, 
smelling  like  a new  fence.  On  this  particular 
evening  the  urgency  of  my  case  demanded  a 
pint  of  this  mixture,  which  was  poured  down 
my  throat,  for  my  greater  comfort,  while  Mrs. 
Joe  held  my  head  under  her  arm,  as  a boot 
would  be  held  in  a boot-jack.  Joe  got  off  with 
half  a pint  ; but  he  was  made  to  swallow  that 
(much  to  his  disturbance,  as  he  sat  slowly  launch- 
ing and  meditating  before  the  fire),  “ because 
he  had  had  a turn.”  Judging  from  myself,  I 
should  say  he  certainly  had.  a turn  afterward,  if 
he  had  had  none  before. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  2. 

MEEKNESS-Of  Dr.  Chillip. 

He  was  the  meekest  of  his  sex,  the  mildest  of 
little  men.  He  sidled  in  and  out  of  a room,  to 
take  up  the  less  space.  He  walked  as  softly  as 
the  Ghost  in  Hamlet,  and  more  slowly.  He  car- 
ried his  head  on  one  side,  partly  in  modest  de- 
preciation of  himself,  partly  in  modest  propitia- 
tion of  everybody  else.  It*  is  nothing  to  say 
that  he  hadn’t  a word  to  throw  at  a dog.  He 
couldn’t  have  thrown  a word  at  a mad  dog.  Pie 
might  have  offered  him  one  gently,  or  half  a one, 
or  a fragment  of  one — for  he  spoke  as  slowly  as 
he  walked— but  he  wouldn’t  have  been  rude  to 
him,  and  he  couldn’t  have  been  quick  with  him, 
for  any  earthly  consideration. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  1. 

MELANCHOLY. 

“ In  such  a lonely,  melancholy  state,  that  he 
was  more  like  a pump  than  a man,  and  might 
have  drawed  tears.” 

Alartin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  32. 

MELANCHOLY— In  contrast  with  affection. 

You  have  no  idea  what  it  is  to  have  anybody 
wonderful  fond  of  you,  unless  you  have  been 
got  down  and  rolled  upon  by  the  lonely  feelings 
that  I have  mentioned  as  having  once  got  the 
better  of  me. — Dr.  Mangold. 

MEMORY. 

“ Is  his  memory  impaired  with  age  ? ” 

“ Not  a morsel  of  it,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Wil- 
liam. “ He  don’t  know  what  forgetting  means.” 

Haunted  Man,  Chap.  1. 


MEMORY 


299 


MICAWBER 


MEMORY— A retentive. 

“Take  care  she  don’t  forget  what  I’ve  been 
saying  to  her.” 

“ She  never  forgets,”  returned  Caleb.  “ It’s 
one  of  the  few  things  she  an’t  clever  in.” 

“ Every  man  thinks  his  own  geese  swans,” 
observed  the  Toy  merchant,  with  a shrug. 
“ Poor  devil ! ” — Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  2. 

MEMORY- Its  faces  recalled. 

After  musing  for  some  minutes,  the  old  gen- 
tleman walked,  with  the  same  meditative  face, 
into  a back  ante-room  opening  from  the  yard  ; 
and  there,  retiring  into  a corner,  called  up  be- 
fore his  mind’s  eye  a vast  amphitheatre  of  faces 
over  which  a dusky  curtain  had  hung  for  many 
years.  “No,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  shaking 
his  head  ; “ it  must  be  imagination.” 

He  wandered  over  them  again.  He  had 
called,  them  into  view  ; and  it  was  not  easy  to 
replace  the  shroud  that  had  so  long  concealed 
them.  There  were  the  faces  of  friends,  and 
foes,  and  of  many  that  had  been  almost  stran- 
gers, peering  intrusively  from  the  crowd  ; there 
were  the  faces  of  young  and  blooming  girls  that 
were  now  old  women  ; there  were  faces  that  the 
grave  had  changed  and  closed  upon,  but  which 
the  mind,  superior  to  its  power,  still  dressed  in 
their  old  freshness  and  beauty,  calling  back  the 
lustre  of  the  eyes,  the  brightness  of  the  smile, 
the  beaming  of  the  soul  through  its  mask  of 
clay,  and  whispering  of  beauty  beyond  the  tomb, 
changed  but  to  be  heightened,  and  taken  from 
earth  only  to  be  set  up  as  a light,  to  shed  a soft 
and  gentle  glow  upon  the  path  to  Heaven. 

But  the  old  gentleman  could  recall  no  one 
countenance  of  which  Oliver’s  features  bore  a 
trace.  So,  he  heaved  a sigh  over  the  recollec- 
tions he  had  awakened  ; and  being,  happily  for 
himself,  an  absent  old  gentleman,  buried  them 
again  in  the  pages  of  the  musty  book. 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  11. 

MEMORY— Windows  in  the  house  of. 

But  the  windows  of  the  house  of  Memory,  and 
the  windows  of  the  house  of  Mercy,  are  not  so. 
easily  closed  as  windows  of  glass  and  wood. 
They  fly  open  unexpectedly ; they  rattle  in  the 
night ; they  must  be  nailed  up.  Mr.  The  Eng- 
lishman had  tried  nailing  them,  but  had  not 
driven  the  nails  quite  home. 

Somebody's  Luggage , Chap.  2. 

MEN  OF  THE  WORLD— The  thoughts  of. 

The  thoughts  of  worldly  men  are  forever  reg- 
ulated by  a moral  law  of  gravitation,  which,  like 
the  physical  one,  holds  them  down  to  earth. 
The  bright  glory  of  day,  and  the  silent  wonders 
of  a starlit  night,  appeal  to  their  minds  in  vain. 
There  are  no  signs  in  the  sun,  or  in  the  moon,  or 
in  the  stars,  for  their  reading.  They  are  like  some 
wise  men,  who,  learning  to  know  each  planet  by 
its  Latin  name,  have  quite  forgotten  such  small 
heavenly  constellations  as  Charity,  Forbearance, 
Universal  Love,  and  Mercy,  although  they  shine 
by  night  and  day  so  brightly  that  the  blind  may 
see  them ; and  who,  looking  upward  at  the 
spangled  sky,  see  nothing  there  but  the  reflec- 
tion of  their  own  great  wisdom  and  book- 
learning. 

It  is  curious  to  imagine  these  people  of  the 
world,  busy  in  thought,  turning  their  eyes  toward 
the  countless  spheres  that  shine  above  us,  and 


making  them  reflect  the  only  images  their  minds 
contain.  The  man  who  lives  but  in  the  breath 
of  princes,  has  nothing  in  his  sight  but  stars  for 
courtiers’  breasts.  The  envious  man  beholds 
his  neighbors’  honors  even  in  the  sky ; to  the 
money-hoarder,  and  the  mass  of  worldly  folk, 
the  whole  great  universe  above  glitters  with  ster- 
ling coin — fresh  from  the  mint — stamped  with 
the  sovereign’s  head  coming  always  between 
them  and  heaven,  turn  where  they  may.  So  do 
the  shadows  of  our  own  desires  stand  between 
us  and  our  better  angels,  and  thus  their  bright- 
ness is  eclipsed. — Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  29. 

MEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 

“Men  of  the  world,  my  dear  sir,”  Joblmg 
whispered  to  Jonas  ; “ thorough  men  of  the 
world  ! To  a professional  person  like  myself, 
it’s  quite  refreshing  to  come  into  this  kind  of 
society.  It’s  not  only  agreeable — and  nothing 
can  be  more  agreeable — but  it’s  philosophically 
improving.  It’s  character,  my  dear  sir  ; charac- 
ter ! ” 

It  is  so  pleasant  to  find  real  merit  appreciated, 
whatever  its  particular  walk  in  life  may  be,  that 
the  general  harmony  of  the  company  was  doubt- 
less much  promoted  by  their  knowing  that  the 
two  men  of  the  world  were  held  in  great  esteem 
by  the  upper  classes  of  society,  and  by  the  gal- 
lant defenders  of  their  country  in  the  army  and 
navy,  but  particularly  the  former.  The  least  of 
their  stories  had  a colonel  in  it  ; lords  were  as 
plentiful  as  oaths  ; and  even  the  Blood  Royal 
ran  in  the  muddy  channel  of  their  personal  re- 
collections.— Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  28. 

MEN AGrERIE— The  wonders  of. 

I brought  away  five  wonderments  from  this 
exhibition.  I have  wondered  ever  since, 
whether  the  beasts  ever  do  get  used  to  those 
small  places  of  confinement ; whether  the  mon- 
keys have  that  very  horrible  flavor  in  their  free 
state  ; whether  wild  animals  have  a natural  ear 
for  time  and  tune,  and  therefore  every  four-foot- 
ed creature  began  to  howl  in  despair  when  the 
band  began  to  play  ; what  the  giraffe  does  with 
his  neck  when  his  cart  is  shut  up  ; and,  whether 
the  elephant  feels  ashamed  of  himself  when  he 
is  brought  out  of  his  den  to  stand  on  his  head 
in  the  presence  of  the  whole  collection. 

Out  of  Town.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

MERRY  PEOPLE — Dick  Swiveller’s  opinion 
of. 

“ There  are  some  people  who  can  be  merry  and 
can’t  be  wise,  and  some  who  can  be  wise  (or 
think  they  can)  and  can’t  be  merry.  I’m  one 
of  the  first  sort.  If  the  proverb’s  a good  ’un,  I 
suppose  it’s  better  to  keep  to  half  of  it  than 
none  ; at  all  events  I’d  rather  be  merry  and  not 
wise,  than  be  like  you — neither  one  nor  t’other.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  7. 

MICAWBER— Wilkins  - His  characteris- 
tics. 

“ Gentlemen  !”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  after  the 
first  salutations,  “ you  are  friends  in  need,  and 
friends  indeed.  Allow  me  to  offer  my  inquiries 
with  reference  to  the  physical  welfare  of  Mrs. 
Copperfield  in  esse , and  Mrs.  Traddles  in  posse , 
— presuming,  that  is  to  say,  that  my  friend  Mr. 
Traddles  is  not  yet  united  to  the  object  of  his 
affections,  for  weal  and  for  woe.” 


MICAWBEE 


300 


MICAWBEE 


We  acknowledged  his  politeness,  and  made 
suitable  replies.  He  then  directed  our  atten- 
tion to  the  wall,  and  was  beginning,  “I  assure 
you,  gentlemen,”  when  I ventured  to  object  to 
that  ceremonious  form  of  address,  and  to  beg 
that  he  would  speak  to  us  in  the  old  way. 

“ My  dear  Copperfield,”  he  returned,  pressing 
my  hand,  “ your  cordiality  overpowers  me. 
This  reception  of  a shattered  fragment  of  the 
Temple  once  called  Man — if  I may  be  permitted 
so  to  express  myself — bespeaks  a heart  that  is  an 
honor  to  our  common  nature.  I was  about  to 
observe  that  I again  behold  the  serene  spot 
where  some  of  the  happiest  hours  of  my  exist- 
ence fleeted  by.” 

“ Made  so,  I am  sure,  by  Mrs.  Micawber,” 
said  I.  “ I hope  she  is  well  ? ” 

* * * * * 

“ I hope  Mrs.  Micawber  and  your  family  are 
well,  sir,”  said  my  aunt. 

Mr.  Micawber  inclined  his  head.  “ They  are 
as  well,  ma’am,”  he  desperately  observed,  after 
a pause,  “ as  Aliens  and  Outcasts  can  ever  hope 
to  be.” 

“ Lord  bless  you,  sir,”  exclaimed  my  aunt  in 
her  abrupt  way.  “ What  are  you  talking 
about  ? ” 

“ The  subsistence  of  my  family,  ma’am,”  re- 
turned Mr.  Micawber,  “ trembles  in  the  balance. 
My  employer — ” 

Here  Mr.  Micawber  provokingly  left  off ; and 
began  to  peel  the  lemons  that  had  been  under 
my  directions  set  before  him,  together  with  all 
the  other  appliances  he  used  in  making  punch. 

‘‘Your  employer,  you  know,”  said  Mr.  Dick, 
jogging  his  arm  as  a gentle  reminder. 

“ My  good  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  “you 
recall  me.  I am  obliged  to  you.”  They  shook 
hands  again.  “ My  employer,  ma’am — Mr. 
Heep — once  did  me  the  favor  to  observe  to  me, 
that  if  I were  not  in  the  receipt  of  the  stipen- 
diary emoluments  appertaining  to  my  engage- 
ment with  him,  I should  probably  be  a moun- 
tebank about  the  country,  swallowing  a sword- 
blade,  and  eating  the  devouring  element.  For 
anything  that  I can  perceive  to  the  contrary, 
it  is  still  probable  that  my  children  may  be  re- 
duced to  seek  a livelihood  by  personal  contor- 
tion, while  Mrs.  Micawber  abets  their  unnatural 
feats,  by  playing  the  barrel  organ.” 

Mr.  Micawber,  with  a random  but  expressive 
flourish  of  his  knife,  signified  that  these  per- 
formances might  be  expected  to  take  place  after 
he  was  no  more  ; then  resumed  his  peeling  with 
a desperate  air. 

My  aunt  leaned  her  elbow  on  the  little  round 
table  that  she  usually  kept  beside  her,  and  eyed 
him  attentively.  Notwithstanding  the  aversion 
with  which  I regarded  the  idea  of  entrapping 
him  into  any  disclosure  he  was  not  prepared  to 
make  voluntarily,  I should  have  taken  him  up 
at  this  point,  but  for  the  strange  proceedings 
in  which  I saw  him  engaged  : whereof  his  put- 
ting the  lemon-peel  into  the  kettle,  the  sugar  into 
the  sn'uffe^-tray,  the  spirit  into  the  empty  jug, 
and  confidently  attempting  to  pour  boiling  water 
out  of  the  candle-stick,  were  among  the  most 
remarkable.  I saw  that  a crisis  was  at  hand, 
and  it  came. 

* * * * * 

“ Mr.  Micawber,”  said  I,  “ what  is  the  matter? 
Pray  speak  out.  You  are  among  friends.” 

“Among  friends,  sir!”  repeated  Mr.  Micaw- 


ber ; and  all  he  had  reserved  came  breaking  out 
of  him.  “ Good  heavens,  it  is  principally  because 
I am  among  friends  that  my  state  of  mind  is  what 
it  is.  \V  hat  is  the  matter,  gentlemen  ? What  is 
not  the  matter?  Villany  is  the  matter  ; baseness 
is  the  matter ; deception,  fraud,  conspiracy,  are 
the  matter : and  the  name  of  the  whole  atro- 
icous  mass  is— IIkep  ! ” 

My  aunt  clapped  her  hands,  and  we  all  start- 
ed up  as  if  we  were  possessed. 

“ The  struggle  is  over  ! ” said  Mr.  Micawber, 
violently  gesticulating  with  his  pocket-handker- 
chief, and  fairly  striking  out  from  time  to  time 
with  both  arms,  as  if  he  were  swimming  under 
superhuman  difficulties.  “ I will  lead  this  life  no 
longer.  I am  a wretched  being,  cut  off  from 
everything  that  makes  life  tolerable.  I have  been 
under  a Taboo  in  that  infernal  scoundrel’s  ser- 
vice. Give  me  back  my  wife,  give  me  back  my 
family,  substitute  Micawber  for  the  petty  wretch 
who  walks  about  in  the  boots  at  present  on  my 
feet,  and  call  upon  me  to  swallow  a sword  to- 
morrow, and  I’ll  do  it.  With  an  appetite  !” 

I never  saw  a man  so  hot  in  my  life.  I tried 
to  calm  him,  that  we  might  come  to  something 
rational ; but  he  got  hotter  and  hotter,  and 
wouldn’t  hear  a word. 

“ I’ll  put  my  hand  in  no  man’s  hand,”  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  gasping,  puffing,  and  sobbing  to  that 
degree  that  he  was  like  a man  fighting  with  cold 
water,  “ until  I have — blown  to  fragments — the — 
a — detestable — serpent — Heep  ! I’ll  partake  of 
no  one’s  hospitality,  until  I have — a — moved — 
Mount  Vesuvius  — to  eruption  — on — a — the 
abandoned  rascal — Heep  ! Refreshment — a — 
underneath  this  roof — particularly  punch — would 
— a — choke  me — unless — I had — previously — 
choked  the  eyes — out  of  the  head — a — of — in- 
terminable cheat,  and  liar — Heep  ! I — a — I’ll 
know  nobody — and — a — say  nothing — and — a 
— live  nowhere — until  I have  crushed — to — a — 
undiscoverable  atoms — the — transcendent  and 
immortal  hypocrite  and  perjurer — Heep  !” 

I really  had  some  fear  of  Mr.  Micawber’s  dy- 
ing on  the  spot.  The  manner  in  which  he  strug- 
gled through  these  inarticulate  sentences,  and, 
whenever  he  found  himself  getting  near  the  name 
of  Heep,  fought  his  way  on  to  it,  dashed  at  it 
in  a fainting  state,  and  brought  it  out  with  a ve- 
hemence little  less  than  marvellous,  w&s  fright- 
ful ; but  now,  when  he  sank  into  a chair,  steam- 
ing, and  looked  at  us,  with  every  possible  color 
in  his  face  that  had  no  business  there,  and  an 
eudless  procession  of  lumps  following  one  an- 
other in  hot  haste  up  his  throat,  whence  they 
seemed  to  shoot  into  his  forehead,  he  had  the 
appearance  of'  being  in  the  last  extremity.  I 
would  have  gone  to  his  assistance,  but  he  waved 
me  off,  and  wouldn’t  hear  a word. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  49. 

MICAWBEE— An  Australian  dinner  speech 
from. 

“ Dr.  Mcll,  in  a speech  replete  with  feeling, 
then  proposed  ‘ Our  distinguished  Guest,  the 
ornament  of  our  town.  May  he  never  leave  us 
but  to  better  himself,  and  may  his  success  among 
us  be  such  as  to  render  his  bettering  himself 
impossible!’  The  cheering  with  which  the 
toast  was  received  defies  description.  Again 
and  again  it  rose  and  fell,  like  the  waves  of 
ocean.  At  length  all  was  hushed,  and  Wilkins 
Micawber,  Esquire,  presented  himself  to  re- 


MICAWBER 


301 


MICAWBER 


turn  thanks.  Far  be  it  from  us,  in  the  present 
comparatively  imperfect  state  of  the  resources 
of  our  establishment,  to  endeavor  to  follow  our 
distinguished  townsman  through  the  smoothly- 
flowing  periods  of  his  polished  and  highly  ornate 
address  ! Suffice  it  to  observe,  that  it  was  a mas- 
terpiece of  eloquence  ; and  that  those  passages 
in  which  he  more  particularly  traced  his  own 
successful  career  to  its  source,  and  warned  the 
younger  portion  of  his  auditory  from  the  shoals 
of  ever  incurring  pecuniary  liabilities  which  they 
were  unable  to  liquidate,  brought  a tear  into  the 
manliest  eye  present. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  63. 

MICAWBER— ” Fallen  back  for  aspring-.” 

“You  find  us,  Copperfield,”  said  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber,  with  one  eye  on  Traddles,  “at  present  es- 
tablished, on  what  may  be  designated  as  a small 
and  unassuming  scale  ; but  you  are  aware  that 
I have,  in  the  course  of  my  career,  surmounted 
difficulties,  and  conquered  obstacles.  You  are 
no  stranger  to  the  fact,  that  there  have  been 
periods  of  my  life  when  it  has  been  requisite 
that  I should  pause,  until  certain  expected 
events  should  turn  up  ; when  it  has  been  neces- 
sary that  I should  fall  back,  before  making  what 
I trust  1 shall  not  be  accused  of  presumption  in 
terming — a spring.  The  present  is  one  of  those 
momentous  stages  in  the  life  of  man.  You  find 
me,  fallen  back,  for  a spring  ; and  I have  every 
reason  to  believe  that  a vigorous  leap  will 
shortlv  be  the  result.” 

* ' * * * * 

“ I am  at  present,  my  dear  Copperfield,  engaged 
in  the  sale  of  corn  upon  commission.  It  is 
not  an  avocation  of  a remunerative  description 
— in  other  words,  it  does  not  pay — and  some 
temporary  embarrassments  of  a pecuniary  na- 
ture have  been  the  consequence.  I am,  how- 
ever, delighted  to  add  that  I have  now  an 
immediate  prospect  of  something  turning  up  (I 
am  not  at  liberty  to  say  in  what  direction), 
which  I trust  will  enable  me  to  provide,  per- 
manently, both  for  myself  and  for  your  friend 
Traddles,  in  whom  I have  an  unaffected  in- 
terest. You  may,  perhaps,  be  prepared  to  hear 
that  Mrs.  Micawber  is  in  a state  of  health  which 
renders  it  not  wholly  improbable  that  an  addi- 
tion may  be  ultimately  made  to  those  pledges  of 
affection  which — in  short,  to  the  infantine  group. 
Mrs.  Micawber’s  family  have  been  so  good  as  to 
express  their  dissatisfaction  at  this  state  of 
things.  I have  merely  to  observe,  that  I am 
not  aware  it  is  any  business  of  theirs,  and  that  I 
repel  that  exhibition  of  feeling  with  scorn  and 
with  defiance  ! ” — David  Copperfield , Chap.  27. 

MICAWBER — His  cool  reception. 

“ I thought  you  were  at  Plymouth,  ma’am,”  I 
said  to  Mrs.  Micawber,  as  he  went  out. 

“ My  dear  Master  Copperfield,”  she  replied, 
“ we  went  to  Plymouth.” 

“ To  be  on  the  spot,”  I hinted. 

“Just so,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  “To  be  on 
the  spot.  But,  the  truth  is,  talent  is  not  wanted 
in  the  Custom  House.  The  local  influence  of 
my  family  was  quite  unavailing  to  obtain  any 
employment,  in  that  department,  for  a man  of 
. Mr.  Micawber’s  abilities.  They  would  rather 
not  have  a man  of  Mr.  Micawber’s  abilities.  He 
would  only  show  the  deficiency  of  the  others. 
Apart  from  which,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  “ I 


will  not  disguise  from  you,  my  dear  Master  Cop- 
perfield, that  when  that  branch  of  my  family 
which  is  settled  in  Plymouth  became  aware  that 
Mi.  Micawber  was  accompanied  by  myself,  and 
by  little  Wilkins  and  his  sister,  and  by  the  twins, 
they  did  not  receive  him  with  that  ardor  which 
he  might  have  expected,  being  so  newly  releas- 
ed from  captivity.  In  fact,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber, 
lowering  her  voice, — “ this  is  between  ourselves 
— our  reception  was  cool.” 

“ Dear  me  ! ” I said. 

“Yes,”  said  Mrs,  Micawber.  “It  is  truly 
painful  to  contemplate  mankind  in  such  an  as- 
pect Master  Copperfield,  but  our  reception  was 
decidedly  cool.” — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  17. 

MICAWBER- Observations  by. 

Mr.  Diek  was  at  home.  He  was  by  nature  so 
exceedingly  compassionate  of  any  one  who 
seemed  to  be  ill  at  ease,  and  was  so  quick  to 
find  any  such  person  out,  that  he  shook  hands 
with  Mr.  Micawber,  at  least  half-a-dozen  times 
in  five  minutes.  To  Mr.  Micawber,  in  his  trou- 
ble, this  warmth,  on  the  part  of  a stranger,  was 
so  extremely  touching,  that  he  could  only  say, 
on  the  occasion  of  each  successive  shake,  “ My 
dear  sir,  you  overpower  me  ! ” Which  gratified 
Mr.  Dick  so  much,  that  he  went  at  it  again  with 
greater  vigor  than  before. 

“ The  friendliness  of  this  gentleman,”  said 
Mr.  Micawber  to  my  aunt,  “ if  you  will  allow 
me,  ma’am,  to  cull  a figure  of  speech  from  the 
vocabulary  of  our  coarser  national  sports — floors 
me.  To  a man  who  is  struggling  with  a com- 
plicated burden  of  perplexity  and  disquiet,  such 
a reception  is  trying,  I assure  you.” 

“ My  friend  Mr.  Dick,”  replied  my  aunt, 
proudly,  “ is  not  a common  man.” 

“ That  I am  convinced  of,”  said  Mr.  Micawber. 
“ My  dear  sir  ! ” for  Mr.  Dick  was  shaking  hands 
with  him  again  ; “ I am  deeply  sensible  of  your 
cordiality.” 

“ How  do  you  find  yourself?”  said  Mr.  Dick, 
with  an  anxious  look. 

“ Indifferent,  my  dear  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Mi- 
cawber, sighing. 

“You  must  keep  up  your  spirits,”  said  Mr. 
Dick,  “ and  make  yourself  as  comfortable  as 
possible.” 

Mr.  Micawber  was  quite  overcome  by  these 
friendly  words,  and  by  finding  Mr.  Dick’s  hand 
again  within  his  own.  “ It  has  been  my  lot,”  he 
observed,  “ to  meet,  in  the  diversified  panorama 
of  human  existence,  with  an  occasional  oasis, 
but  never  with  one  so  green,  so  gushing,  as  the 
present ! ” 

* * * * * 

“ How  is  our  friend  Heep,  Mr.  Micawber?  ” 
said  I,  after  a silence. 

“ My  dear  Copperfield,”  returned  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber, bursting  into  a state  of  much  excitement, 
and  turning  pale,  “ if  you  ask  after  my  employer 
as  j your  friend,  I am  sorry  for  it  ; if  you  ask  after 
him  as  my  friend,  I sardonically  smile  at  it.  In 
whatever  capacity  you  ask  after  my  employer,  1 
beg,  without  offence  to  you,  to  limit  my  l'eply  to 
this — that  whatever  his  state  of  health  may  be, 
his  appearance  is  foxy — not  to  say  diabolical. 
You  will  allow  me,  as  a private  individual,  to 
decline  pursuing  a subject  which  has  lashed  me 
to  the  utmost  verge  of  desperation  in  my  pro- 
fessional capacity.” 


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302 


MICAWBEK 


“ It  is  my  fate,”  said  Mr.  Micavvbcr,  unfeign- 
eclly  sobbing,  but  doing  even  that,  with  the 
shadow  of  the  old  expression  of  doing  some- 
thing genteel  ; “it  is  my  fate,  gentlemen,  that 
the  finer  feelings  of  our  nature  have  become  re- 
proaches to  me.  My  homage  to  Miss  Wickfield 
is  a flight  of  arrows  in  my  bosom.  You  had  bet- 
ter leave  me,  if  you  please,  to  walk  the  earth  as 
a vagabond.  The  worm  will  settle  my  business 
in  double-quick  time.” 

***** 

“Gentlemen,”  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  “do 
with  me  as  you  will!  I am  a straw  upon  the 
surface  of  the  deep,  and  am  tossed  in  all  direc- 
tions by  the  elephants — I beg  your  pardon  ; I 
should  have  said  the  elements.” 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  49. 

MICAWBER-On  difficulties. 

“ Shall  we  go  and  see  Mrs.  Micawber,  sir?” 
I said,  to  get  Mr.  Micawber  away. 

“ If  you  will  do  her  that  favor,  Copperfield,” 
replied  Mr.  Micawber,  rising.  *•  I have  no  scru- 
ple in  saying,  in  the  presence  of  our  friends 
here,  that  I am  a man  who  has,  for  some  years, 
contended  against  the  pressure  of  pecuniary 
difficulties.”  I knew  he  was  certain  to  say  some- 
thing of  this  kind  ; he  always  would  be  so  boast- 
ful about  his  difficulties.  “ Sometimes  I have 
risen  superior  to  my  difficulties.  Sometimes  my 
difficulties  have — in  short,  have  floored  me. 
There  have  been  times  when  I have  administer- 
ed a succession  of  facers  to  them  ; there  have 
been  times  when  they  have  been  too  many  for 
me,  and  I have  given  in,  and  said  to  Mrs. 
Micawber,  in  the  words  of  Cato,  ‘ Plato,  thou 
reasonest  well.  It’s  all  up  now.  I can  show 
fight  no  more.’  But  at  no  time  of  my  life,”  said 
Mr.  Micawber,  “ have  I enjoyed  a higher  degree 
of  satisfaction  than  in  pouring  my  griefs  (if  I 
may  describe  difficulties,  chiefly  arising  out  of 
warrants  of  attorney  and  promissory  notes  at 
two  and  four  months,  by  that  word)  into  the 
bosom  of  my  friend  Copperfield.” 

Mr.  Micawber  closed  this  handsome  tribute 
by  saying.  “ Mr.  Heep  ! Good  evening.  Mrs. 
Heep  ! Your  servant,”  and  then  walking  out 
with  me  in  his  most  fashionable  manner,  making 
a good-deal  of  noise  on  the  pavement  with  his 
shoes,  and  humming  a tune  as  he  went. 

David  Copperfield, , Chap.  17. 

MICAWBER— On  corn  and  coals. 

“As  we  are  quite  confidential  here,  Mr.  Cop- 
perfield,” said  Mrs.  Micawber,  sipping  her  punch, 
“ Mr.  Traddles  being  a part  of  our  domesticity, 
I should  much  like  to  have  your  opinion  on  Mr. 
Micawber’s  prospects.  For  corn,”  said  Mrs. 
Micawber  argumentatively,  “ as  I have  repeated- 
ly said  to  Mr.  Micawber,  may  be  gentlemanly, 
but  it  is  not  remunerative.  Commission  to  the 
extent  of  two  and  ninepence  in  a fortnight  can- 
not, however  limited  our  ideas,  be  considered 
remunerative.” 

We  were  all  agreed  upon  that. 

“ Then,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  who  prided  her- 
self on  taking  a clear  view  of  things,  and  keep- 
ing Mr.  Micawber  straight  by  her  woman’s  wis- 
dom, when  he  might  otherwise  go  a little 
crooked,  “ then  I ask  myself  this  question.  If 
corn  is  not  to  be  relied  upon,  what  is?  Are 
coals  to  be  relied  upon?  Not  at  all.  We  have 
turned  our  attention  to  that  experiment,  on  the 


suggestion  of  my  family,  and  we  find  it  falla- 
cious.” 

Mr.  Micawber,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  eyed  us  aside,  and 
nodded  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say  that  the  case 
was  very  clearly  put. 

“ The  articles  of  corn  and  coals,”  said  Mrs. 
Micawber,  still  more  argumentatively,  “ being 
equally  out  of  the  question,  Mr.  Copperfield,  I 
naturally  look  round  the  world,  and  say,  1 What 
is  there  in  which  a person  of  Mr.  Micawber’s 
talent  is  likely  to  succeed?”’ 

***** 

I found  myself  afterwards  sagely  adding, 
alone,  that  a person  must  either  live  or  die. 

“Just  so,”  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  “It  is 
precisely  that.  And  the  fact  is,  my  dear  Mr. 
Copperfield,  that  we  can  not  live  without  some- 
thing widely  different  from  existing  circum- 
stances shortly  turning  up.  Now  I am  convinc- 
ed, myself,  and  this  I have  pointed  out  to  Mr. 
Micawber  several  times  of  late,  that  things  can- 
not be  expected  to  turn  up  of  themselves.  We 
must,  in  a measure,  assist  to  turn  them  up.  I 
may  be  wrong,  but  I have  formed  that  opinion.” 

Botfy  Traddles  and  I applauded  it  highly. 

“Very  well,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  “Then 
what  do  I recommend  ? Here  is  Mr.  Micawber 
with  a variety  of  qualifications — with  great  tal- 
ent— ” 

“ Really,  my  love,”  said  Mr.  Micawber. 

“ Pray,  my  dear,  allow  me  to  conclude.  Here 
is  Mr.  Micawber,  with  a variety  of  qualifications 
with  great  talent — / should  say,  with  genius,  but 
that  may  be  the  partiality ‘of  a wife — ” 

Traddles  and  I both  murmured  “ No.” 

“ And  here  is  Mr.  Micawber  without  any  suit- 
able position  or  employment.  Where  does  that 
responsibility  rest  ? Clearly  on  society.  Then 
I would  make  a fact  so  disgraceful  known,  and 
boldly  challenge  society  to  set  it  right.  It  ap- 
pears to  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,”  said 
Mrs.  Micawber.  forcibly,  “ that  what  Mr.  Mi- 
cawber has  to  do,  is  to  throw  down  the  gauntlet 
to  society,  and  say,  in  effect,  ‘ Show  me  who  will 
take  that  up.  Let  the  party  immediately  step 
forward.’” — David  Copperfield , Chap.  28. 

MICAWBER— “ Ready  in  case  of  anything- 
turning  up.” 

“ On  such  an  occasion  I will  give  you,  Mas- 
ter Copperfield,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  “ in  a 
little  more  flip,”  for  we  had  been  having  some 
already,  “ the  memory  of  my  papa  and  mamma.” 

“Are  they  dead,  ma’am?”  I inquired,  after 
drinking  the  toast  in  a wine-glass. 

“My  mamma  departed  this  life,”  said  Mrs. 
Micawber,  “before  Mr.  Micawber’s  difficulties 
commenced,  or  at;  least  before  they  became 
pressing.  My  papa  lived  to  bail  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber several  times,  and  then  expired,  regretted 
by  a numerous  circle.” 

Mrs.  Micawber  shook  her  head,  and  dropped 
a pious  tear  upon  the  twin  who  happened  to  be 
in  hand. 

As  I could  hardly  hope  for  a more  favorable 
opportunity  of  putting  a question  in  which  I had 
a near  interest,  I said  to  Mrs.  Micawber: 

“ May  I ask,  ma’am,  what  you  and  Mr.  Mi- 
cawber intend  to  do,  now  that  Mr.  Micawber  is 
out  of  his  difficulties,  and  at  liberty  ? Have  you 
settled  yet  ? ” 

“ My  family,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  who  al- 


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303 


MICAWBER 


ways  said  those  two  words  with  an  air,  though 
I never  could  discover  who  came  under  the  de- 
nomination, “ my  family  are  of  opinion  that  Mr. 
Micawber  should  quit  London,  and  exert  his 
talents  in  the  country.  Mr.  Micawber  is  a man 
of  great  talent,  Master  Copperfieid.” 

I said  I was  sure  of  that. 

“ Of  great  talent,”  repeated  Mrs.  Micawber. 

“ My  family  are  of.  opinion,  that,  with  a little 
interest,  something  might  be  done  for  a man  of 
his  ability  in  the  Custom  House.  The  influ- 
ence of  my  family  being  local,  it  is  their  wish 
that  Mr.  Micawber  should  go  down  to  Plymouth. 
They  think  it  indispensable  that  he  should  be 
upon  the  spot.” 

That  he  may  be  ready?”  I suggested. 

“ Exactly,”  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  “That 
he  may  be  ready — in  case  of  anything  turning 
up.” — David  Copperfieid,  Chap.  12. 

MICAWBER— The  family  relations. 

“ I cannot  help  thinking,”  said  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber, with  an  air  of  deep  sagacity,  “ that  there 
are  members  of  my  family  who  have  been  ap- 
prehensive that  Mr.  Micawber  would  solicit 
them  for  their  names. — I do  not  mean  to  be 
conferred  in  Baptism  upon  our  children,  but  to 
be  inscribed  on  Bills  of  Exchange,  and  negotiat- 
ed in  the  Money  Market.” 

Hs  * * * 

“ My  dear,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  some 
heat,  “ it  may  be  better  for  me  to  state  distinct- 
ly, at  once,  that  your  family  are,  in  the  aggre- 
gate, impertinent  Snobs  ; and,  in  detail,  unmiti- 
gated Ruffians.” 

% ^ He  ^ H* 

“ All  I would  say  is,  that  I can  go  abroad 
without  your  family  coming  forward  to  favor 
me — in  short,  with  a parting  Shove  of  their 
cold  shoulders  ; and  that,  upon  the  whole,  I 
would  rather  leave  England  with  such  impetus 
as  I possess,  than  derive  any  acceleration  of  it 
from  that  quarter.” 

David  Copperfieid,  Chap.  54. 

MICAWBER— Turns  up. 

I had  begun  to  be  a little  uncomfortable,  and 
to  wish  myself  well  out  of  the  visit,  when  a fig- 
ure coming  down  the  street  passed  the  door — it 
stood  open  to  air  the  room,  which  was  warm, 
the  weather  being  close  for  the  time  of  year — 
came  back  again,  looked  in,  and  walked  in,  ex- 
claiming loudly,  “ Copperfieid  ! Is  it  possi- 
ble ? ” 

It  was  Mr.  Micawber  ! It  was  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber, with  his  eye-glass,  and  his  walking-stick, 
and  his  shirt-collar,  and  his  genteel  air,  and  the 
condescending  roll  in  his  voice,  all  complete  ! 

“ My  dear  Copperfieid,”  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
putting  out  his  hand,  “ this  is  indeed  a meeting 
which  is  calculated  to  impress  the  mind  with  a 
sense  of  the  instability  and  uncertainty  of  all 
human — in  short,  it  is  a most  extraordinary 
meeting.  Walking  along  the  street,  reflecting 
upon  the  probability  of  something  turning  up 
(of  which  I am  at  present  rather  sanguine),  I 
find  a young  but  valued  friend  turn  up,  who  is 
connected  with  the  most  eventful  period  of  my 
life  ; I may  say,  with  the  turning-point  of  my 
existence.  Copperfieid,  my  dear  fellow,  how  do 
you  do  ? ” 

I cannot  say — I really  can  not  say — that  I was 
glad  to  see  Mr.  Micawber  there  ; but  I was  glad  to 


see  him  too,  and  shook  hands  with  him  heartily, 
inquiring  how  Mrs.  Micawber  was. 

“ Thank  you,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  waving  his 
hand  as  of  old,  and  settling  his  chin  in  his  shirt- 
collar.  “ She  is  tolerably  convalescent.  Tlii 
twins  no  longer  derive  their  sustenance  from 
Nature’s  founts — in  shovt,”  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
in  one  of  his  bursts  of  confidence,  “ they  are 
weaned — and  Mrs.  Micawber  is,  at  present,  my 
travelling  companion.  She  will  be  rejoiced, 
Copperfieid,  to  renew  her  acquaintance  with  one 
who  has  proved  himself  in  all  respects  a worthy 
minister  at  the  sacred  altar  of  friendship.” 

*•*#*** 

I was  excessively  anxious  to  get  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber away  ; and  replied,  with  my  hat  in  my  hand, 
and  a very  red  face,  I have  no  doubt,  that  I was 
a pupil  at  Doctor  Strong’s. 

“A  pupil?  ’’said  Mr.  Micawber,  raising  his 
eyebrows,  “ I am  extremely  happy  to  hear  it. 
Although  a mind  like  my  friend  Copperfield’s  ; ” 
to  Uriah  and  Mrs.  bleep  ; “does  not  require 
that  cultivation  which,  without  his  knowledge  of 
men  and  things,  it  would  require,  still  it  is  a 
rich  soil,  teeming  with  latent  vegetation — in 
short,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  smiling  in  another 
burst  of  confidence,  “ it  is  an  intellect  capable 
of  getting  up  the  classics  to  any  extent.” 

David  Copperfieid,  Chap.  17. 

MICAWBER— As  an  emigrant. 

Mr.  Micawber,  I must  observe,  in  his  adapta- 
tion of  himself  to  a new  state  of  society,  had  ac- 
quired a bold,  buccaneering  air  not  absolutely 
lawless,  but  defensive  and  prompt.  One  might 
have  supposed  him  a child  of  the  wilderness, 
long  accustomed  to  live  out  of  the  confines  of 
civilization,  and  about  to  return  to  his  native  wilds. 

He  had  provided  himself,  among  othei  things, 
with  a complete  suit  of  oil-skin,  and  a straw 
hat  with  a very  low  crown,  pitched  or  caulked*  on 
the  outside.  In  this  rough  clothing,  with  a com- 
mon mariner’s  telescope  under  his  arm,  and  a 
shrewd  trick  of  casting  up  his  eye  at  the  sky  as 
looking  out  for  dirty  weather,  he  was  far  more 
nautical,  after  his  manner,  than  Mr.  Peggotty. 
His  whole  family,  if  I may  so  express  it,  were 
cleared  for  action.  I found  Mrs.  Micawber  in 
the  closest  and  most  uncompromising  of  bonnets, 
made  fast  under  the  chin  ; and  in  a shawl  which 
tied  her  up  (as  I had  been  tied  up,  when  my 
aunt  first  received  me)  like  a bundle,  and  was 
secured  behind  at  the  waist,  in  a strong  knot. 
Miss  Micawber  I found  made  snug  for  stormy 
weather,  in  the  same  manner  ; with  nothing  su- 
perfluous about  her.  Master  Micawber  was 
hardly  visible  in  a Guernsey  shirt,  and  the  shag- 
giest suit  of  slops  I ever  saw  ; and  the  children 
were  done  up,  like  preserved  meats,  in  impervi- 
ous cases. — David  Copperfieid,  Chap.  56. 

MICAWBER- As  a law  clerk. 

“ How  do  you  like  the  law,  Mr.  Micaw- 
; ber?” 

“ My  dear  Copperfieid,”  he  replied.  “ To  a 
man  possessed  of  the  higher  imaginative  powers, 
the  objection  to  legal  studies  is  the  amount  of 
detail  which  they  involve.  Even  in  our  profes- 
sional correspondence,”  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
glancing  at  some  letters  he  was  writing,  “ the 
mind  is  not  at  liberty  to  soar  to  any  exalted 
form  of  expression.  Still,  it  is  a great  pursuit. 
A great  pursuit ! ” 


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304 


MICAWBER 


He  then  told  me  that  he  had  become  the  ten- 
ant of  Uriah  Ileep’s  old  house  ; and  that  Mrs. 
Micavvber  would  be  delighted  to  receive  me 
once  more  under  her  own  roof. 

“ It  is  humble,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  “ to  quote 
a favorite  expression  of  my  friend  Heep  ; but  it 
may  prove  the  stepping  stone  to  more  ambitious 
domiciliary  accommodation.” 

I asked  him  whether  he  had  reason,  so  far,  to 
be  satisfied  with  his  friend  Heep’s  treatment  of 
him?  He  got  up. to  ascertain  if  the  door  were 
close  shut,  before  he  replied,  in  a lower  voice : 

“ My  dear  Copperfield,  a man  who  labors  un- 
der the  pressure  of  pecupiary  embarrassments, 
is,  with  the  generality  of  people,  at  a disadvan- 
tage. That  disadvantage  is  not  diminished, 
when  that  pressure  necessitates  the  drawing  of 
stipendiary  emoluments,  before  those  emolu- 
ments are  strictly  due  and  payable.  All  I can 
say  is,  that  my  friend  Heep  has  responded  to 
appeals  to  which  I need  not  more  particularly 
refer,  in  a manner  calculated  to  redound  equally 
to  the  honor  of  his  head  and  of  his  heart.” 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  39. 

MICAWBER— A crisis  in  his  affairs. 

“Master  Copperfield,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber, 
“ I make  no  stranger  of  you,  and  therefore  do 
not  hesitate  to  say  "that  Mr.  Micawber’s  difficul- 
ties are  coming  to  a crisis.” 

It  made  me  very  miserable  to  hear  it,  and  I 
looked  at  Mrs.  Micawber’s  red  eyes  with  the  ut- 
most sympathy. 

“ With  the  exception  of  the  heel  of  a Dutch 
cheese — which  is  not  adapted  to  the  wants  of  a 
young  family  ” — said  Mrs.  Micawber,  “ there  is 
really  not  a scrap  of  anything  in  the  larder.  I 
was  accustomed  to  speak  of  the  larder  when  I 
lived  with  papa  and  mamma,  and  I used  the 
word  almost  unconsciously.  What  I mean  to 
express  is,  that  there  is  nothing  to  eat  in  the 
house.” 

“ Dear  me  ! ” I said,  in  great  concern. 

* * * * * 

At  last  Mr.  Micawber’s  difficulties  came  to  a 
crisis,  and  he  was  arrested  early  one  morning, 
and  carried  over  to  the  King’s  Bench  Prison  in 
the  Borough.  He  told  me,  as  he  went  out  of 
the  house,  that  the  God  of  day  had  now  gone 
down  upon  him — and  I really  thought  his  heart 
was  broken  and  mine  too.  But  I heard,  after- 
wards, that  he  was  seen  to  play  a lively  game  at 
skittles,  before  noon. 

* -X  sti  * * 

Mr.  Micawber  was  waiting  for  me  within  the 
gate,  and  we  went  up  to  his  room  (top  story  but 
one),  and  cried  very  much.  He  solemnly  con- 
jured me,  I remember,  to  take  warning  by  his 
fate  ; and  to  observe  that  if  a man  had  twenty 
pounds  a year  for  his  income,  and  spent  nine- 
teen pounds  nineteen  shillings  and  sixpence,  he 
would  be  happy,  but  that  if  he  spent  twenty 
pounds  one  he  would  be  miserable.  After 
which  he  borrowed  a shilling  of  me  for  porter, 
gave  me  a written  order  on  Mrs.  Micawber  for 
the  amount,  and  put  away  his  pocket-handker- 
chief, and  cheered  up. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  11. 

MICAWBER  His  mode  of  paying  debts. 

“To  leave  this  metropolis,”  said  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber, “and  my  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles, 
without  acquitting  myself  of  the  pecuniary  part 


of  this  obligation,  would  weigh  upon  my  mind 
to  an  insupportable  extent.  I have,  therefore, 
prepared  for  my  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles, 
and  I now  hold  in  my  hand  a document,  which 
accomplishes  the  desired  object.  I beg  to  hand 
to  my  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  my  I.  O.  U. 
for  forty-one,  ten,  eleven  and  a half,  and  I am 
happy  to  recover  my  moral  dignity,  and  to  know 
that  I can  once  more  walk  erect  before  my 
fellow-man  ! ” 

With  this  introduction  (which  greatly  affected 
him),  Mr.  Micawber  placed  his  I.  O.  U.  in  the 
hands  of  Traddles,  and  said  he  wished  him  well 
in  every  relation  of  life.  I am  persuaded,  not 
only  that  this  was  quite  the  same  to  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber as  paying  the  money,  but  that  Traddles  him- 
self hardly  knew  the  difference  until  he  had  had 
time  to  think  about  it. 

Mr.  Micawber  walked  so  erect  before  his  fel- 
low-man, on  the  strength  of  this  virtuous  action, 
that  his  chest  looked  half  as  broad  again  when 
he  lighted  us  down  stairs. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  36. 

MICAWBER— His  preparations  as  an  emi- 
grant. 

w Madam,  what  I wish  is,  to  be  perfectly  busi- 
ness-like, and  perfectly  punctual.  Turning  over 
as  we  are  about  to  turn  over,  an  entirely  new 
leaf ; and  falling  back,  as  we  are  now  in  the 
act  of  falling  back,  for  a Spring  of  no  common 
magnitude  ; it  is  important  to  my  sense  of  self- 
respect,  besides  being  an  example  to  my  son, 
that  these  arrangements  should  be  concluded  as 
between  man  and  man. 

“ In  reference  to  our  domestic  preparations, 
madam,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  some  pride, 
“ for  meeting  the  destiny  to  which  we  are  now 
understood  to  be  self-devoted,  I beg  to  report 
them.  My  eldest  daughter  attends  at  five  every 
morning  in  a neighboring  establishment,  to  ac- 
quire the  process— if  process  it  may  be  called — 
of  milking  cows.  My  younger  children  are  in- 
structed to  observe,  as  closely  as  circumstances 
will  permit,  the  habits  of  the  pigs  and  poultry 
maintained  in  the  poorer  parts  of  this  city  ; a 
pursuit  from  which  they  have,  on  two  occasions, 
been  brought  home,  within  an  inch  of  being  run 
over.  I have  myself  directed  some  attention, 
during  the  past  week,  to  the  art  of  baking ; 
and  my  son  Wilkins  has  issued  forth  with  a 
walking-stick  and  driven  cattle,  when  permitted, 
by  the  rugged  hirelings  who  had  them  in  charge, 
to  render  any  voluntary  service  in  that  direc- 
tion— which  I regret  to  say,  for  the  credit  of  our 
nature,  was  not  often ; he  being  generally 
warned,  with  imprecations,  to  desist.” 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  54. 

MICAWBER- In  statu  quo. 

I begged  Traddles  to  ask  his  landlord  to  walk 
up.  Traddles  accordingly  did  so,  over  the  ban- 
ister ; and  Mr.  Micawber,  not  a bit  changed — 
his  tights,  his  stick,  his  shirt-collar,  and  his  eye- 
glass, all  the  same  as  ever — came  into  the  room 
with  a genteel  and  youthful  air. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Traddles,”  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  with  the  old  roll  in  his  voice,  as  he 
checked  himself  in  humming  a soft  tune.  “ I 
was  not  aware  that  there  was  any  individual, 
alien  to  this  tenement,  in  your  sanctum.” 

Mr.  Micawber  slightly  bowed  to  me,  and 
pulled  up  his  shirt-collar. 


MICAWBER 


S05 


MICAWBER 


“ How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Micawber?”  said  I. 

“Sir,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  “you  are  exceed- 
ingly obliging.  I am  in  statu  quo." 

“And  Mrs.  Micawber?”  I pursued. 

“ Sir,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  “she  is  also,  thank 
God,  in  statu  quo." 

“And  the  children,  Mr.  Micawber?” 

“ Sir,”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  “ I rejoice  to  reply 
that  they  are,  likewise,  in  the  enjoyment  of 
salubrity.” 

All  this  time,  Mr.  Micawber  had  not  known 
me  in  the  least,  though  he  had  stood  face  to  face 
with  me.  But  now,  seeing  me  smile,  he  ex- 
amined my  features  with  more  attention,  fell 
back,  cried,  “ Is  it  possible  ! Have  I the  pleas- 
ure of  again  beholding  Copperfield  ! ” and  shook 
me  by  both  hands  with  the  utmost  fervor. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  27. 

MICAWBER— Mrs. 

“My  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,”  said  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber, “ of.  your  friendly  interest  in  all  our  affairs, 
I am  well  assured.  My  family  may  consider  it 
banishment,  if  they  please  ; but  I am  a wife  and 
mother,  and  I never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber.” 

Traddles,  appealed  to,  by  Mrs.  Micawber’s 
eye,  feelingly  acquiesced. 

“ That,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  “ that,  at  least, 
is  my  view,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield  and  Mr. 
Traddles,  of  the  obligation  which  I took  upon 
myself  when  I repeated  the  irrevocable  words, 
‘ I,  Emma,  take  thee,  Wilkins.’  I read  the  ser- 
vice over  with  a flat-candle  on  the  previous 
night,  and  the  conclusion  I derived  from  it  was, 
that  I never  could  desert  Mr.  Micawber.  And,” 
said"  Mrs.  Micawber,  “ though  it  is  possible  I 
may  be  mistaken  in  my  view  of  the  ceremony,  I 
never  will  ! ” — David  Copperfield , Chap.  36. 

MICAWBER,— His  family. 

“ Is  this  all  your  family,  ma’am  ? ” said  my 
aunt. 

“ There  are  no  more  at  present,”  returned 
Mrs.  Micawber. 

“ Good  gracious,  I didn’t  mean  that,  ma’am,” 
said  my  aunt.  “ I mean  are  all  these  yours  ? ” 

“ Madam,”  replied  Mr.  Micawber,  “ it  is  a 
true  bill.”—  David  Copperfield,  Chap.  52. 

MICAWBER— Mr.  and  Mrs.  at  home. 

Poor  Mrs.  Micawber  ! She  said  she  had  tried 
to  exert  herself,  and  so,  I have  no  doubt,  she 
had.  The  centre  of  the  street-door  was  perfect- 
ly covered  with  a great  brass-plate,  on  which 
was  engraved  “ Mrs.  Micawber’s  Boarding  Es- 
tablishment for  Young  Ladies : ” but  I never 
found  that  any  young  lady  had  ever  been  to 
school  there  ; or  that  any  young  lady  ever  came, 
or  proposed  to  come  ; or  that  the  least  prepara- 
tion was  ever  made  to  receive  any  young  lady. 
The  only  visitors  I ever  saw  or  heard  of,  were 
creditors.  They  used  to  come  at  all  hours,  and 
some  of  them  were  quite  ferocious.  One  dirty- 
faced  man,  I think  he  was  a boot-makei*,  used  to 
edge  himself  into  the  passage  as  early  as  seven 
o’clock  in  the  morning,  and  call  up  the  stairs  to 
Mr.  Micawber — “ Come  ! You  ain’t  out  yet, 
you  know.  Pay  us,  will  you  ? Don’t  hide,  you 
know  ; that’s  mean.  I wouldn’t  be  mean  if  I 
was  you.  Pay  us,  will  you?  You  just  pay  us, 
d’ye  hear?  Come!”  Receiving  no  answer  to 
these  taunts,  he  would  mount  in  his  wrath  to  the 
words  “ swindlers  ” and  “ robbers  ; ” and  these 


being  ineffectual  too,  would  sometimes  gc  to 
the  extremity  of  crossing  the  street,  and  roaring 
up  at  the  windows  of  the  second  floor,  where  he 
knew  Mr.  Micawber  was.  At  these  times,  Mr. 
Micawber  would  be  transported  with  grief  and 
mortification,  even  to  the  length  (as  I was  once 
made  aware  by  a scream  from  his  wife)  of  Mak- 
ing motions  at  himself  with  a razor  ; but  within 
half  an  hour  afterwards,  he  would  polish  up  his 
shoes  with  extraordinary  pains,  and  go  out,  hum- 
ming a tune  with  a greater  air  of  gentility  than 
ever.  Mrs.  Micawber  was  quite  as  elastic.  I 
have  known  her  to  be  thrown  into  fainting  fits 
by  the  king’s  taxes  at  three  o’clock,  and  to  eat 
lamb-chops  breaded,  and  drink  warm  ale  (paid 
for  with  two  teaspoons  that  had  gone  to  the 
pawnbroker’s)  at  four.  On  one  occasion,  when 
an  execution  had  just  been  put  in,  coming  home 
through  some  chance  as  early  as  six  o’clock,  I 
saw  her  lying  (of  course  with  a twin)  under  the 
grate  in  a swoon,  with  her  hair  all  torn  about 
her  face  ; but  I never  knew  her  more  cheerful 
than  she  was,  that  very  same  night,  over  a veal- 
cutlet  before  the  kitchen  fire,  telling  me  stories 
about  her  papa,  and  mamma,  and  the  com- 
pany they  used  to  keep. 

David  Copperfceld , Chap.  11. 

MICAWBER— Mrs.— Her  “ grasp  of  a sub- 
ject.” 

“ I must  not  forget  that,  when  I lived  at  home 
with  my  papa  and  mamma,  my  papa  was  in  the 
habit  of  saying,  ‘ Emma’s-  form  is  fragile,  but  her 
grasp  of  a subject  is  inferior  to  none.’  That  my 
papa  was  too  partial,  I well  know  ; but  that  he 
was  an  observer  of  character  in  some  degree, 
my  duty  and  my  reason  equally  forbid  me  to 
doubt.” 

With  these  words,  and  resisting  our  entreaties 
that  she  would  grace  the  remaining  circulation  of 
the  punch  with  her  presence,  Mrs.  Micawber  re- 
tired to  my  bedroom.  And  really  I felt  that  she 
was  a noble  woman — the  sort  of  woman  who 
might  have  been  a Roman  matron  and  done  all 
manner  of  heroic  things,  in  times  of  public 
trouble. — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  28. 

MICAWBER— Mrs.— Her  opinion  of  the  coal 
trade. 

“ The  opinion  of  those  other  branches  of  my 
family,”  pursued  Mrs.  Micawber,  “ is,  that  Mr. 
Micawber  should  immediately  turn  his  atten- 
tion to  coals.” 

“To  what,  ma’am  ? ” 

“To  coals,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  “To  the 
coal  trade.  Mr.  Micawber  was  induced  to 
think,  on  inquiry,  that  there  might  be  an  open- 
ing for  a man  of  his  talent  in  the  Medway  Coal 
Trade.  Then,  as  Mr.  Micawber  very  properly 
said,  the  first  step  to  be  taken  clearly  was,  to 
come  and  see  the  Medway.  Which  we  came 
and  saw.  I say  ‘ we,’  Master  Copperfield  ; for  I 
never  will,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  with  emotion, 
“ I never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber.” 

I murmured  my  admiration  and  approbation. 

“ We  came,”  repeated  Mrs.  Micawber,  “ and 
saw  the  Medway.  My  opinion  of  the  coal  trade 
on  that  river,  is,  that  it  may  require  talent,  but 
that  it  certainly  requires  capital.  Talent,  Mr. 
Micawber  has  ; capital,  Mr.  Micawber  has  not. 
We  saw,  I think,  the  greater  part  of  the  Med- 
way ; and  that  is  my  individual  conclusion.  Be- 
ing so  near  here,  Mr.  Micawber  was  of  opinion 


MICAWBER 


306 


MIGG3 


that  it  would  be  rash  not  to  come  on,  and  see 
the  Cathedral.  Firstly,  on  account  of  its  being 
so  well  worth  seeing,  and  our  never  having  seen 
it  ; secondly,  on  account  of  the  great  probability 
of  something  turning  up  in  a cathedral  town. 
We  have  been  here,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  “ three 
days.  Nothing  has,  as  yet,  turned  up  ; and  it 
may  not  surprise  you,  my  dear  Master  Copper- 
field,  so  much  as  it  would  a stranger,  to  know 
that  we  are  at  present  waiting  for  a remittance 
from  London,  to  discharge  our  pecuniary  obli- 
gations at  this  hotel.  Until  the  arrival  of  that 
remittance,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber  with  much 
feeling,  “ I am  cut  off  from  my  home  (I  allude 
to  lodgings  in  Pentonville),  from  my  boy  and 
girl,  and  from  my  twins.” 

I felt  the  utmost  sympathy  for  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Micawber  in  this  anxious  extremity,  and  said 
as  much  to  Mr.  Micawber,  who  now  returned  ; 
adding  that  I only  wished  I had  money  enough, 
to  lend  them  the  amount  they  needed.  Mr. 
Micawber’s  answer  expressed  the  disturbance  of 
his  mind.  He  said,  shaking  hands  with  me, 

“ Copperfield,  you  are  a true  friend  ; but  when 
the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  no  man  is  without 
a friend  who  is  possessed  of  shaving  materials.” 
At  this  dreadful  hint  Mrs  Micawber  threw  her 
arms  round  Mr.  Micawber’s  neck  and  entreated 
him  to  be  calm.  He  wept ; but  so  far  recovered, 
almost  immediately,  as  to  ring  the  bell  for  the 
waiter,  and  bespeak  a hot  kidney  pudding  and 
a plate  of  shrimps  for  breakfast  in  the  morning. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  17* 

MICAWBER— Mrs.— On  the  law. 

“ Only  a barrister  is  eligible  for  such  prefer- 
ments ; and  Mr.  Micawber  could  not  be  a bar- 
rister, without  being  entered  at  an  inn  of  court 
as  a student  for  five  years.” 

“Do  I follow  you?”  said  Mrs.  Micawber, 
with  her  most  affable  air  of  business.  “ Do  I 
understand,  my  dear  Mr.  T raddles,  that  at  the 
expiration  of  that  period,  Mr.  Micawber  would 
be  eligible  as  a Judge  or  Chancellor?” 

“ He  would  be  eligible ,”  returned  Traddles, 
with  a strong  emphasis  on  that  word. 

“ Thank  you,”  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  “ That 
is  quite  sufficient.  If  such  is  the  case,  and  Mi. 
Micawber  forfeits  no  privilege  by  entering  on 
these  duties,  my  anxiety  is  set  at  rest.  I speak, 
said  Mrs.  Micawber,  “as  a female,  necessarily: 
but  I have  always  been  of  opinion  that  Mr. 
Micawber  possesses  what' I have  heard  my  papa 
call,  when  I lived  at  home,  the  judicial  mind  ; 
and  I hope  Mr.  Micawber  is  now  entering  on  a 
field  where  that  mind  will  develop  itself,  and 
take  a commanding  station.” 

I quite  believe  that  Mr.  Micawber  saw  him- 
self, in  his  judicial  mind’s  eye,  on  the  woolsack. 
He  passed  his  hand  complacently  over  his 
bald  head,  and  said  with  ostentatious  resigna- 
tion : .... 

“ My  dear,  we  will  not  anticipate  the  decrees 
of  fortune.  If  I am  reserved  to  wear  a wig,  I 
am  at  least  prepared,  externally,”  in  allusion  to 
bis  baldness,  “ for  that  distinction.  I do  not,” 
said  Mr.  Micawber,  “regret  my  hair,  and  I may 
have  been  deprived  of  it  for  a specific  purpose. 
I cannot  say.  It  is  my  intention,  my  dear  Cop- 
pcrfield,  to  educate  my  son  for  the  Church  ; I 
will  not  deny  that  I should  be  happy,  on  Ins 
account,  to  attain  to  eminence. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  36. 


MICAWBER  Mrs.  “Will  never  desert  Mr. 
Micawber.” 

“ And  do  you  go  too,  ma’am  ? ” 

The  events  of  the  day,  in  combination  with 
the  twins,  if  not  with  the  flip,  had  made  Mrs. 
Micawber  hysterical,  and  she  shed  tears  as  she 
replied  : 

“ I never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber.  Mr. 
Micawber  may  have  concealed  his  difficulties 
from  me  in  the  first  instance,  but  his  sanguine 
temper  may  have  led  him  to  expect  that  he  would 
overcome  them.  The  pearl  necklace  and  brace- 
lets which  I inherited  from  mamma,  have  been 
disposed  of  for  less  than  half  their  value  ; and 
the  set  of  coral,  which  was  the  wedding-gift  of 
my  papa,  has  been  actually  thrown  away  for 
nothing.  But  I never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber. 
No!”  cried  Mrs.  Micawber,  more  affected  than 
before,  “ I never  will  do  it ! It’s  of  no  use  ask- 
ing me  ! ” 

1 felt  quite  uncomfortable — as  if  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber supposed  I had  asked  her  to  do  anything  of 
the  sort ! — and  sat  looking  at  her  in  alarm. 

“ Mr.  Micawber  has  his  faults.  I do  not  deny 
that  he  is  improvident.  I do  not  deny  that  he 
has  kept  me  in  the  dark  as  to  his  resources  and 
his  liabilities,  both,”  she  went  on,  looking  at 
the*  wall  ! “but  I never  will  desert  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber ! ” 

Mrs.  Micawber  having  now  raised  her  voice 
into  a perfect  scream,  I was  so  frightened  that  I 
ran  off  to  the  club-room,  and  disturbed  Mr. 
Micawber  in  the  act  of  presiding  at  a long  table, 
and  leading  the  chorus  of 

Gee  up.  Dobbin, 

Gee  ho,  Dobbin,  * 

Gee  up,  Dobbin, 

Gee  up,  and  gee  ho — 0—0 ! 

— with  the  tidings  that  Mrs.  Micawber  was  in 
an  alarming  state,  upon  which  he  immediately 
burst  into  tears,  and  came  away  with  me  with 
his  waistcoat  full  of  the  heads  and  tails  of  shrimps 
of  which  he  had  been  partaking. 

“Emma,  my  angel!”  cried  Mr.  Micawber, 
running  into  the  room  ; “ what  is  the  matter  ? ” 
“ I never  will  desert  you,  Micawber?  ” she  ex- 
claimed. 

“ My  life  !”  said  Mr.  Micawber,  taking  her  in 
his  arms.  “ I am  perfectly  aware  oT  it ! ” 

“ He  is  the  parent  of  my  children  ! He  is  the 
father  of  my  twins  ! He  is  the  husband  of  my 
affections,”  cried  Mrs.  Micawber,  struggling; 
“ and  I ne—ver— will— desert  Mr.  Micawber  ! ” 
David  Copperfield , Chap.  12. 

MIGGS— As  a basilisk. 

“ Miggs,  my  good  girl,  go  to  bed — do  go  to 
bed.  You’re  really  worse  than  the  dripping  of  a 
hundred  water  butts  outside  the  window,  or  the 
scratching  of  as  many  mice  behind  the  wainscot. 
I can’t  bear  it.  Do  go  to  bed,  Miggs.  To  oblige 
me — do.”  . . „ 

“ You  haven’t  got  nothing  to  untie,  sir,  re- 
turned Miss  Miggs,  “ and  therefore  your  requests 
does  not  surprise  me.  But  Missis  has— and  while 
you  set  up,  mim  ” — she  added  turning  to  the 
locksmith’s  wife,  “ I couldn’t,  no  not  if  twenty 
times  the  quantity  of  cold  water  was  aperiently 
running  down  my  back  this  moment,  go  to  bed 
with  a quiet  spirit.” 

Having  spoken  these  words,  Miss  Miggs  made 
divers  efforts  to  rub  her  shoulders  in  an  impossi- 
ble place,  and  shivered  from  head  to  foot  ; there- 


MIGGS 


. 307 


MIND 


hy  giving  the  beholders  to  understand  that  the 
imaginary  cascade  was  still  in  full  flow,  but  that 
a sense  of  duty  upheld  her  under  that,  and  all 
other  sufferings,  and  nerved  her  to  endurance. 

Mrs.  Varden  being  too  sleepy  to  speak,  and 
Miss  Miggs  having,  as  the  phrase  is,  said  her  say, 
the  locksmith  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  sigh  and 
be  as  quiet  as  he  could. 

But  to  be  quiet  with  such  a basilisk  before 
him,  was  impossible.  If  he  looked  another  way, 
it  was  worse  to  feel  that  she  was  rubbing  her 
cheek,  or  twitching  her  ear,  or  winking  her  eye, 
or  making  all  kinds  of  extraordinary  shapes  with 
her  nose,  than  to  see  her  do  it.  If  she  was  for  a 
moment  free  from  any  of  these  complaints,  it  was 
only  because  of  her  foot  being  asleep,  or  of  her 
arm  having  got  the  fidgets,  or  of  her  leg  being 
doubled  up  with  the  cramp,  or  of  some  other 
horrible  disorder  which  racked  her  whole  frame. 
If  she  did  enjoy  a moment’s  ease,  then  with  her 
eyes  shut  and  her  mouth  wide  open,  she  would 
be  seen  to  sit  very  stiff  and  upright  in  her  chair  ; 
then  to  nod  a little  way  forward,  and  stop  with  a 
jerk  ; then  to  nod  a little  farther  forward,  and 
stop  with  another  jerk  ; then  to  recover  herself  ; 
then  to  come  forward  again — lower — lower — 
lower — by  very  slow  degrees,  until,  just  as  it 
seemed  impossible  that  she  could  preserve  her 
balance  for  another  instant,  and  the  locksmith 
was  about  to  call  out  in  an  agony,  to  save  her 
from  dashing  down  upon  her  forehead  and  frac- 
turing her  skull,  then  all  of  a sudden  and  with- 
out the  smallest  notice,  she  would  come  upright 
and  rigid  again  with  her  eyes  open,  and  in  her 
countenance  an  expression  of  defiance,  sleepy 
but  yet  most  obstinate,  which  plainly  said,  “ I’ve 
never  once  closed  ’em  since  I looked  at  you  last, 
and  I’ll  take  my  oath  of  it ! ” 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  51. 

MIGGS— Her  misfortunes. 

“ I thank  my  goodness-gracious-blessed-stars  I 
can,  miss,”  returned  Miggs,  with  increased  en- 
ergy. “ Ally  Looyer,  good  gentlemen  ! ” 

Even  Dolly,  cast  down  and  disappointed  as 
she  was,  revived  at  this,  and  bade  Miggs  hold 
her  tongue  directly. 

“ Which,  was  you  pleased  to  observe,  Miss 
Varden  ? ” said  Miggs,  with  a strong  emphasis 
on  the  irrelative  pronoun. 

Dolly  repeated  her  request. 

“ Ho,  gracious  me  ! ” cried  Miggs,  with  hys- 
terical derision.  “ Ho,  gracious  me  ! Yes,  to  be 
sure  I will.  Ho  yes  ! I am  a abject  slave,  and 
a toiling,  moiling,  constant-working,  always- 
being- found-fault- with,  never-giving-satisfactions, 
nor  having-no-time-to-clean  onesself, potter’s  wes- 
sel — an’t  I,  miss ! Ho  yes  ! My  situations  is 
lowly,  and  my  capacities  is  limited,  and  my 
duties  is  to  humble  myself  afore  the  base  degen- 
erating daughters  of  their  blessed  mothers  as  is 
fit  to  keep  companies  with  holy  saints,  but  is 
born  to  persecutions  from  wicked  relations — 
and  to  demean  myself  before  them  as  is  no  bet- 
ter than  infidels — an’t  it,  miss  ! Ho  yes  ! My 
only  becoming  occupations  is  to  help  young 
flaunting  pagins  to  brush  and  comb  and  titiwate 
theirselves  into  whitening  and  suppulchres,  and 
leave  the  young  men  to  think  that  there  an’t  a 
bit  of  padding  in  it  nor  no  pinching  ins  nor  fill- 
ings out  nor  pomatums  nor  deceits  nor  earthly 
'vanities — an’t  it,  miss  ! Yes,  to  be  sure  it  is — 
ho  yes  ! ” — Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  71. 


MILE-STONES— And  roving-  stones. 

“Roving  stones  gather  no  moss,  Joe,”  said 
Gabriel. 

“Nor  mile-stones  much,”  replied  Joe.  “ I’m 
little  better  than  one  here,  and  see  as  much  of 
the  world.” 

“ Then,  what  would  you  do,  Joe,”  pursued  the 
locksmith,  stroking  his  chin  reflectively.  “ What 
could  you  be  ? where  could  you  go,  you  see  ?” 

“ I must  trust  to  chance,  Mr.  Varden.” 

“ A bad  thing  to  trust  to,  Joe.” 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  3. 

MILITARY  REVIEW — A. 

Astounding  evolutions  they  were,  one  rank 
firing  over  the  heads  of  another  rank,  and  then 
running  away  ; and  then  the  other  rank  firing 
over  the  heads  of  another  rank,  and  running 
away  in  their  turn  ; and  then  forming  squares, 
with  officers  in  the  centre  : and  then  descending 
the  trench  on  one  side  with  scaling  ladders,  and 
ascending  it  on  the  other  again  by  the  same 
means  ; and  knocking  down  barricades  of  bas- 
kets, and  behaving  in  the  most  gallant  manner 
possible.  Then  there  was  such  a ramming 
down  of  the  contents  of  enormous  guns  on  the 
battery,  with  instruments  like  magnified  mops  ; 
such  a preparation  before  they  were  let  off',  and 
such  an  awful  noise  when  they  did  go,  that  the 
air  resounded  with  the  screams  of  ladies. 

Pickwick , Chap.  4. 

MIND— “A  blunt,  broadsword  kind.” 

That’s  the  plain  state  of  the  matter,  as  it 
points  itself  out  to  a mere  trooper,  with  a blunt, 
broadsword  kind  of  a mind. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  52. 

MIND— A knock-kneed. 

The  sufferings  of  this  young  gentleman  were 
distressing  to  witness.  If  his  mind  for  the 
moment  reeled  under  them,  it  may  be  urged,  in 
extenuation  of  its  weakness,  that  it  was  consti- 
tutionally a knock-kneed  mind,  and  never  very 
strong  upon  its  legs. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  III.,  Chap.  4. 

MIND— An  unimproved. 

Mr.  Smallweed’s  grandfather  is  likewise  of  the 
parly.  He  is  in  a helpless  condition  as  to  his 
lower,  and  nearly  so  as  to  his  upper  limbs  ; but 
his  mind  is  unimpaired.  It  holds,  as  well  as  it 
ever  held,  the  first  four  rules  of  arithmetic,  and 
a certain  small  collection  of  the  hardest  facts. 
In  respect  of  ideality,  reverence,  wonder,  and 
other  such  phrenological  attributes,  it  is  no 
worse  off  than  it  used  to  be.  Everything  that 
Mr.  Smallweed’s  grandfather  ever  put  away  in 
his  mind  was  a grub  at  first,  and  is  a grub  at 
last.  In  all  his  life  he  has  never  bred  a single 
butterfly. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  21. 

MIND— Fevers  of  the. 

Mrs.  Gamp  shook  her  head  mysteriously,  and 
pursed  up  her  lips.  “ There’s  fevers  of  the 
mind,”  she  said,  “ as  well  as  body.  You  may 
take  your  slime  drafts  till  you  flies  into  the  air 
with  efferwescence  ; but  you  won’t  cure  that.” 

Martiti  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  29. 

% 

MIND— Influenced  by  external  objects. 

Oliver  rose  next  morning,  in  better  heart,  and 
went  about  his  usual  early  occupations,  with 


MIND 


303 


MIND 


. more  hope  and  pleasure  than  he  had  known  for 
many  days.  The  birds  were  once  more  hung 
out,  to  sing,  in  their  old  places  ; and  the  sweetest 
wild  flowers  that  could  be  found,  were  once 
more  gathered  to  gladden  Rose  with  their  beauty. 
The  melancholy  which  had  seemed  to  the  sad 
eyes  of  the  anxious  boy  to  hang,  for  days  past, 
over  every  object,  beautiful  as  all  were,  was  dis- 
pelled by  magic.  The  dew  seemed  to  sparkle 
more  brightly  on  the  green  leaves  ; the  air  to 
rustle  among  them  with  a sweeter  music  ; and 
the  sky  itself  to  look  more  blue  and  bright. 
Such  is  the  influence  which  the  condition  of  our 
own  thoughts  exercises,  even  over  the  appear- 
ance of  external  objects.  Men  who  look  on 
nature,  and  their  fellow-men,  and  cry  that  all  is 
dark  and  gloomy,  are  in  the  right  ; but  the 
spmbre  colors  are  reflections  from  their  own 
jaundiced  eyes  and  hearts.  The  real  hues  are 
delicate,  and  need  a clearer  vision. 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  34. 

MIND— A wreck. 

“ I fear,”  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  with  much 
philosophy,  “that  Mrs.  Skevvton  is  shaken.” 

“ Shaken,  Dombey ! ” said  the  Major.  “ Smash- 
ed ! ” — Dombey  6°  Son , Chap.  40. 


MIND— Its  haunting1  demon. 

The  world.  What  the  world  thinks  of  him, 
how  it  looks  at  him,  what  it  sees  in  him,  and 
what  it  says — this  is  the  haunting  demon  of  his 
mind.  It  is  everywhere  where  he  is,  and,  worse 
than  that,  it  is  everywhere  where  he  is  not.  'It 
‘comes  out  with  him  among  his  servants,  and  yet 
he  leaves  it  whispering  behind  ; he  sees  it  point- 
ing after  him  in  the  street ; it  is  waiting  for  him 
in  his  counting-house  ; it  leers  over  the  shoulders 
of  rich  men  among  the  merchants  ; it  goes  beck- 
oning and  babbling  among  the  crowd  ; it  always 
anticipates  him,  in  every  place  ; and  is  always 
busiest,  he  knows,  when  he  has  gone  away. 
When  he  is  shut  up  in  his  room  at  night,  it  is  in 
his  house,  outside  it,  audible  in  footsteps  on  the 
pavement,  visible  in  print  upon  the  table,  steam- 
ing to  and  fro  on  railroads  and  in  ships  ; restless 
and  busy  everywhere,  with  nothing  else  but  him. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  51. 

He  drank  a quantity  of  wine  after  dinner,.  in 
vain.  No  such  artificial  means  would  bring 
sleep  to  his  eyes.  His  thoughts,  more  incoher- 
ent, dragged  him  more  unmercifully  after  them 
—as  if  a wretch,  condemned  to  such  expiation, 
were  drawn  at  the  heels  of  wild  horses.  No 
oblivion,  and  no  rest. 

* -x-  * * * 

Strong  mental  agitation  and  disturbance,  was 
no  novelty  to  him,  even  before  his  late  sufferings. 
Jt  never  is,  to  obstinate  and  sullen  natures,  for 
they  struggle  hard  to  be  such.  Ground,  long 
undermined,  will  often  fall  down  in  a moment ; 
what  was  undermined  here  in  so  many  ways, 
weakened,  and  crumbled,  little  by  little,  more 
and  more,  as  the  hand  moved  on  the  dial. 

Dombey  Sf  Son,  Chap.  55- 

MIND  A perturbed  Flight  of  Carker. 

Shame,  disappointment,  and  discomfiture 
gnawed!  at  his  heart ; a constant  apprehension 
pf  l-  ing  overtal  en  01  met  for  he  wa i giound- 
lcssly  afraid  even  of  travellers  who  came  towards 
him  by  the  way  he  was  going — oppressed  him 


heavily.  The  same  intolerable  awe  and  diead 
that  had  come  upon  him  in  the  night,  returned 
unweakened  in  the  day.  The  monotonous  ring- 
ing of  the  bells  and  trampling  of  the  horses; 
the  monotony  of  his  anxiety,  and  useless  rage  ; 
the  monotonous  wheel  of  fear,  regret,  and  pas- 
sion, he  kept  turning  round  and  round  ; made 
the  journey  like  a vision,  in  which  nothing  was 
quite  real  but  his  own  torment. 

It  was  a vision  of  long  roads,  that  stretched 
away  to  an  horizon,  always  receding,  and  never 
gained  ; of  ill-paved  towns,  up  hill  and  down, 
where  faces  came  to  dark  doors  and  ill-glazed 
windows,  and  where  rows  of  mud-bespattered 
cows  and  oxen  were  tied  up  for  sale  in  the  long 
narrow  streets,  butting  and  lowing,  and  receiv- 
ing blows  on  their  blunt  heads  from  bludgeons 
that  might  have  beaten  them  in  ; of  bridges, 
crosses,  churches,  post-yards,  new  horses  being 
put  in  against  their  will,  and  the  horses  of  the 
last  stage  reeking,  panting,  and  laying  their 
drooping  heads  together  dolefully  at  stable 
doors ; of  little  cemeteries,  with  black  c rosses 
settled  sideways  in  the  graves,  and  withered 
wreaths  upon  them  drooping  away  ; again  of 
long,  long  roads,  dragging  themselves  out,  up 
hill  and  down,  to  the  treacherous  horizon. 

Of  morning,  noon,  and  sunset ; night,  and  the 
rising  of  an  early  moon.  Of  long  roads,  tempo- 
rarily left  behind,  and  a rough  pavement  reached  ; 
of  battering  and  clattering  over  it,  an  l looking 
up,  among  house-roofs,  at  a great  church-tower  ; 
of  getting  out  and  eating  hastily,  and  drinking 
draughts  of  wine  that  had  no  cheering  influence  ; 
of  coming  forth  afoot,  among  a host  of  beggars 
— blind  men  with  quivering  eyelids,  led  by  old 
women  holding  candles  to  their  faces ; idiot 
girls  ; the  lame,  the  epileptic,  and  the  palsied — 
of  passing  through  the  clamor,  and  looking  from 
his  seat  at  the  upturned  countenances  and  out- 
stretched hands,  with  a hurried  dread  of  recog- 
nizing some  pursuer  pressing  forward  of  gal- 
loping away  again,  upon  the  long,  long  road, 
gathered  up,  dull  and  stunned,  in  his  corner,  or 
rising  to  see  where  the  moon  shone  faintly  on  a 
patch  of  the  same  endless  road  miles  away,  or 
looking  back  to  see  who  followed. 

Of  never  sleeping,  but  sometimes  dozing  with 
unclosed  eyes,  and  springing  up  with  a start, 
and  a reply  aloud  to  an  imaginary  voice.  Of 
cursing  himself  for  being  there,  for  having  fled, 
for  having  let  her  go,  for  not  having  confronted 
and  defied  him.  Of  having  a deadly  quarrel 
with  the  whole  world,  but  chiefly  with  himself. 
Of  blighting  everything  with  his  black  mood  as 
he  was  carried  on  and  away.  . jj 

It  was  a fevered  vision  of  things  past  and 
present  all  confounded  together : his  life  and 
journey  blended  into  one.  Of  being  madly  hur- 
ried somewhere,  whither  he  must  go.  Of  old 
scenes  starting  up  among  the  novelties  through 
which  he  travelled.  Of  musing  and  brooding 
over  what  was  past  and  distant,  and  seeming  to 
take  no  notice  of  the  actual  objects  he  encoun- 
tered, but  with  a wearisome,  exhausting  con- 
sciousness of  being  bewildered  by  them,  and 
having  their  images  all  crowded  in  his  hot 
brain  after  they  were  gone. 

A vision  of  change  upon  change,  and  still 
the  same  monotony  of  bells,  and  wheels,  am 
horses’  feet,  and  no  rest.  Of  town  and  country. 


norscs  ieci,  <im. 

post-yards,  horses,  drivers,  lull  and  valley,  bgh 
and  darkness,  road  and  pavement,  height  and 


MIN’D 


309 


MIRRORS 


hollow,  wet  weather  and  dry,  and  still  the  same 
monotony  of  . bells,  and  wheels,  and  horses’  feet, 
and  no  ljest.  A vision  of  tending  on  at  last, 
towards  the  distant  capital,  by  busier  roads,  and 
sweeping  round  by  old  cathedrals,  and  dashing 
through  small  towns  and  villages,  less  thinly 
scattered  on  the  road  than  formerly,  and  sitting 
shrouded  in  his  corner,  with  his  cloak  up  to  his 
face,  as  people  passing  by  looked  at  him. 

Of  rolling  on  and  on,  always  postponing 
thought,  and  always  racked  with  thinking  ; of 
being  unable  to  reckon  up  the  hours  he  had  been 
upon  the  road,  or  to  comprehend  the  points  of 
time  and  place  in  his  journey.  Of  being  parch- 
ed and  giddy,  and  half  mad.  Of  pressing  on, 
in  spite  of  all,  as  if  he  could  not  stop,  and  com- 
ing into  Paris,  where  the  turbid  river  held  its 
swift  course  undisturbed,  between  two  brawling 
streams  of  life  and  motion. 

A troubled  vision,  then,  of  bridges,  quays,  in- 
terminable streets  ; of  wine  shops,  water-carriers, 
great  crowds  of  people,  soldiers,  coaches,  mili- 
tary drums,  arcades.  Of  the  monotony  of  bells, 
and  wheels,  and  horses’  feet  being  at  length  lost 
in  the  universal  din  and  uproar.  Of  the  grad- 
ual subsidence  of  that  noise  as  he  passed  out 
in  another  carriage  by  a different  barrier  from 
that  by  which  he  had  entered.  Of  the  restora- 
tion, as  he  travelled  on  towards  the  sea-coast, 
of  the  monotony  of  bells,  and  wheels,  and 
horses’  feet,  and  no  rest. 

Of  sunset  once  again,  and  nightfall.  Of  long 
roads  again,  and  dead  of  night,  and  feeble  lights 
in  windows  by  the  road-side  : and  still  the  old 
monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses’  feet 
and  no  rest.  Of  dawn,  and  daybreak,  and  the 
rising  of  the  sun.  Of  toiling  slowly  up  a hill, 
and  feeling  on  its  top  the  fresh  sea-breeze, 
and  seeing  the  morning  light  upon  the  edges  of 
the  distant  waves.  Of  coming  down  into  a 
harbor  when  the  tide  was  at  its  full,  and  seeing 
fishing-boats  float  in,  and  glad  women  and  chil- 
dren waiting  for  them.  Of  nets  and  seamen’s 
clothes  spread  out  to  dry  upon  the  shores  ; of 
busy  sailors,  and  their  voices  high  among 
ships’  masts  and  rigging  ; of  the  buoyancy  and 
brightness  of  the  water,  and  the  universal  spark 
ling. 

Of  receding  from  the  coast,  and  looking  back 
upon  it  from  the  deck  when  it  was  a haze  upon 
the  water,  with  here  and  there  a little  opening 
of  bright  land  where  the  Sun  struck.  Of  the 
swell,  and  flash,  and  murmur  of  the  calm  sea. 
Of  another  grey  line  on  the  ocean,  on  the  ves- 
sel’s track,  fast  growing  clearer  and  higher. 
Of  cliffs  and  buildings,  and  a windmill,  and  a 
church,  becoming  more  and  more  visible  upon 
it.  Of  steaming  on  at  last  into  smooth  water,  and 
mooring  to  a pier  whence  groups  of  people 
looked  down,  greeting  friends  on  board.  Of  dis- 
embarking, passing  among  them  quickly,  shun- 
ning every  one  ; and  of  being,  at  last,  again  in 
England. 

He  had  thought,  in  his  dream,  of  going  down 
into  a remote  Country-place  he  knew,  and  lying 
quiet  there,  while  he  secretly  informed  himself 
of  what  transpired,  and  determined  how  to  act. 
Still  in  the  same  stunned  condition,  he  remem- 
bered a certain  station  on  the  railway,  where  he 
would  have  to  branch  off  to  his  place  of  desti- 
nation and  where  there  was  a quiet  Inn 
* * * * * 

His  object  was  to  rest,  and  recover  the  com- 


mand of  himself,  and  the  balance  of  his  mind. 
Imbecile  discomfiture  and  rage — so  that,  as  he 
walked  about  his  room,  he  ground  his  teeth — > 
had  complete  possession  of  him.  His  thoughts, 
not  to  be  stopped  or  directed,  still  wandered 
where  they  would,  and  dragged  him  after 
them.  He  was  stupefied,  and  he  was -wearied 
to  death. 

But,  as  if  there  were  a curse  upon  him  that  he 
should  never  rest  again,  his  drowsy  senses  would 
not  lose  their  consciousness.  He  had  no  more 
influence  with  them  in  this  regard,  than  if  they 
had  been  another  man’s.  It  was  not  that  they 
forced  him  to  take  note  of  present  sounds  and 
objects,  but  that  they  would  not  be  diverted 
from  the  whole  hurried  vision  of  his  journey. 
It  was  constantly  before  him  all  at  once.  She 
stood  there,  with  her  dark  disdainful  eyes  again 
upon  him  ; and  he  was  riding  on,  nevertheless, 
through  town  and  country,  light  and  darkness, 
wet  weather  and  dry,  over  road  and  pavement, 
hill  and  valley,  height  and  hollow,  jaded  and 
scared  by  the  monotony  of  bells,  and  wheels, 
and  horses’  feet,  and  no  rest. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  55. 

MIND— Tile  resurrection  of. 

Black  are  the  brooding  clouds  and  troubled 
the  deep  waters,  when  the  Sea  of  Thought,  first 
heaving  from  a calm,  gives  up  its  Dead.  Mon- 
sters uncouth  and  wild,  arise  in  premature,  im- 
perfect resurrection  ; the  several  parts  and  shapes 
of  different  things  are  joined  and  mixed  by 
chance  ; and  when,  and  how,  and  by  w'hat  won- 
derful degrees,  each  separates  from  each,  and 
every  sense  and  object  of  the  mind  resumes  its 
usual  form  and  lives  again,  no  man — though 
every  man  is  every  day  the  casket  of  this  type 
of  the  Great  Mystery — can  tell. 

Chimes , 3 d Quarter. 

MIRRORS— The  reflection  of. 

The  trees  were  bare  of  leaves,  and  the  river 
was  bare  of  water-lilies  ; but  the  sky  was  not 
bare  of  its  beautiful  blue,  and  the  water  reflected 
it,  and  a delicious  wind  ran  with  the  stream, 
touching  the  surface  crisply.  Perhaps  the  old 
mirror  was  never  yet  made  by  human  hands, 
which,  if  all  the  images’  it  has  in  its  time  re- 
flected could  pass  across  its  surface  again,  would  . 
fail  to  reveal  some  scene  of  horror  or  distress. 
But  the  great  serene  mirror  of  the  river  seemed 
as  if  it  might  have  reproduced  all  it  had  ever  re- 
flected between  those  placid  banks,  and  brought 
nothing  to  the  light  save  what  was  peaceful, 
pastoral,  and  blooming. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  III.,  Chap.  9. 

MISANTHROPES  AND  HYPOCRITES. 

The  despisers  of  mankind — apart  from  the 
mere  fools  and  mimics,  of  that  creed — are  of  two 
sorts.  They  who  believe  their  merit  neglected 
and  unappreciated,  make  up  one  class ; they 
who  receive  adulation  and  flattery,  knowing 
their  own  worthlessness,  compose  the  other. 
Be  sure  that  the  coldest-hearted  misanthropes 
are  ever  of  this  last  order. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  24. 

MISANTHROPES  AND  PIKE-KEEPERS 
-(Mr.  Weller). 

“ Wery  queer  life  is  a pike-keeper’s,  sir.” 

“A  what?”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 


MISFORTUNES 


310 


MISSION 


1 


“ A pike-keeper.” 

“What  do  you  mean  by  a pike-keeper?”  in- 
quired Mr.  Peter  Magnus. 

“ The  old  'un  means  a turnpike-keeper, 
gen’lm’n,”  observed  Mr.  Samuel  Weller,  in  ex- 
planation. 

“Oh,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  “ I see.  Yes  ; very 
curious  life.  Very  uncomfortable.” 

“ They’re  all  on  ’em  men  as  has  met  vith 
some  disappointment  in  life,”  said  Mr.  Weller 
senior. 

“Ay,  ay?”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Yes.  Consequence  of  vich,  they  retires  from 
the  world,  and  shuts  themselves  up  in  pikes  ; 
partly  vith  the  view  of  being  solitary,  and  partly 
to  rewenge  themselves  on  mankind,  by  takin’ 
tolls.” 

“ Dear  me,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  “ I never  knew 
,that  before.” 

“Fact,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Weller;  “if  they  was 
gen’lm’n  you'd  call  ’em  misanthropes,  but  as  it 
is,  they  only  takes  to  pike-keepin’.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  22. 

MISFORTUNES. 

Misfortunes,  saith  the  adage,  never  come  sin- 
gly. There  is  little  doubt  that  troubles  are  ex- 
ceedingly gregarious  in  their  nature,  and  flying 
in  flocks,  are  apt  to  perch  capriciously  ; crowding 
on  the  heads  of  some  poor  wights  until  there  is 
not  an  inch  of  room  left  on  their  unlucky  crowns, 
and  taking  no  more  notice  of  others  who  offer 
as  good  resting-places  for  the  soles  of  their  feet, 
than  if  they  had  no  existence.  It  may  have  hap- 
pened that  a flight  of  troubles  brooding  over 
London,  and  looking  out  for  Joseph  Willet, 
whom  they  couldn’t  find,  darted  down  hap-haz- 
ard  on  the  first  young  man  that  caught  their 
fancy,  and  settled  on  him  instead.  However 
this  may  be,  certain  it  is  that  on  the  very  day  of 
Joe’s  departure  they  swarmed  about  the  ears 
of  Edward  Chester,  and  did  so  buzz  and  flap 
their  wings,  and  persecute  him,  that  he  was 
most  profoundly  wretched. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  32. 

MISFORTUNE— Pancks,  a portrait  of. 

His  steam-like  breathings,  usually  droll  in 
their  effect,  were  more  tragic  than  so  many 
groans  ; while,  from  head  to  foot,  he  was  in  that 
begrimed,  besmeared,  neglected  state,  that  he 
might  have  been  an  authentic  portrait  of  Mis- 
fortune, which  could  scarcely  be  discerned 
through  its  want  of  cleaning. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  26. 

MISFORTUNE— Hope  and  despair  in. 

“ Many  eyes,  that  have  long  since  been  closed 
in  the  grave,  have  looked  round  upon  that  scene 
lightly  enough,  when  entering  the  gate  of  the  old 
Marshalsea  Prison  for  the  first  time:  for  despair 
seldom  comes  with  the  first  severe  shock  of  mis- 
fortune. A man  has  confidence  in  untried  friends, 
he  remembers  the  many  offers  of  service  so  freely 
made  by  his  boon  companions  when  he  wanted 
them  not  ; he  has  hope — the  hope  of  happy  inex- 
perience— and  however  he  may  bend  beneath  the 
first  shock,  it  springs  up  in  his  bosom,  and  flour- 
ishes there  for  a brief  space,  until  it  droops  be- 
neath the  blight  of  disappointment  and  neglect. 
How  soon  have  those  same  eyes,  deeply  sunken 
in  the  head,  glared  from  faces  wasted  with  fam- 
ine, and  sallow  from  confinement,  in  days  when 


it  was  no  figure  of  speech  to  say  that  debtors 
rotted  in  prison,  with  no  hope  of  release,  and  no 
prospect  of  liberty  ! The  atrocity  in  its  full  ex- 
tent no  longer  exists,  but  there  is  enough  of  it 
left  to  give  rise  to  occurrences  that  make  the 
heart  bleed.” — Pickwick , Chap.  21. 

MISFORTUNE  - Its  crushing-  character. 

When  an  avalanche  bears  down  a mountain- 
forest,  twigs  and  bushes  suffer  with  the  trees, 
and  all  perish  together. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  17. 

MISSIONARY  ENTERPRISES- Sam  Wel- 
ler on. 

“ So  you  vouldn’t  subscribe  to  the  flannel 
veskits?”  said  Sam,  after  another  interval  of 
smoking. 

“ Cert’nly  not,”  replied  Mr.  Weller:  “what's 
the  good  o’  flannel  veskits  to  the  young  niggers 
abroad?  But  I’ll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Sammy,” 
said  Mr.  Weller,  lowering  his  voice,  and  bend- 
ing across  the  fire-place  ; “ I’d  come  down  wery 
handsome  towards  straight  veskits  for  some 
people  at  home.” 

As  Mr.  Weller  said  this,  he  slowly  recovered 
his  former  position,  and  winked  at  his  first-born, 
in  a profound  manner. 

“It  cert’nly  seems  a queer  start  to  send  out 
pocket  ankerchers  to  people  as  don’t  know  the 
use  on  ’em,”  observed  Sam. 

“ They’re  always  a doin’  some  gammon  of  that 
sort,  Sammy,”  replied  his  father. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  27. 

MISSIONS — Of  life— Moddle’s  ideas  of  the. 

As  for  him,  he  more  than  corroborated  the 
account  of  Mrs.  Todgers ; possessing  greater 
sensibility  than  even  she  had  given  him  credit 
for.  He  entertained  some  terrible  notions  of 
Destiny,  among  other  matters,  and  talked  much 
about  people’s  “Missions:”  upon  which  he 
seemed  to  have  some  private  information  not 
generally  attainable,  as  he  knew  it  had  been 
poor  Merry’s  mission  to  crush  him  in  the  bud. 
He  was  very  frail  and  tearful  ; for  being  aware 
that  a shepherd’s  mission  was  to  pipe  to  his 
flocks,  and  that  a boatswain’s  mission  was  to 
pipe  all  hands,  and  that  one  man’s  mission  was 
to  be  a paid  piper,  and  another  man’s  mission 
was  to  pay  the  piper,  so  he  had  got  it  into 
his  head  that  his  own  peculiar  mission  was  to 
pipe  his  eye.  Which  he  did  perpetually. 

He  often  informed  Mrs.  Todgers  that  the  sun 
had  set  upon  him  ; that  the  billows  had  rolled 
over  him  ; that  the  Car  of  Juggernaut  had 
crushed  him  ; and  also  that  the  deadly  Upas 
tree  of  Java  had  blighted  him.  His  name  was 
Moddle. — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  32. 

MISSION— Dick  Swiveller  on  a charitable. 

“You’ll  mention  that  I called,  perhaps,”  said 
Dick. 

Mr.  Quilp  nodded,  and  said  he  certainly 
would,  the  very  first  time  he  saw  them. 

“And  say,”  added  Mr.  Swiveller,  “say,  sir, 
that  I was  wafted  here  upon  the  pinions  of  con- 
cord ; that  I came  to  remove,  with  the  rake  of 
friendship,  the  seeds  of  mutual  wiolence  and 
heart-burning,  and  to  sow  in  their  place  the 
germs  of  social  harmony.  Will  you  have  the 
goodness  to  charge  yourself  with  that  commis- 
sion, sir?” — Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  13. 


MISSIONS 


311 


MOB 


MISSIONS. -Mr.  Jellyby  on.' 

I mentioned,  in  my  account  of  our  first  visit 
in  Thavies’  Inn,  that  Richard  described  Mr. 
Jellyby  as  frequently  opening  his  mouth  after 
dinner  without  saying  anything.  It  was  a habit 
of  his.  He  opened  his  mouth  now,  a great 
many  times,  and  shook  his  head  in  a melan- 
choly manner. 

“ What  do  you  wish  me  not  to  have?  Don’t 
have  what,  dear  pa  ? ” asked  Caddy,  coaxing 
him,  with  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

“ Never  have  a Mission,  my  dear  child.” 

Mr.  Jellyby  groaned  and  laid  his  head  against 
the  wall  again  ; and  this  was  the  only  time  I 
ever  heard  him  make  any  approach  to  express- 
ing his  sentiments  on  the  Borrioboolan  question. 
I suppose  he  had  been  more  talkative  and  lively, 
once  ; but  he  seemed  to  have  been  completely 
exhausted  long  before  I knew  him. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  30. 

MISSION— Mrs.  Pardig-gle’s. 

“You  can’t  tire  me,  good  people,”  said  Mrs. 
Pardiggle  to  these  latter.  “ I enjoy  hard  work  ; 
and  the  harder  you  make  mine,  the  better  I like 
it.” 

“ Then  make  it  easy  for  her ! ” growled  the 
man  upon  the  floor.  “ I wants  it  done,  and  over. 
I wants  a end  of  these  liberties  took  with  my 
place.  I wants  a end  of  being  drawed  like  a 
badger.  Now  you’re  a-going  to  poll-pry  and 
question  according  to  custom — I know  what 
you’re  a-going  to  be  up  to.  Well ! You  haven’t 
got  no  occasion  to  be  up  to  it.  I’ll  save  you  the 
trouble;  Is  my  daughter  a-washin  ? Yes,  she  is 
a-washin.  Look  at  the  water.  Smell  it!  That’s 
wot  we  drinks.  How  do  you  like  it,  and  what 
do  you  think  of  gin,  instead  ? An’t  my  place 
dirty?  Yes,  it  is  dirty — it’s  nat’rally  dirty,  and 
it’s  nat’rally  onwholesome  ; and  we’ve  had  five 
dirty  and  unwholesome  children,  as  is  all  dead 
infants,  and  so  much  the  better  for  them,  and  for 
us  besides.  Have  I read  the  little  book  wot  you 
left?  No,  I an’t  read  the  little  book  wot  you 
left.  There  an’t  nobody  here  as  knows  how  to 
read  it  ; and  if  there  wos,  it  wouldn’t  be  suit- 
able to  me.  It’s  a book  fit  for  a babby,  and  I’m 
not  a babby.  If  you  was  to  leave  me  a doll,  I 
shouldn’t  nuss  it.  How  have  I been  conduct- 
ing of  myself?  Why,  I’ve  been  drunk  for  three 
days  ; and  I’d  a been  drunk  four,  if  I’d  a had 
the  money.  Don’t  I never  mean  for  to  go  to 
church?  No,  I don’t  never  mean  for  to  go  to 
church.  I shouldn’t  be  expected  there,  if  I did  ; 
the  beadle’s  too  genteel  for  me.  And  how  did 
my  wife  get  that  black  eye  ? Why,  I giv’  it  her  ; 
and  if  she  says  I didn’t,  she’s  a Lie  ! ” 

He  had  pulled  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  to 
say  all  this,  and  he  now  turned  over  on  his  other 
side,  and  smoked  again.  Mrs.  Pardiggle,  who 
had  been  regarding  him  through  her  spectacles 
with  a forcible  composure,  calculated,  I could  not 
help  thinking,  to  increase  his  antagonism,  pulled 
out  a good  book,  as  if  it  were  a constable’s  staff, 
and  took  the  whole  family  into  custody.  I mean 
into  religious  custody,  of  course  ; but  she  really 
did  it  as  if  she  were  an  inexorable  moral  Po- 
liceman, carrying  them  all  off  to  a s^itionhouse. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  8. 

MOB. 

They  had  torches  among  them,  and  the  chief 
faces  were  distinctly  visible.  That  they  had  been 


engaged  in  the  destruction  of  some  building  was 
sufficiently  apparent,  and  that  it  was  a Catholic 
place  of  worship  was  evident  from  the  spoils 
they  bore  as  trophies,  which  were  easily  recognis- 
able for  the  vestments  of  priests,  and  rich  frag- 
ments of  altar  furniture.  Covered  with  soot, 
and  dirt,  and  dust,  and  lime  ; their  garments  torn 
to  rags ; their  hair  hanging  wildly  about  them  ; 
their  hands  and  faces  jagged  and  bleeding  with 
the  wounds  of  rusty  nails  ; Barnaby,  Hugh,  and 
Dennis  hurried  on  before  them  all,  like  hideous 
madmen.  After  them,  the  dense  throng  came 
fighting  on  ; some  singing  ; some  shouting  in  tri- 
umph ; some  quarrelling  among  themselves ; 
some  menacing  the  spectators  as  they  passed  ; 
some  with  great  wooden  fragments,  on  which  they 
spent  their  rage  as  if  they  had  been  alive,  rend- 
ing them  limb  from  limb,  and  hurling  the  scat- 
tered morsels  high  into  the  air  ; some  in  a drunk- 
en state,  unconscious  of  the  hurts  they  had  re- 
ceived from  falling  bricks,  and  stones,  and 
beams  ; one  borne  upon  a shutter,  in  the  very 
midst,  covered  with  a dingy  cloth,  a senseless, 
ghastly  heap.  Thus — a vision  of  coarse  faces, 
with  here  and  there  a blot  of  flaring  smoky  light ; 
a dream  of  demon  heads  and  savage  eyes,  and 
sticks  and  iron  bars  uplifted  in  the  air,  and 
whirled  about ; a bewildering  horror,  in  which 
so  much  was  seen,  and  yet  so  little,  which  seemed 
so  long  and  yet  so  short,  in  which  there  were  so 
many  phantoms,  not  to  be  forgotten  all  through 
life,  and  yet  so  many  things  that  could  not  be 
observed  in  one  distracting  glimpse — it  flitted 
onward  and  was  gone. 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  50. 

A mob  is  usually  a creature  of  very  mysterious 
existence,  particularly  in  a large  city.  Where  it. 
comes  from  or  whither  it  goes,  few  men  can  tell. 
Assembling  and  dispersing  with  equal  sudden- 
ness, it  is  as  difficult  to  follow  to  its  various 
sources  as  the  sea  itself ; nor  does  the  parallel 
stop  here,  for  the  ocean  is  not  more  fickle  and 
uncertain,  more  terrible  when  roused,  more  un- 
reasonable, or  more  cruel. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  52. 

MOB— Shout  with  the  larg-est. 

“ Slumkey  for  ever  ! ” echoed  Mr.  Pickwick, 
taking  off  his  hat. 

“ No  Fizkin  !”  roared  the  crowd. 

“Certainly  not!”  shouted  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Hurrah  ! ” And  then  there  was  another 
roaring  like  that  of  a whole  menagerie  when 
the  elephant  has  rung  the  bell  for  the  cold 
meat. 

“Who  is  Slumkey?”  whispered  Mr.  Tup- 
man. 

“ I don’t  know,”  replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  in  the 
same  tone.  “ Hush.  Don’t  ask  any  questions. 
It’s  always  best  on  these  occasions  to  do  what 
the  mob  do.” 

“But  suppose  there  are  two  mobs?”  sug- 
gested Mr.  Snodgrass. 

“ Shout  with  the  largest,”  replied  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. 

Volumes  could  not  have  said  more. 

Pickwick , Chap.  13. 

MOB— A revolutionary. 

Presently  she  heard  a troubled  movement, 
and  a shouting  coming  along  which  filled  her 
with  fear.  A moment  afterwards,  and  a throng 


MQDEL3 


313 


M3DEL3 


of  people  came  pouring  round  the  corner  by  the 
prison  wall,  in  the  midst  of  whom  was  the  wood- 
sawyer,  hand  in  hand  with  The  Vengeance. 
There  could  not  be  fewer  than  five  hundred 
people,  and  they  were  dancing  like  five  thou- 
sand demons.  There  was  no  other  music  than 
their  own  singing.  They  danced  to  the  popu- 
lar Revolution  song,  keeping  a ferocious  time, 
that  was  like  a gnashing  of  teeth  in  unison. 
Men  and  women  danced  together,  women 
danced  together,  men  danced  together,  as  haz- 
ard had  brought  them  together.  At  first,  they 
were  a mere  storm  of  coarse  red  caps  and  coarse 
woollen  rags  ; but,  as  they  filled  the  place,  and 
stopped  to  dance  about  Lucie,  some  ghastly  ap- 
parition of  a dance-figure  gone  raving  mad  arose 
among  them.  They  advanced,  retreated,  struck 
at  one  another’s  hands,  clutched  at  one  another’s 
heads,  spun  round  alone,  caught  one  another  and 
spun  round  in  pairs,  until  many  of  them  dropped. 
While  those  were  down,  the  rest  linked  hand  in 
hand,  and  all  spun  round  together ; then  the 
ring  broke,  and  in  separate  rings  of  two  and 
four  they  turned  and  turned  until  they  all 
stopped  at  once,  began  again,  struck,  clutched, 
and  tore,  and  then  reversed  the  spin,  and  all 
spun  round  another  way.  Suddenly  they 
stopped  again,  paused,  struck  out  the  time 
afresh,  formed  into  lines  the  width  of  the  public 
way,  and,  with  their  heads  low  down,  and  their 
hands  high  up,  swooped  screaming  off.  No 
fight  could  have  been  half  so  terrible  as  this 
dance.  It  was  so  emphatically  a fallen  sport 
— a something,  once  innocent,  delivered  over  to 
all  devilry — a healthy  pastime  changed  into  a 
means  of  angering  the  blood,  bewildering  the 
senses,  and  steeling  the  heart.  Such  grace  as 
was  visible  in  it,  made  it  the  uglier,  showing  how 
warped  and  perverted  all  things  good  by  nature 
were  become.  The  maidenly  bosom  bared  to 
this,  the  pretty  almost-child’s  head  thus  distract- 
ed, the  delicate  foot  mincing  in  this  slough  of 
blood  and  dirt,  were  types  of  the  disjointed  time. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  III.,  Chap.  5. 

MODELS— Hair  as  an  auxiliary  of  art. 

“ What  is  this  ? ” I exclaimed  involuntarily, 
“ and  what  have  you  become  ? ” 

“ I am  the  Ghost  of  Art ! ” said  he. 

The  effect  of  these  words,  slowly  uttered  in 
the  thunder-storm  at  midnight,  was  appalling  to 
the  last  degree.  More  dead  than  alive,  I sur- 
veyed him  in  silence. 

“The  German  taste  came  up,”  said  he,  “and 
threw  me  out  of  bread.  I am  ready  for  the  taste 
now.” 

He  made  his  beard  a little  jagged  with  his 
hands,  folded  his  arms,  and  said, 

“ Severity  ! ” 

I shuddered.  It  was  so  severe. 

lie  made  his  beard  flowing  on  his  breast,  and 
leaning  both  hands  on  the  staff  of  a carpet- 
broom  which  Mrs.  Parkins  had  left  among  my 
books,  said : 

“ Benevolence.” 

I stood  transfixed.  The  change  of  sentiment 
was  entirely  in  the  beard.  The  man  might  have 
left  his  face  alone,  or  had  no  face.  The  beard 
did  everything. 

He  lay  down,  on  his  back,  on  my  table,  and 
with  that  action  of  his  head  threw  up  his  beard 
at  the  chin. 

“ That’s  Death  ! ” said  he. 


He  got  off  my  table,  and,  looking  up  at  the 
ceiling,  cocked  his  beard  a little  awry  ; at  the 
same  time  making  it  stick  out  before  him. 

“ Adoration,  or  a vow  of  vengeance,”  he  ob- 
served. 

He  turned  his  profile  to  me,  making  his  up- 
per lip  very  bulgy  with  the  upper  part  of  his 

beard. 

“ Romantic  character,”  said  he. 

He  looked  sideways  out  of  his  beard,  as  if  it 
were  an  ivy-bush.  “Jealousy,”  said  he.  He 
gave  it  an  ingenious  twist  in  the  air,  and  in- 
formed me  that  he  was  carousing.  He  made  it 
shaggy  with  his  fingers — and  it  was  Despair  ; 
lank — and  it  was  Avarice  ; tossed  it  all  kinds 
of  ways — and  it  was  Rage.  The  beard  did 
everything. 

“ I am  the  Ghost  of  Art,”  said  he.  “ Two  bob 
a day  now,  and  more  when  it’s  longer  ! Hair’s 
the  t,rue  expression.  There  is  no  other.  I SAID 
I’d  grow  it,  and  I’ve  grown  it,  and  it  shall 

HAUNT  YOU  ! ” 

He  may  have  tumbled  down  stairs  in  the  dark, 
but  he  never  walked  down  or  ran  down.  I 
looked  over  the  banisters,  and  I was  alone  with 
the  thunder. 

Need  I add  more  of  my  terrific  fate  ? It  HAS 
haunted  me  ever  since.  It  glares  upon  me  from 
the  walls  of  the  Royal  Academy  (except  when 
Maclise  subdues  it  to  his  genius),  it  fills  my 
soul  with  terror  at  the  British  Institution,  it 
lures  young  artists  on  to  their  destruction.  Go 
where  I will,  the  Ghost  of  Art,  eternally  work- 
ing the  passions  in  hair,  and  expressing  every- 
thing by  beard,  pursues  me.  The  prediction  is 
accomplished,  and  the  victim  has  no  rest. 

The  Ghost  of  Art.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

MODELS— Artists’— (Home). 

Among  what  may  be  called  the  Cubs  or  minor 
Lions  of  Rome,  there  was  one  that  amused  me 
mightily.  It  is  always  to  be  found  there  ; and 
its  den  is  on  the  great  flight  of  steps  that  lead 
from  the  Piazza  di  Sp'igna,  to  the  church  of 
Trinita  del  Monte.  In  plainer  words,  these  steps 
are  the  great  place  of  resort  for  the  artists’ 
“ Models,”  and  there  they  are  constantly  wait- 
ing to  be  hired.  The  first  time  I went  up  there 
I could  not  conceive  why  the  faces  seemed  fa- 
miliar to  me  ; why  they  appeai*ed  to  have  beset 
me,  for  years,  in  every  possible  variety  of  action 
and  costume  ; and  how  it  came  to  pass  that  they 
started  up  before  me,  in  Rome,  in  the  broad  day, 
like  so  many  saddled  and  bridled  nightmares. 
I soon  found  that  we  had  made  acquaintance, 
and  improved  it,  for  several  years,  on  the  walls 
of  various  Exhibition  Galleries.  There  is  one 
old  gentleman,  with  long  white  hair  and  an  im 
mense  beard,  who,  to  my  knowledge,  has  gone 
half  through  the  catalogue  of  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy. This  is  the  venerable,  or  patriarchal 
model.  He  carries  a long  staff ; and  every  knot 
and  twist  in  that  staff  1 have  seen,  faithfully 
delineated,  innumerable  times.  There  is  another 
man  in  a blue  cloak,  who  always  pretends  to  be 
asleep  in  the  sun  (when  there  is  any),  and  who, 
I need  not  say,  is  always  very  wide  awake,  and 
very  attentive  to  the  disposition  of  his  legs.  This 
is  the  dolce  far  niente  model.  There  is  another 
man  in  a brown  cloak,  who  leans  against  the 
wall,  with  his  arms  folded  in  his  mantle,  and 
looks  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  ; which  are 
just  visible  beneath  his  broad  slouched  hat. 


MODEST  GREATNESS 


313 


MONEY 


This  is  the  assassin  model.  There  is  another 
man,  who  constantly  looks  over  his  own  shoul- 
der, and  is  always  going  away,  but  never  goes. 
This  is  the  haughty,  or  scornful  model.  As  to 
Domestic  Happiness,  and  Holy  Families,  they 
should  come  very  cheap,  for  there  are  lumps  of 
them,  all  up  the  steps  ; and  then  the  cream  of 
the  thing'  is,  that  they  are  all  the  falsest  vaga- 
bonds in  the  world,  especially  made  up  for  the 
purpose,  and  having  no  counterparts  in  Rome 
or  any  other  part  of  the  habitable  globe. 

Pictures  from  Italy. 

MODEST  GREATNESS. 

So  modest  was  Mr.  Merdle  withal,  in  the 
midst  of  these  splendid  achievements,  that  he 
looked  more  like  a man  in  possession  of  his 
house  under  a distraint,  than  a commercial  Co- 
lossus bestriding  his  own  hearth-rug  while  the 
little  ships  were  sailing  in  to  dinner. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  12. 

MODESTY-Of  Migg-s. 

“ I wouldn’t,”  cried  Miggs,  folding  her  hands 
and  looking  upwards  with  a kind  of  devout 
blankness,  “ I wouldn’t  lay  myself  out  as  she 
does  ; I wouldn’t  be  as  bold  as  her  ; I wouldn’t 
seem  to  say  to  all  male  creeturs  ‘ come  and  kiss 
me  ’ — and  here  a shudder  quite  convulsed  her 
frame — “ for  any  earthly  crowns  as  might  be 
offered.  Worlds,”  Miggs  added  solemnly, 
“ should  not  reduce  me.  No.  Not  if  I was 
Wenis.” 

“ Well,  but  you  are  Wenus,  you  know,”  said 
Mr.  Dennis,  confidentially. 

“ No,  I am  not,  good  gentlemen,”  answered 
Miggs,  shaking  her  head  with  an  air  of  self-de- 
nial which  seemed  to  imply  that  she  might  be 
if  she  chose,  but  she  hoped  she  knew  better. 
“ No,  I am  not,  good  gentlemen.  Don’t  charge 
me  with  it.” — Barnaby  Pudge,  Chap.  70. 

MONEY— And  its  uses. 

“ For  the  same  reason  that  I am  not  a hoarder 
of  money,”  said  the  old  man,  “ I am  not  lavish 
of  it.  Some  people  find  their  gratification  in 
storing  it  up  : and  others  theirs  in  parting  with 
it ; but  I have  no  gratification  connected  with 
the  thing.  Pain  and  bitterness  are  the  only  goods 
it  ever  could  procure  for  me.  I hate  it.  It  is  a 
spectre  walking  before  me  through  the  world, 
and  making  every  social  pleasure  hideous.” 

A thought  arose  in  Mr.  Pecksniff’s  mind, 
which  must  have  instantly  mounted  to  his  face, 
or  Martin  Chuzzlewit  would  not  have  resumed 
as  quickly  and  sternly  as  he  did  : 

“ You  would  advise  me  for  my  peace  of  mind, 
to  get  rid  of  this  source  of  misery,  and  transfer  it 
to  some  one  who  could  bear  it  better.  Even 
you,  perhaps,  would  rid  me  of  a burden  under 
which  I suffer  so  grievously.  But,  kind  stranger,” 
said  the  old  man,  whose  every  feature  darkened 
as  he  spoke,  “ good  Christian  stranger,  that  is 
a main  part  of  my  trouble.  In  other  hands,  I 
have  known  money  do  good  ; in  other  hands 
I have  known  it  triumphed  in,  and  boasted  of, 
with  reason,  as  the  master-key  to  all  the  brazen 
gates  that  close  upon  the  paths  to  worldly  honor, 
fortune,  and  enjoyment.  To  what  man  or  woman, 
to  what  worthy,  honest,  incorruptible  creature, 
shall  I confide  such  a talisman,  either  now,  or 
when  I die  ? Do  you  know  of  any  such  per- 
son? Your  virtues  are  of  course  inestimable, 


but  can  you  tell  me  of  any  other  living  crea- 
ture who  will  bear  the  test  of  contact  with 
myself?  ” 

“Of  contact  with  yourself,  sir?”  echoed  Mr. 
Pecksniff. 

“ Ay,”  returned  the  old  man,  “ the  test  of  con- 
tact with  me — with  me.  You  have  heard  of  him 
whose  misery  (the  gratification  of  his  own  foolish 
wish)  was,  that  he  turned  everything  he  touched 
into  gold.  The  curse  of  my  existence,  and  the 
realization  of  my  own  mad  desire,  is,  that  by  the 
golden  standard  which  I bear  about  me  I am 
doomed  to  try  the  metal  of  all  other  men,  and 
find  it  false  and  hollow. 

“ I tell  you,  that  I have  gone,  a rich  man, 
among  people  of  all  grades  and  kinds  ; relatives, 
friends,  and  strangers  ; among  people  in  whom, 
when  I was  poor,  I had  confidence,  and  justly, 
for  they  never  once  deceived  me  then,  or,  to  me, 
wronged  each  other.  But  I have  never  found 
one  nature,  no,  not  one,  in  which,  being  wealthy 
and  alone,  I was  not  forced  to  detect  the  latent 
corruption  that  lay  hid  within  it,  waiting  for  such 
as  I to  bring  it  forth.  Treachery,  deceit,  and 
low  design  ; hatred  of  competitors,  real  or  fan- 
cied, for  my  favor  ; meanness,  falsehood,  base- 
ness, and  servility  ; or,”  and  here  he  looked 
closely  in  his  cousin’s  eyes,  “or  an  assumption 
of  honest  independence,  almost  worse  than  all  ; 
these  are  the  beauties  which  my  wealth  has 
brought  to  light.  Brother  against  brother,  child 
against  parent,  friends  treading  on  the  faces  of 
friends,  this  is  the  social  company  by  whom  my 
way  has  been  attended.  There  are  stories  told 
— they  may  be  true  or  false — of  rich  men,  who, 
in  the  garb  of  poverty,  have  found  out  virtue 
and  rewarded  it.  They  were  dolts  and  idiots 
for  their  pains.  They  should  have  made  the 
search  in  their  own  characters.  They  should 
have  shown  themselves  fit  objects  to  be  robbed 
and  preyed  upon  and  plotted  against  and  adu- 
lated by  any  knaves,  who,  but  for  joy,  would 
have  spat  upon  their  coffins  when  they  died  their 
dupes  ; and  then  their  search  would  have  ended 
as  mine  has  done,  and  they  would  be  what  1 
am.” — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  3. 

MONEY— Barnaby’ s dream  of. 

“ By  stay-at-hoines  ! ” cried  Barnaby,  plucking 
at  his  sleeve.  “ But  I am  not  one.  Now,  there 
you  mistake.  I am  often  out  befox-e  the  sun,  and 
travel  home  when  he  has  gone  to  rest.  I am 
away  in  the  woods  before  the  day  has  reached 
the  shady  places,  and  am  often  there  when  the 
bright  moon  is  peeping  through  the  boughs,  and 
looking  down  upon  the  other  moon  that  lives  in 
water.  As  I walk  along,  I try  to  find,  among 
the  grass  and  moss,  some  of  that  small  money 
for  which  she  works  so  hard  and  used  to  shed 
so  many  tears.  As  I lie  asleep  in  the  shade,  I 
dream  of  it — dream  of  digging  it  up  in  heaps  ; 
and  spying  it  out,  hidden  under  bushes  ; and 
seeing  it  sparkle,  as  the  dew-drops  do,  among 
the  leaves.  But  I never  find  it ; tell  me  where  it 
is.  I’d  go  there,  if  the  journey  were  a whole 
year  long,  because  I know  she  would  be  happier 
when  I came  home  and  brought  some  with  me. 
Speak  again.  I’ll  listen  to  you  if  you  talk  all 
night.” — Barnaby  Pudge,  Chap.  46. 

MONEY— A child’s  idea  of. 

“ Papa  ! what’s  money?” 

The  abrupt  question  had  such  immediate  ref- 


MONEY 


314 


MORNING 


erence  to  the  subject  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  thoughts, 
that  Mr.  Dombey  was  quite  disconcerted. 

“What  is  money,  Paul?”  he  answered. 
“ Money  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  child,  laying  his  hands  upon 
the  elbows  of  his  little  chair,  and  turning  the 
old  face  up  towards  Mr.  Dombey’s;  “what  is 
money  ? ” 

Mr.  Dombey  was  in  a difficulty.  lie  would 
have  liked  to  give  him  some  explanation  involv- 
ing the  terms  circulating-medium,  currency,  de- 
preciation of  currency,  paper,  bullion,  rates  of 
exchange,  value  of  precious  metals  in  the  mar- 
ket, and  so  forth  ; but  looking  down  at  the  little 
chair,  and  seeing  what  a long  way  down  it  was, 
he  answered  ; “ Gold,  and  silver,  and  copper. 
Guineas,  shillings,  half-pence.  You  know  what 
they  are  ? ” 

“ Oh  yes,  I know  what  they  are,”  said  Paul. 
“ I don’t  mean  that,  Papa.  I mean  what’s 
money  after  all.” 

Heaven  and  Earth,  how  old  his  face  was  as 
he  turned  it  up  again  towards  his  father’s  ! 

“ What  is  money  after  all  ? ” said  Mr.  Dombey, 
backing  his  chair  a little,  that  he  might  the 
better  gaze  in  sheer  amazement  at  the  pre- 
sumptuous atom  that  propounded  such  an  in- 
quiry. 

“I  mean.  Papa,  what  can  it  do? ’’returned 
Paul,  folding  his  arms  (they  were  hardly  long 
enough  to  fold),  and  looking  at  the  fire,  and  up 
at  him,  and  at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him  again. 

Mr.  Dombey  drew  his  chair  back  to  its  former 
place,  and  patted  him  on  the  head.  “You’ll 
know  better  by-and-bye,  my  man,”  he  said. 
“Money,  Paul,  can  do  anything.”  He  took  hold 
of  the  little  hand,  and  beat  it  softly  against  one 
of  his  own,  as  he  said  so. 

But  Paul  got  his  hand  free  as  soon  as  he  could, 
and  rubbing  it  gently  to  and  fro  on  the  elbow 
of  his  chair,  as  if  his  wit  were  in  the  palm,  and 
he  were  sharpening  it — and  looking  at  the  fire 
again,  as  though  the  fire  had  been  his  adviser 
and  prompter — repeated,  after  a short  pause  : 

“ Anything,  Papa  ? ” 

“ Yes.  Anything — almost,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Anything  means  everything,  don’t  it,  Papa?” 
asked  his  son  : not  observing,  or  possibly  not 
understanding,  the  qualification. 

“ It  includes  it : yes,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“Why  didn’t  money  save  me  my  Mamma?” 
returned  the  child.  “ It  isn’t  cruel,  is  it  ? ” 

“ Cruel  ! ” said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neck- 
cloth, and  seeming  to  resent  the  idea.  “ No. 
A good  thing  can’t  be  cruel.” 

“If  it’s  a good  thing,  and  can  do  anything,” 
said  the  little  fellow,  thoughtfully,  as  he  looked 
back  at  the  fire,  “ I wonder  why  it  didn’t  save 
me  my  Mamma  ? ” 

He  didn’t  ask  the  question  of  his  father  this 
time.  Perhaps  he  had  seen,  with  a child's  quick- 
ness, that  it  had  already  made  his  father  uncom- 
fortable. But  he  repeated  the  thought  aloud,  as 
if  it  were  quite  an  old  one  to  him,  and  had  trou- 
bled him  very  much  ; and  sat  with  his  chin  rest- 
ing on  his  hand,  still  cogitating  and  looking  for 
an  explanation  in  the  fire. 

Mr.  Dombey  having  recovered  from  his  sur- 
prise, not  to  say  his  alarm  (for  it  was  the  very 
first  occasion  on  which  the  child  had  ever 
broached  the  subject  of  his  mother  to  him, 
though  he  had  bad  him  silling  by  his  side,  in 
this  same  manner,  evening  after  evening),  ex- 


pounded to  him  how  that  money,  thougihe  lat- 
potent  spirit,  never  to  be  disparaged  on  an)’*" 
count  whatever,  could  not  keep  people  alive 
whose  time  was  come  to  die;  and  how  that  we 
must  all  die,  unfortunately,  even  in  the  City, 
though  we  were  never  so  rich.  But  how  that 
money  caused  us  to  be  honored,  feared,  re- 
spected, courted,  and  admired,  and  made  us 
powerful  and  glorious  in  the  eyes  of  all  men  ; 
and  how  that  it  could,  very  often,  even  keep  off 
death,  for  a long  time  together.  How,  for  ex- 
ample, it  had  secured  to  his  Mamma  the  services 
of  Mr.  Pilkins,  by  which  he,  Paul,  had  often 
profited  himself ; likewise  of  the  great  Doctor 
Parker  Peps,  whom  he  had  never  known.  And 
how  it  could  do  all  that  could  be  done.  This, 
with  more  to  the  same  purpose,  Mr.  Dombey 
instilled  into  the  mind  of  his  son,  who  listened 
attentively,  and  seemed  to  understand  the 
greater  part  of  what  was  said  to  him. 

“ It  can’t  make  me  strong  and  quite  well, 
either,  Papa  ; can  it?”  asked  Paul,  after  a short 
silence,  rubbing  his  tiny  hands. 

“ Why,  you  are  strong  and  quite  well,”  re- 
turned Mr.  Dombey.  “Are  you  not?” 

Oh  ! the  age  of  the  face  that  was  turned  up 
again,  with  an  expression,  half  of  melancholy, 
half  of  slyness,  on  it ! 

“You  are  as  strong  and  well  as  such  little 
people  usually  are?  Eh?”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Florence  is  older  than  I am,  but  I’m  not  as 
strong  and  well  as  Florence,  I know,”  returned 
the  child  ; “ but  I believe  that  when  Florence 
was  as  little  as  me,  she  could  play  a great  deal 
longer  at  a time  without  tiring  herself.  I am 'so 
tired  sometimes,”  said  Little  Paul,  warming  his 
hands,  and  looking  in  between  the  bars  of  the 
grate,  as  if  some  ghostly  puppet-show  were  per- 
forming there,  “ and  my  bones  ache  so  (Wickam 
says  it’s  my  bones),  that  I don’t  know  what  to 
do.” 

“Aye!  But  that’s  at  night,”  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, drawing  his  own  chair  closer  to  his  son’s, 
and  laying  his  hand  gently  on  his  back  ; “little 
people  should  be  tired  at  night,  for  then  they 
sleep  well.” 

“Oh,  it’s  not  at  night,  Papa,”  returned  the 
child,  “ it’s  in  the  day;  and  I lie  down  in  Flor- 
ence’s lap,  and  she  sings  to  me.  At  night  I 
dream  about  such  cu-ri-ous  things!” 

And  he  went  on,  warming  his  hands  again, 
and  thinking  about  them,  like  an  old  man  or  a 
young  goblin. — Dombey  of  Son , Chap.  S. 

MONEY-LENDER. 

“‘Yours,  Joshua  Smai.lweed.’ — What  do 
you  make  of  that,  Phil  ? ” 

“ Mischief,  guv’ner.” 

“Why?” 

“ Guv’ner,”  says  Phil,  with  exceeding  gravity, 
“he’s  a leech  in  his  dispositions,  lie’s  a screw 
and  a wice  in  his  action,  a snake  in  his  twist- 
ings, and  a lobster  in  his  claws.” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  34. 

MORNING. 

Morning  drew  on  apace.  The  air  became 
more  sharp  and  piercing,  as  its  first  dull  hue — 
the  death  of  night,  rather  than  the  birth  of  day — 
glimmered  faintly  in  the  sky. 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  28. 


The  day  came  creeping  on,  halting  and  whim- 


MORNING 


315 


MORNING 


owv  s' and  shivering,  and  wrapped  in  patches  of 

^ud  and  rags  of  mist,  like  a beggar. 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  43. 

The  great  black  velvet  pall,  shot  with  grey. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  2. 

MORNING-A  damp. 

The  next  was  a very  unpropitious  morning 
for  a journey — muggy,  damp,  and  drizzly.  The 
horses  in  the  stages  that  were  going  out,  and 
had  come  through  the  city,  were  smoking  so, 
that  the  outside  passengers  were  invisible.  The 
newspaper  sellers  looked  moist,  and  smelt 
mouldy  ; the  wet  ran  off  the  hats  of  the  orange- 
venders  as  they  thrust  their  heads  into  the  coach 
windows,  and  diluted  the  insides  in  a refreshing 
manner.  The  Jews  with  the  fifty-bladed  pen- 
knives shut  them  up  in  despair  ; the  men  with 
the  pocket-books  made  pocket-books  of  them. 
Watch-guards  and  toasting-forks  were  alike  at  a 
discount,  and  pencil-cases  and  sponge  were  a 
drug  in  the  market. — Pickwick , Chap.  35. 

MORNING-A  dismal. 

He  was  up  before  day-break,  and  came  upon 
the  Park  with  the  morning,  which  was  clad  in 
the  least  engaging  of  the  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  dresses  in  the  wardrobe  of  the  year. ' 
It  was  raw,  damp,  dark,  and  dismal  ; the  clouds 
were  as  muddy  as  the  ground  ; and  the  short 
perspective  of  every  street  and  avenue,  was 
closed  up  by  the  mist  as  by  a filthy  curtain 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  14. 

The  day  comes  like  a phantom.  Cold,  color- 
less, and  vague,  it  sends  a warning  streak  before 
it  of  a deathlike  hue,  as  if  it  cried  out,  “ Look 
what  I am  bringing,  you  who  watch  there  ! ” 
Bleak  House , Chap.  58. 

MORNING-A  fickle  Spring. 

It  was  on  one  of  those  mornings,  common  in 
early  spring,  when  the  year,  fickle  and  change- 
able in  its  youth,  like  all  other  created  things,  is 
undecided  whether  to  step  backward  into  winter 
or  forward  into  summer,  and  in  its  uncertainty 
inclines  now  to  the  one  and  now  to  the  other, 
and  now  to  both  at  once — wooing  summer,  in 
the  sunshine,  and  lingering  still  with  winter  in 
the  shade — it  was,  in  short,  on  one  of  those 
mornings,  when  it  is  hot  and  cold,  wet  and  dry, 
bright  and  lowering,  sad  and  cheerful,  withering 
and  genial,  in  the  compass  of  one  short  hour. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  10. 

MORNING-A  foggy  Winter. 

It  was  a cold,  dry,  foggy  morning  in  early 
spring.  A few  meagre  shadows  flitted  to  and 
fro  in  the  misty  streets,  and  occasionally  there 
loomed  through  the  dull  vapor,  the  heavy  outline 
of  some  hackney-coach  wending  homewards, 
which,  drawing  slowly  nearer,  rolled  jangling 
by,  scattering  the  thin  crust  of  frost  from  its 
whitened  roof,  and  soon  was,  lost  again  in  the 
cloud.  At  intervals  were  heard  the  tread  of 
slipshod  feet,  and  the  chilly  cry  of  the  poor 
sweep  as  he  crept,  shivering,  to  his  early  toil  ; 
the  heavy  footfall  of  the  official  watcher  of  the 
night,  pacing  slowly  up  and  down,  and  cursing 
the  tardy  hours  that  still  interve  led  between 
him  and  sleep  ; the  rumbling  of  ponderous 
carts  and  wagons  ; the  roll  of  the  lighter  vehi- 


cles which  carried  buyers  and  sellers  to  the 
different  markets ; the  sound  of  ineffectual 
knocking  at  the  doors  of  heavy  sleepers — all 
these  noises  fell  upon  the  ear  from  time  to  time, 
but  all  seemed  muffled  by  the  fog,  and  to  be  ren- 
dered almost  as  indistinct  to  the  ear  as  was 
every  object  to  the  sight.  The  sluggish  dark- 
ness thickened  as  the  day  came  on  ; and  those 
who  had  the  courage  to  rise  and  peep  at  the 
gloomy  street  from  their  curtained  windows, 
crept  back  to  bed  again,  and  coiled  themselves 
up  to  sleep.—  Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  22. 

MORNING-A  gloomy. 

The  morning  which  broke  upon  Mr.  Tick- 
wick’s  sight,  at  eight  o’clock,  was  not  at  all  cal- 
culated to  elevate  his  spirits,  or  to  lessen  the  de- 
pression which  the  unlooked-for  result  of  his 
embassy  inspired.  The  sky  was  dark  and 
gloomy,  the  air  was  damp  and  raw,  the  streets 
were  wet  and  sloppy.  The  smoke  hung  slug- 
gishly above  the  chimney-tops  as  if  it  lacked  the 
courage  to  rise,  and  the  rain  came  slowly  and 
doggedly  down,  as  if  it  had  not  even  the  spirit 
to  pour.  A game-cock  in  the  stable-yard,  de- 
prived of  every  spark  of  his  accustomed  anima- 
tion, balanced  himself  dismally  on  one  leg  in  a 
corner  ; a donkey,  moping  with  drooping  head 
under  the  narrow  roof  of  an  outhouse,  appeared 
from  his  meditative  and  miserable  countenance 
to  be  contemplating  suicide.  In  the  street,  um- 
brellas were  the  only  things  to  be  seen,  and  the 
clicking  of  pattens  and  splashing  of  rain-drops 
were  the  only  sounds  to  be  heard. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  51. 

MORNING-A  Summer. 

“ It  was  a bright  and  sunny  morning  in  the 
pleasant  time  of  summer,  when  one  of  those 
black  monks  emerged  from  the  abbey  portal, 
and  bent  his  steps  towards  the  house  of  the  fair 
sisters.  Heaven  above  was  blue,  and  earth  be- 
neath was  green  ; the  river  glistened  like  a path 
of  diamonds  in  the  sun  ; the  birds  poured  forth 
their  songs  from  the  shady  trees  ; the  lark  soared 
high  above  the  waving  corn  ; and  the  deep  buzz 
of  insects  filled  the  air.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  6. 

MORNING-A  Winter. 

How  well  I recollect  the  kind  of  day  it  was  ! 
I smell  the  fog  that  hung  about  the  place  ; I see 
the  hoar  frost,  ghostly,  through  it  ; I feel  my 
rimy  hair  fall  clammy  on  my  cheek  ; I look 
along  the  dim  perspective  of  the  school-room, 
with  a sputtering  candle  here  and  there  to  light 
up  the  foggy  morning,  and  the  breath  of  the 
boys  wreathing  and  smoking  in  the  raw  cold  as 
they  blow  upon  their  fingers,  and  tap  their  feet 
upon  the  floor. — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  9. 

MORNING— An  early  Autumn. 

It  was  a fine  morning — so  fine  that  you  would 
scarcely  have  believed  that  the  few  months  of  an 
English  summer  had  yet  flown  by.  Hedges, 
fields,  and  trees,  hill  and  moorland,  presented 
to  the  eye  their  ever-varying  shades  of  deep 
rich  green  ; scarce  a leaf  had  fallen,  scarce  a 
sprinkle  of  yellow  mingled  with  the  hues  of 
summer,  warned  you  that  autumn  had  begun. 
The  sky  was  cloudless ; the  sun  shone  "out 
bright  and  warm  ; the  songs  of  birds,  and  hum 
of  myriads  of  summer  insects,  filled  the  air ; 


MORNING 


310 


MORNING 


and  the  cottage  gardens,  crowded  with  flowers 
of  every  rich  and  beautiful  tint,  sparkled,  in  the 
heavy  dew,  like  beds  of  glittering  jewels. 
Everything  bore  the  stamp  of  summer,  and 
none  of  its  beautiful  colors  had  yet  faded  from 
the  die. — Pickwick , Chap.  19. 

MORNING— In  London. 

The  appearance  presented  by  the  streets  of 
London  an  hour  before  sunrise,  on  a summer’s 
morning,  is  most  striking,  even  to  the  few  whose 
unfortunate  pursuits  of  pleasure,  or  scarcely  less 
unfortunate  pursuits  of  business,  cause  them  to 
be  well  acquainted  with  the  scene.  There  is  an 
air  of  cold,  solitary  desolation  about  the  noiseless 
streets  which  we  are  accustomed  to  see  thronged 
at  other  times  by  a busy,  eager  crowd,  and  over 
the  quiet,  closely-shut  buildings,  which  through- 
out the  day  are  swarming  with  life  and  bustle, 
that  is  very  impressive. 

The  last  drunken  man  who  shall  find  his  way 
home  before  sun-light,  has  just  staggered  heavily 
along,  roaring  out  the  burden  of  the  drinking- 
song  of  the  previous  night : the  last  houseless 
vagrant  whom  penury  and  police  have  left  in  the 
streets,  has  coiled  up  his  chilly  limbs  in  some 
paved  corner,  to  dream  of  food  and  warmth.  The 
drunken,  the  dissipated,  and  the  wretched  have 
disappeared  ; the  more  sober  and  orderly  part  of 
the  population  have  not  yet  awakened  to  the 
labors  of  the  day,  and  the  stillness  of  death  is 
over  the  streets  ; its  very  hue  seems  to  be  im- 
parted to  them,  cold  and  lifeless  as  they  look  in 
the  grey,  sombre  light  of  daybreak.  The  coach- 
stands  in  the  larger  thoroughfares  are  de- 
serted : the  night-houses  are  closed ; and  the 
chosen  promenades  of  profligate  misery  are 
empty. 

An  occasional  policeman  .may  alone  be  seen 
at  the  street-corners,  listlessly  gazing  on  the  de- 
serted prospect  before  him  ; and  now  and  then 
a rakish-looking  cat  runs  stealthily  across  the 
road  and  descends  his  own  area  with  as  much 
caution  and  slyness — bounding  first  on  the  water- 
butt,  then  on  the  dust-hole,  and  then  alighting 
on  the  flag-stones — as  if  he  were  conscious  that 
his  character  depended  on  his  gallantry  of  the 
preceding  night  escaping  public  observation. 
A partially-opened  bedroom-window,  here  and 
there,  bespeaks  the  heat  of  the  weather,  and  the 
uneasy  slumbers  of  its  occupant : and  the  dim, 
scanty  flicker  of  the  rush-light,  through  the  win- 
dow-blind, denotes  the  chamber  of  watching  or 
sickness.  With  these  few  exceptions,  the  streets 
present  no  signs  of  life,  nor  the  houses  of  habi- 
tation. 

An  hour  wears  away  ; the  spires  of  the  churches 
and  roofs  of  the  principal  buildings  are  faintly 
tinged  with  the  light  of  the  rising  sun  ; and  the 
streets,  by  almost  imperceptible  degrees,  begin  to 
resume  their  bustle  and  animation.  Market-carts 
roll  slowly  along  : the  sleepy  wagoner  impa- 
tiently urging  on  his  tired  horses,  or  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  awaken  the  boy,  who,  luxuriously 
stretched  on  the  top  of  the  fruit-baskets,  forgets, 
in  happy  oblivion,  his  long-cherished  curiosity  to 
behold  the  wonders  of  London. 

Rough,  sleepy-looking  animals  of  strange  ap- 
pearance, something  between  ostlers  and  hack- 
ney-coachmen, begin  to  take  down  the  shutters 
of  early  public-houses  ; and  little  deal-tables,  with 
the  ordinary  preparations  for  a street  breakfast, 
make  their  appearance  at  the  customary  stations.  ' 


Numbers  of  men  and  women  (principally  he  lat- 
ter), carrying  upon  their  heads  heavv  baskets  tf. 
fruit,  toil  down  the  park  side  of  Piccadilly,  on 
their  way  to  Covent  Garden,  and,  following  each 
other  in  rapid  succession,  form  a long,  straggling 
line  from  thence  to  the  turn  of  the  road  at 
Knightsbridge. 

Here  and  there,  a bricklayer’s  laborer,  with 
the  day’s  dinner  tied  up  in  a handkerchief,  walks 
briskly  to  his  work,  and  occasionally  a little  knot 
of  three  or  four  schoolboys  on  a stolen  bathing 
expedition  rattle  merrily  over  the  pavement,  their 
boisterous  mirth  contrasting  forcibly  with  the  de- 
meanor of  the  little  sweep,  who,  having  knocked 
and  rung  till  his  arm  aches,  and  being  interdicted 
by  a merciful  legislature  from  endangering  his 
lungs  by  calling  out,  sits  patiently  down  on  the 
door-step  until  the  housemaid  may  happen  to 
awake. 

Covent  Garden  Market,  and  the  avenues  lead- 
ing to  it,  are  thronged  with  carts  of  all  sorts, 
sizes,  and  descriptions,  from  the  heavy  lumbering 
wagon,  with  its  four  stout  horses,  to  the  jing- 
ling costermonger’s  cart,  with  its  consumptive 
donkey.  The  pavement  is  already  strewed  with 
decayed  cabbage-leaves,  broken  haybands,  and  all 
the  indescribable  litter  of  a vegetable  market  ; 
men  are  shouting,  carts  backing,  horses  neighing 
'boys  fighting,  basket-women  talking,  piemen  ex- 
patiating on  the  excellence  of  their  pastry,  and 
donkeys  braying.  These  and  a hundred  other 
sounds  forma  compound  discordant  enough  to  a 
Londoner’s  ears,  and  remarkably  disagreeable  to 
those  of  country  gentlemen  who  are  sleeping  at 
the  Hummums  for  the  first  time. 

Sketches  (Scenes),  Chap.  1. 

MORNING— In  the  country. 

The  sun  shone  from  out  the  clear  blue  sky, 
the  water  sparkled  beneath  his  rays,  and  the 
trees  looked  greener,  and  the  flowers  more  gay, 
beneath  his  cheering  influence.  The  water  rip- 
pled on,  with  a pleasant  sound  ; the  trees  rustled 
in  the  light  wind  that  murmured  among  their 
leaves  ; the  birds  sang  upon  the  boughs  ; and  the 
lark  carolled  on  high  her  welcome  to  the  morn- 
ing. Yes,  it  was  morning : the  bright,  balmy  morn- 
ing of  summer  ; the  minutest  leaf,  the  smallest 
blade  of  grass,  was  instinct  with  life.  The  ant 
crept  forth  to  her  daily  toil,  the  butterfly  flut- 
tered and  basked  in  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun  ; 
myriads  of  insects  spread  their  transparent  wings, 
and  revelled  in  their  brief  but  happy  existence. 
Man  walked  forth,  elated  with  the  scene  ; and 
all  was  brightness  and  splendor. 

Pickwick , Chap.  29. 

MORNING- Early. 

No  day  yet  in  the  sky,  but  there  was  day  in 
the  resounding  stones  of  the  streets  ; in  the  wag- 
ons, carts  and  coaches  ; in  the  workers  going 
to  various  occupations  ; in  the  opening  of  early 
shops  ; in  the  traffic  at  markets  ; in  the  stir  of  the 
river-side.  There  was  coming  day  in  the  flaring 
lights,  with  a feebler  color  in  them  than  they 
would  have  had  at  another  time  ; coming  day  in 
the  increased  sharpness  of  the  air,  and  the  ghast- 
ly dying  of  the  night. 

Little  Point,  Book  /.,  Chap.  14. 

1 MORNING-Sunshine. 

The  white  face  of  the  winter  day  came  slug- 
' gishly  on,  veiled  in  a frosty  mist ; and  the  shad- 


MORNING 


317 


MOTHER 


ovvy  ships  in  the  river  slowly  changed  to  black 
substances  ; and  the  sun,  blood-red  on  the  eastern 
marshes,  behind  dark  masts  and  yards,  seemed 
tilled  with  the  ruins  of  a forest  it  had  set  on 
fire. — Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  I.,  Chap.  6. 

MORNING  SUNSHINE— The. 

A brilliant  morning  shines  on  the  old  city. 
Its  antiquities  and  ruins  are  surpassingly  beauti- 
ful, with  the  lusty  ivy  gleaming  in  the  sun,  and 
the  rich  trees  waving  in  the  balmy  air.  Changes 
of  glorious  light  from  moving  boughs,  songs  of 
birds,  scents  from  gardens,  woods,  and  fields, — 
or,  rather,  from  one  great  garden  of  the  whole 
cultivated  island  in  its  yielding-time, — penetrate 
into  the  Cathedral,  subdue  its  earthy  odor,  and 
preach  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life.  The 
cold  stone  tombs  of  centuries  ago  grow  warm : 
and  flecks  of  brightness  dart  into  the  sternest 
marble  corners  of  the  building,  fluttering  there 
like  wings. — Edwin  Drood , Chap.  23. 

[The  last  beautiful  thought  written  by  Dickens  two 
hours  before  liis  death.] 

MORNING— The  break  of  day. 

The  night  wore  out,  and,  as  he  stood  upon  the 
bridge  listening  to  the  water  as  it  splashed  the 
river-walls  of  the  Island  of  Paris,  where  the  pic- 
turesque confusion  of  houses  and  cathedral  shone 
bright  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  the  day  came 
coldly,  looking  like  a dead  face,  out  of  the  sky. 
Then,  the  night,  with  the  moon  and  the  stars, 
turned  pale  and  died,  and  for  a little  while  it 
seemed  as  if  Creation  were  delivered  over  to 
Death’s  dominion. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  III.,  Chap.  9. 

MORNING— The  time  for  exertion. 

Although,  to  restless  and  ardent  minds,  morn- 
ing may  be  the  fitting  season  for  exertion  and 
activity,  it  is  not  always  at  that  time  that  hope  is 
Strongest  or  the  spirit  most  sanguine  and  buoy- 
ant. In  trying  and  doubtful  positions,  youth, 
custom,  a steady  contemplation  of  the  difficulties 
which  surround  us,  and  a familiarity  with  them, 
imperceptibly  diminish  our  apprehensions  and 
beget  comparative  indifference,  if  not  a vague 
and  reckless  confidence  in  some  relief  the  means 
or  nature  of  which  we  care  not  to  foresee.  But 
when  we  come,  fresh,  upon  such  things  in  the 
morning,  with  that  dark  and  silent  gap  between 
us  and  yesterday  ; with  every  link  in  the  brittle 
chain  of  hope,  to  rivet  afresh  ; our  hot  enthusi- 
asm subdued,  and  cool,  calm  reason  substituted 
in  its  stead  ; doubt  and  misgiving  revive.  As 
the  traveller  sees  farthest  by  day,  and  becomes 
aware  of  rugged  mountains  and  trackless  plains 
which  the  friendly  darkness  had  shrouded  from 
his  sight  and  mind  together,  so,  the  wayfarer  in 
the  toilsome  path  of  human  life,  sees,  with  each 
returning  sun,  some  new  obstacle  to  surmount, 
some  new  height  to  be  attained.  Distances 
stretch  out  before  him  which,  last  night,  were 
scarcely  taken  into  account,  and  the  light  which 
gilds  all  nature  with  its  cheerful  beams,  seems 
but  to  shine  upon  the  weary  obstacles  that  yet 
lie  strewn  between  him  and  the  grave. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  53. 

MORNING— The  mist  of  the. 

Day  was  breaking  at  Plashwater  Weir-Mill 
Lock.  Stars  were  yet  visible,  but  there  was  dull 
light  in  the  east  that  was  not  the  light  of  night. 


The  moon  had  gone  down,  and  a mist  crept 
along  the  banks  of  the  river,  seen  through  which 
the  trees  were  the  ghosts  of  trees,  and  the  wq,ter 
was  the  ghost  of  water.  This  earth  looked 
spectral,  and  so  did  the  pale  stars  ; while  the  cold 
eastern  glare,  expressionless  as  to  heat  or  color, 
with  the  eye  of  the  firmament  quenched,  might 
have  been  likened  to  the  stare  of  the  dead. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  IV.,  Chap.  7. 

MORNING-Winter. 

Soon,  now,  the  distant  line  on  the  horizon 
brightened,  the  darkness  faded,  the  sun  rose  red 
and  glorious,  and  the  chimney-stacks  and  gables 
of  the  ancient  building  gleamed  in  the  clear  air, 
which  turned  the  smoke  and  vapor  of  the  city 
into  a cloud  of  gold.  The  very  sundial  in  his 
shady  corner,  where  the  wind  was  used  to  spin 
with  such  un-windy  constancy,  shook  off  the 
finer  particles  of  snow  that  had  accumulated  on 
his  dull  old  face  in  the  night,  and  looked  out  at 
the  little  white  wreaths  eddying  round  and 
round  him.  Doubtless  some  blind  groping  of  the 
morning  made  its  way  down  into  the  forgotten 
crypt  so  cold  and  earthy,  where  the  Norman 
arches  were  half  buried  in  the  ground,  and  stir- 
red the  dull  sap  in  the  lazy  vegetation  hanging 
to  the  walls,  and  quickened  the  slow  principle 
of  life  within  the  little  world  of  wonderful  and 
delicate  creation  which  existed  there,  with  some 
faint  knowledge  that  the  sun  was  up. 

Haunted  Man,  Chap.  3. 

MOTHER— Duty  to  a. 

“ See  there,  my  boy,”  says  George,  very  gently 
smoothing  the  mother’s  hair  with  his  hand, 
“ there’s  a good  loving  forehead  for  you  ! All 
bright  with  love  of  you,  my  boy.  A little 
touched  by  the  sun  and  weather,  through  fol- 
lowing your  father  about  and  taking  care  of  you, 
but  as  fresh  and  wholesome  as  a ripe  apple  on  a 
tree.” 

Mr.  Bagnet’s  face  expresses,  so  far  as  in  its 
wooden  material  lies,  the  highest  approbation 
and  acquiescence. 

“ The  time  will  come,  my  boy,”  pursues  the 
trooper,  “ when  this  hair  of  your  mother’s  will 
be  grey,  and  this  forehead  all  crossed  and  re- 
crossed with  wrinkles — and  a fine  old  lady  she’ll 
be  then.  Take  care,  while  you  are  young,  that 
you  can  think  in  those  days,  ‘/never  whitened  a 
hair  of  her  dear  head — / never  marked  a sor- 
rowful line  in  her  face  !’  For  of  all  the  many 
things  that  you  can  think  of  when  you  are  a 
man,  you  had  better  have  that  by  you,  Wool- 
wich ! ” — Bleak  House,  Chap.  34. 

MOTHER— Her  pride  in  her  children. 

Pride  is  one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins  ; but  it 
cannot  be  the  pride  of  a mother  in  her  children, 
for  that  is  a compound  of  two  cardinal  virtues 
— faith  and  hope. — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  43. 

MOTHERS— After  marriage. 

“ It’s  very  much  to  be  wished  that  some 
mothers  would  leave  their  daughters  alone  after 
marriage,  and  not  be  so  violently  affectionate. 
They  seem  to  think  the  only  return  that 
can  be  made  them  for  bringing  an  unfortunate 
young  woman  into  the  world — God  bless  my 
soul,  as  if  she  asked  to  be  brought,  or  wanted 
to  come  ! — is  full  liberty  to  worry  her  out  of  it 
again.” — David  Copperfield , Chap.  45. 


MOTHER 


318 


MUIEEEER 


MOTHER— Love  of  a. 

“ There’s  such  a difference  between  a father 
and  a mother,  sir,”  said  Rob,  after  faltering  for 
a moment.  “ lie  couldn’t  hardly  believe  yet 
that  I was  going  to  do  better — though  I know 
he’d  try  to  ; but  a mother — she  always  believes 
what’s  good,  sir  ; or  at  least  I know  my  mother 
does,  God  bless  her ! ” 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  22. 

MOTHER— Mrs.  Toots  a. 

Bat  here  is  Mr.  Toots  descending  on  the  Mid- 
shipman, with  violent  rapidity,  and  Mr.  Toots’s 
face  is  very  red  as  he  bursts  into  the  little 
parlor. 

“Captain  Gills,”  says  Mr.  Toots,  “and  Mr. 
Sols,  I am  happy  to  inform  you  that  Mrs.  Toots 
has  had  an  increase  to  her  family.” 

“ And  it  does  her  credit ! ” cries  the  captain. 

“ I give  you  joy,  Mr.  Toots  ! ” says  old  Sol. 

“ Thank’ee,”  chuckles  Mr.  Toots,  “ I’m  very 
much  obliged  to  you.  I knew  that  you’d  be 
glad  to  hear,  and  so  I came  down  myself.  We’re 
positively  getting  on,  you  know.  There’s  Flor- 
ence, and  Susan,  and  now  here’s  another  little 
stranger.” 

“ A female  stranger?  ” inquires  the  captain. 

“Yes,  Captain  Gills,”  says  Mr.  Toots,  “and 
I’m  glad  of  it.  The  oftener  we  can  repeat  that 
most  extraordinary  woman,  my  opinion  is,  the 
better  ! ” 

“ Stand  by  !”  says  the  Captain,  turning  to  the 
old  case-bottle  with  no  throat — for  it  is  evening, 
and  the  Midshipman’s  usual  moderate  provision 
of  pipes  and  glasses  is  on  the  board.  “ Here’s 
to  her,  and  may  she  have  ever  so  many  more  ! ” 
Dombey  and  Son , Chap.  62. 

MOTHER— A noun  of  multitude. 

It  then  appeared  that  she  had  used  the  word, 
not  in  its  legal  or  business  acceptation,  when  it 
merely  expresses  an  individual,  but  as  a noun 
of  multitude,  or  signifying  many  ; for  Miss  Tox 
escorted  a plump,  rosy-cheeked,  wholesome,  ap- 
ple-faced young  woman,  with  an  infant  in  her 
arms  ; a younger  woman  not  so  plump,  but  ap- 
ple-faced also,  who  led  a plump  and  apple-faced 
child  in  each  hand  ; another  plump  and  also 
apple-faced  boy  who  walked  by  himself ; and 
finally,  a plump  and  apple-faced  man,  who  car- 
ried in  his  arms  another  plump  and  apple-faced 
boy,  whom  he  stood  down  on  the  floor,  and  ad- 
monished, in  a husky  whisper,  to  “ kitch  hold 
of  his  brother  Johnny.” 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  2. 

MOTHERS— The  virtues  of. 

I think  it  must  be  somewhere  written  that  the 
virtues  of  the  mothers  shall,  occasionally,  be 
visited  on  the  children,  as  well  as  the  sins  of  the 
fathers. — Bleak  House , Chap.  17. 

MOUNTAINS  Water  among:  the. 

Commend  me  to  the  beautiful  waters  among 
these  mountains!  Though  I was  not  of  their 
mind,  they  being  inveterately  bent  on  getting 
down  into  the  level  country,  and  I ardently  de- 
siring to  linger  where  I was.  What  desperate 
leaps  they  took  ! what  dark  abysses  they  plunged 
into!  what  rocks  they  wore  away!  what  echoes 
they  invoked  ! In  one  part  where  1 went  they 
were  pressed  into  the  service  of  carrying  wood 
down,  to  be  burnt  next  winter,  as  costly  fuel,  in 


Italy.  But  their  fierce,  savage  nature  was  not 
to  be  easily  constrained,  and  they  fought  with 
every  limb  of  the  wood  ; whirling  it  round  and 
round,  stripping  its  bark  away,  dashing  it  against 
pointed  corners,  driving  it  out  of  the  course,  and 
roaring  and  flying  at  the  peasants  who  steered  it 
back  again  from  the  bank  with  long,  stout  poles. 
Alas  ! concurrent  streams  of  time  and  water  car- 
ried me  down  fast,  and  I came,  on  an  exquisitely 
clear  day,  to  the  Lausanne  shore  of  the  Lake  of 
Geneva,  where  I stood  looking  at  the  bright 
blue  water,  the  flushed  white  mountains  oppo- 
site, and  the  boats  at  my  feet  with  their  furled 
Mediterranean  sails,  showing  like  enormous 
magnifications  of  this  goose-quill  pen  that  is 
now  in  my  hand. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  7. 

MOURNING  GARB -The  chilling  influ- 
ence of. 

Kate  might  have  said  that  mourning  is  some- 
times the  coldest  wear  which  mortals  can  as- 
sume ; that  it  not  only  chills  the  breasts  of  those 
it  clothes,  but  extending  its  influence  to  summer 
friends,  freezes  up  their  sources  of  good  will  and 
kindness  ; and  withering  all  the  buds  of  prom- 
ise they  once  so  liberally  put  forth,  leaves  noth- 
ing but  bared  and  rotten  hearts  exposed.  There 
are  few  who  have  lost  a friend  or  relative  con- 
stituting in  life  their  sole  dependence,  who  have 
not  keenly  felt  this  chilling  influence  of  their 
sable  garb.  She  had  felt  it  acutely,  and  feeling 
it  at  the  moment,  could  not  quite  restrain  her 
tears. — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  17. 

MRS.  MACSTINGER  AND  CAPTAIN 
CUTTLE. 

In  the  meantime,  Mrs.  MacStinger,  who  never 
entered  upon  any  action  of  importance  without 
previously  inverting  Alexander  MacStinger,  to 
bring  him  within  the  range  of  a brisk  battery  of 
slaps,  and  then  sitting  him  down  to  cool  as  the 
reader  first  beheld  him,  performed  that  solemn 
rite,  as  if  on  this  occasion  it  were  a sacrifice  to 
the  Furies. 

* * * * * 

“ Oh,  Cap’en  Cuttle,  Cap’en  Cuttle  ! ” said 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  making  her  chin  rigid,  and 
shaking  it  in  unison  with  what,  but  for  the 
weakness  of  her  sex,  might  be  described  as  her 
fist.  “ Oh,  Cap’en  Cuttle,  Cap’en  Cuttle,  do 
you  dare  to  look  me  in  the  face,  and  not  be 
struck  down  in  the  herth  !” 

The  Captain,  who  looked  anything  but  dar- 
ing, feebly  muttered  “ Stand  by  ! ” 

* -*  * * * 

“ And  he  runs  awa-a-a-ay  !”  cried  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger, with  a lengthening  out  of  the  last  sylla- 
ble that  made  the  unfortunate  Captain  regard 
himself  as  the  meanest  of  men  ; “ and  keeps 
away  a twelvemonth  ! From  a woman  ! Sitch 
is  his  conscience  ! He  hasn’t  the  courage  to 
meet  her  hi-i-i-igh  long  syllable  again  ; “ but 
steals  away  like  a felion.  Why,  if  that  baby  of 
mine,”  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  sudden  ra- 
pidity, “was  to  offer  to  go  and  steal  away,  I’d 
do  my  duty  as  a mother  by  him,  till  he  was  cov- 
ered with  wales.” — Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  39. 

MURDERER-Death  of  Sikes. 

“ Damn  you  ! ” cried  the  desperate  ruffian, 
throwing  up  the  sash  and  menacing  the  crowd, 

“ Do  your  worst ! I’ll  cheat  you  yet  1 ” 


MURDERER 


319 


MURDERER 


Of  all  the  terrific  yells  that  ever  fell  on  mor- 
tal ears,  none  could  exceed  the  cry  of  the  infuri- 
ated throng.  Some  shouted  to  those  who  were 
nearest  to  set  the  house  on  fire  ; others  roared 
to  the  officers  to  shoot  him  dead.  Among  them 
all,  none  showed  such  fury  as  the  man  on  horse- 
back, who,  throwing  himself  out  of  the  saddle, 
and  bursting  through  the  crowd  as  if  he  were 
parting  water,  cried,  beneath  the  window,  in  a 
voice  that  rose  above  all  others,  “ Twenty  guin- 
eas to  the  man  who  brings  a ladder ! ” 

The  nearest  voices  took  up  the  cry,  and  hun- 
dreds echoed  it.  Some  called  for  ladders,  some 
for  sledge-hammers  ; some  ran  with  torches  to 
and  fro  as  if  to  seek  them,  and  still  came  back 
and  roared  again  ; some  spent  their  breath  in 
impotent  curses  and  execrations  ; some  pressed 
forward  with  the  ecstasy  of  madmen,  and  thus  im- 
peded the  progress  of  those  below  ; some  among 
the  boldest  attempted  to  climb  up  by  the  water- 
spout and  crevices  in  the  wall  ; and  all  waved 
to  and  fro,  in  the  darkness  beneath,  like  a field 
of  corn  moved  by  an  angry  wind : and  joined 
from  time  to  time  in  one  loud  furious  roar. 

“ The  tide,”  cried  the  murderer,  as  he  stag- 
gered back  into  the  room,  and  shut  the  faces 
out,  “ the  tide  was  in  as  I came  up.  Give  me  a 
rope,  a long  rope.  They’re  all  in  front.  I may 
drop  into  the  Folly  Ditch,  and  clear  off  that 
way.  Give  me  a rope,  or  I shall  do  three  more 
murders  and  kill  myself.” 

The  panic-stricken  men  pointed  to  where  such 
articles  were  kept ; the  murderer,  hastily  se- 
lecting the  longest  and  strongest  cord,  hurried 
up  to  the  housetop. 

All  the  windows  in  the  rear  of  the  house  had 
been  long  ago  bricked  up,  except  one  small  trap 
in  the  room  where  the  boy  was  locked,  and  that 
was  too  small  even  for  the  passage  of  his  body. 
But,  from  this  aperture,  he  had  never  ceased  to 
call  on  those  without  to  guard  the  back  ; and 
thus  when  the  murderer  emerged  at  last  on  the 
housetop  by  the  door  in  the  roof,  a loud  shout 
proclaimed  the  fact  to  those  in  front,  who  im- 
mediately began  to  pour  round,  pressing  upon 
each  other  in  one  unbroken  stream. 

He  planted  a board  which  He  had  carried  up 
with  him  for  the  purpose,  so  firmly  against  the 
door  that  it  must  be  matter  of  great  difficulty  to 
open  it  from  the  inside  ; and  creeping  over  the 
tiles,  looked  over  the  low  parapet. 

The  water  was  out,  and  the  ditch  a bed  of 
mud. 

The  cro\yd  had  been  hushed  during  these  few 
moments,  watching  his  motions  and  doubtful  of 
his  purpose,  but  the  instant  they  perceived  it 
and  knew  it  was  defeated,  they  raised  a cry  of 
triumphant  execration  to  which  all  their  pi-e- 
vious  shouting  had  been  whispers.  Again  and 
again  it  rose.  Those  wjio  were  at  too  great  a 
distance  to  know  its  pieaning,  took  up  the 
sound  : it  echoed  and  reechoed  : it  seemed  as 
though  the  whole  city  had  poured  its  popula- 
tion out  to  curse  him. 

On  pressed  the  people  from  the  front — on, 
on,  on,  in  a strong  struggling  current  of  angry 
faces,  with  here  and  there  a glaring  torch  to 
light  them  up,  and  show  them  out  in  all  their 
wrath  and  passion.  The  houses  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  ditch  had  been  entered  by  the  mob  ; 
sashes  were  thrown  up,  or  torn  bodily  out ; there 
were  tiers  and  tiers  of  faces  in  every  window  ; 
and  cluster  upon  cluster  of  people  clinging  to 


every  house-top.  Each  little  bridge  (and  there 
were  three  in  sight)  bent  beneath  the  weigh*  of 
the  crowd  upon  it.  Still  the  current  poured  on 
to  find  some  nook  or  hole  from  which  to  vent 
their  shouts,  and  only  for  an  instant  see  the 
wretch. 

“ They  have  him  now,”  cried  a man  on  the 
nearest  bridge.  “ Hurrah  ! ” 

The  crowd  grew  light  with  uncovered  heads  ; 
and  again  the  shouts  uprose. 

“ I will  give  fifty  pounds,”  cried  an  old  gen- 
tleman from  the  same  quarter.  “ to  the  man  who 
takes  him  alive.  I will  remain  here  till  he  comes 
to  ask  me  for  it.” 

There  was  another  roar.  At  this  moment  the 
word  was  passed  among  the  crowd  that  the  door 
was  forced  at  last,  and  that  he  who  had  first 
called  for  the  ladder  had  mounted  into  the 
room.  The  stream  abruptly  turned,  as  this  in- 
telligence ran  from  mouth  to  mouth  ; and  the 
people  at  the  windows,  seeing  those  upon  the 
bridges  pouring  back,  quitted  their  stations,  and 
running  into  the  street,  joined  the  concourse 
that  now  thronged  pell-mell  to  the  spot  they 
had  left : each  man  crushing  and  striving  with 
his  neighbor,  and  all  panting  with  impatience 
to  get  near  the  door,,  and  look  upon  the  criminal 
as  the  officers  brought  him  out.  The  cries  and 
shrieks  of  those  who  were  pressed  almost  to 
suffocation,  or  trampled  down  and  trodden  un- 
der foot  in  the  confusion,  were  dreadful  ; the 
narrow  ways  were  completely  blocked  up  ; and 
at  this  time,  between  the  rush  of  some  to  regain 
the  space  in  front  of  the  house,  and  the  unavail- 
ing struggles  of  others  to  extricate  themselves 
from  the  mass,  the  immediate  attention  was  dis- 
tracted from  the  murderer,  although  the  univer- 
sal eagerness  for  his  capture  was,  if  possible, 
increased. 

The  man  had  shrunk  down,  thoroughly  quell- 
ed by  the  ferocity  of  the  crowd,  and  the  impos- 
sibility of  escape  ; but  seeing  this  sudden 
change  with  no  less  rapidity  than  it  had  oc- 
curred, he  sprang  upon  his  feet,  determined  to 
make  one  last  effort  for  his  life  by  dropping 
into  the  ditch,  and,  at  the  risk  of  being  stifled, 
endeavoring  to  creep  away  in  the  darkness  and 
confusion. 

Roused  into  new  strength  and  energy,  and 
stimulated  by  the  noise  within  the  house,  which 
announced  that  an  entrance  had  really  been 
effected,  he  set  his  foot  against  the  stack  of 
chimneys,  fastened  one  encl  of  the  rope  tightly 
and  firmly  round  it,  and  with  the  other  made  a 
strong  running  noose  by  the  aid  of  his  hands 
and  teeth  almost  in  a second.  He  could  let 
himself  down  by  the  cord  to  within  a less  dis- 
tance of  the  ground  than  his  own  height,  and 
had  his  knife  ready  in  his  hand  to  cut  it  then 
and  drop. 

At  the  very  instant  when  he  brought  the  loop 
over  his  head  previous  to  slipping  it  beneath  his 
arm-pits,  and  when  the  old  gentleman  before  men- 
tioned (who  had  clung  so  tight  to  the  railing  of 
the  bridge  as  to  resist  the  force  of  the  crowd, 
and  retain  his  position)  earnestly  warned  those 
about  him  that  the  man  was  about  to  lower  him- 
self down — at  that  very  instant  the  murderer, 
looking  behind  him  on  the  roof,  threw  his  arms 
above  his  head,  and  uttered  a yell  of  terror. 

“ The  eyes  again  ! ” he  cried,  in  an  unearthly 
screech. 

Staggering  as  if  struck  by  lightning,  he  lost 


MURDERER 


320 


MURDERER 


his  balance  and  tumbled  over  the  para- 
pet. The  noose  was  at  his  neck.  It  ran  up 
with  his  weight,  tight  as  a bow-string,  and  swift 
as  the  arrow  it  speeds.  He  fell  f6r  five-and- 
thirty  feet.  There  was  a sudden  jerk,  a terrific 
convulsion  of  the  limbs  ; and  there  he  hung, 
with  the  open  knife  clinched  in  his  stiffening 
hand. 

The  old  chimney  quivered  with  the  shock, 
but  stood  it  bravely.  The  murderer  swung 
lifeless  against  the  wall ; and  the  boy,  thrusting 
aside  the  dangling  body  which  obscured  his 
view,  called  to  the  people  to  come  ancl  take 
him  out,  for  God’s  sake. 

A dog  which  had  lain  concealed  till  now,  ran 
backward  and  forward  on  the  parapet  with  a 
dismah  howl,  and,  collecting  himself  for  a 
spring,  jumped  for  the  dead  man’s  shoulders. 
Missing  his  aim,  he  fell  into  the  ditch,  turning 
completely  over  as  he  went ; and  striking  his 
head  against  a stone,  dashed  out  his  brains. 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  50. 

MURDERER— Discovered. 

An  irrepressible  exclamation  burst  from  the 
lips  of  Jonas,  as  Lewsome  entered  at  the  door. 
It  was  not  a groan,  or  a shriek,  or  a word,  but 
was  wholly  unlike  any  sound  that  had  ever 
fallen  on  the  ears  of  those  who  heard  it,  while 
at  the  same  time  it  was  the  most  sharp  and  ter- 
rible expression  of  what  was  working  in  his 
guilty  breast,  that  nature  could  have  invented. 

He  had  done  murder  for  this  ! He  had  gir- 
dled himself  about  with  perils,  agonies  of  mind, 
innumerable  fears,  for  this  ! He  had  hidden  his 
secret  in  the  wood ; pressed  and  stamped  it 
down  into  the  bloody  ground  ; and  here  it 
started  up  when  least  expected,  miles  upon  miles 
away  ; known  to  many  ; proclaiming  itself  from 
the  lips  of  an  old  man,  who  had  renewed  his 
strength  and  vigor  as  by  a miracle,  to  give  it 
voice  against  him  ! 

* * * * * 

Jonas  knew  that  they  were  on  his  heels,  and 
felt  that  they  were  resolute  to  run  him  to  de- 
struction. Inch  by  inch  the  ground  beneath 
him  was  sliding  from  his  feet  ; faster  and  faster 
the  encircling  ruin  contracted  and  contracted 
towards  himself,  its  wicked  centre,  until  it  should 
close  in  and  crush  him. 

And  now  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  accom- 
plice stating  to  his  face,  with  every  circumstance 
of  time  and  place  and  incident  ; and  openly 
proclaiming,  with  no  reserve,  suppression,  pas- 
sion, or  concealment,  all  the  truth.  The  truth, 
which  nothing  would  keep  down  ; which  blood 
would  not  smother,  and  earth  would  not  hide 
the  truth,  whose  terrible  inspiration  seemed  to 
change  dotards  into  strong  men  ; and  on  whose 
avenging  wings,  one  whom  he  had  supposed  to 
be  at  the  extremest  corner  of  the  earth  came 
swooping  down  upon  him. 

* * sn  * -x- 

Nadgett  foremost. 

I lark  ! It  came  on,  roaring  like  a sea  ! Hawk- 
ers burst  into  the  street,  crying  it  up  and  down  ; 
windows  were  thrown  open  that  the  inhabitants 
might  hear  it  ; people  slopped  to  listen  in  the 
road  and  on  the  pavement  ; the  bells,  the  same 
bells,  began  to  ring';  tumbling  over  one  another 
in  a dance  of  boisterous  joy  at  the  discovery 
(that  was  the  sound  they  had  in  his  distempered 


thoughts),  and  making  their  airy  playground 
rock.  . 

“That  is  the  man,”  said  Nadgett.  “ By  the 
window  ! ” 

Three  others  came  in,  laid  hands  upon  him, 
and  secured  him.  It  was  so  quickly  done,  that 
he  had  not  lost  sight  of  the  informer’s  face  for 
an  instant  when  his  wrists  were  manacled  to- 
gether. 

“ Murder,”  said  Nadgett,  looking  round 
on  the  astonished  group.  “ Let  no  one  inter- 
fere.” 

The  sounding  street  repeated  Murder;  bar- 
barous and  dreadful  Murder;  Murder,  Murder, 
Murder.  Rolling  on  from  house  to  house,  and 
echoing  from  stone  to  stone,  until  the  voices  died 
away  into  the  distant  hum,  which  seemed  to 
mutter  the  same  word  ! 

They  all  stood  silent;  listening,  and  gazing  in 
each  other’s  faces,  as  the  noise  passed  on. 

* S[!  * * * 

“ How  do  you  know  much  ? ” 

“ I have  not  been  watching  him  so  long  for 
nothing,”  returned  Nadgett.  “I  never  watched 
a man  so  close  as  I have  watched  him.” 

Another  of  the  phantom  forms  of  this  terrific 
Truth!  Another  of  the  many  shapes  in* which 
it  started  up  about  him,  out  of  vacancy.  This 
man,  of  all  men  in  the  world,  a spy  upon  him  ; 
this  man,  changing  his  identity  : casting  off  his 
shrinking,  purblind,  unobservant  character,  and 
springing  up  into  a watchful  enemy  ! The  dead 
man  might  have  come  out  of  his  grave,  and  not 
confounded  and  appalled  him  more. 

The  game  was  up.  The  race  was  at  an  end  ; 
the  rope  was  woven  for  his  neck.  If  by  a mira- 
cle, he  could  escape  from  this  strait,  he  had  but 
to  turn  his  face  another  w'ay,  no  matter  where, 
and  there  would  rise  some  new  avenger,  front 
to  front  with  him  ; some  infant  in  an  hour  grown 
old,  or  old  man  in  an  hour  grown  young,  or 
blind  man  with  his  sight  restored,  or  deaf  man 
with  his  hearing  given  him.  There  was  no 
chance.  He  sank  down  in  a heap  against  the 
wall,  and  never  hoped  again  from  that  moment. 

* * * * * 

He  whined,  ahd  cried,  and  cursed,  and  en- 
treated them,  and  struggled,  and  submitted,  in 
the  same  breath,  and  had  no  power  to  stand. 
They  got  him  away  and  into  the  coach,  where 
they  put  him  on  a seat  ; but  he  soon  fell  moan- 
ing down  among  the  straw  at  the  bottom,  and 
lay  there. 

The  two  men  were  with  him,  Slyme  being  on 
the  box  with  the  driver ; and  they  let  him  lie. 
Happening  to  pass  a fruiterer’s  on  their,  way; 
the  door  of  which  was  open,  though  the  shop 
was  by  this  time  shut ; one  of  them  remarked 
how  faint  the  peaches  smelt. 

The  other  assented  at  the  moment,  but  pres- 
ently stooped  down  in  quick  alarm,  and  looked 
at  the  prisoner. 

“ Stop  the  coach  ! He  has  poisoned  him- 
self! The  smell  comes  from  this  bottle  in  his 
hand  ! ” 

The  hand  had  shut  upon  it  tight.  With  that 
rigidity  of  grasp  with  which  no  living  man,  in 
the  full  strength  and  energy  of  life,  can  clutch 
a prize  he  has  won. 

They  dragged  him  out,  into  the  dark  street  ; 
but  jury,  judge,  and  hangman,  could  have  done 
no  more,  and  could  do  nothing  now.  Dead, 
dead,  dead  ! — Martin  Chnzzlewit , Chap.  51. 


MTJUDEHER, 


321 


MTJRDEREE 


MURDERER —His  fascination. 

He  was  aware  of  their  presence,  and  of  the 
rage,  discomfiture,  and  despair  they  brought 
along  with  them  ; but  he  thought—  of  his  own 
controlling  power  and  direction  he  thought — of 
the  one  dread  question  only.  When  they  would 
find  the  body  in  the  wood. 

He  tried — he  never  left  off  trying — not  to 
forget  it  was  there,  for  that  was  impossible,  but 
to  forget  to  weary  himself  by  drawing  vivid  pic- 
tures of  it  in  his  fancy  : by  going  softly  about  it 
and  about  it  among  the  leaves,  approaching  it 
nearer  and  nearer  through  a gap  in  the  boughs, 
and  startling  the  very  flies  that  were  thickly 
sprinkled  all  over  it,  like  heaps  of  dried  cur- 
rants. His  mind  was  fixed  and  fastened  on  the 
discovery,  for  intelligence  of  which  he  listened 
intently  to  every  cry  and  shout ; -listened  when 
any  one  came  in,  or  went  cuit ; watched  from 
the  window  the  people  who  passed  up  and  down 
the  street ; mistrusted  his  own  looks  and  words. 
And  the  more  his  thoughts  were  set  upon  the 
discovery,  the  stronger  was  the  fascination  which 
attracted  them  to  the  thing  itself,  lying  alone  in 
the  wood.  He  was  for  ever  showing  and  present- 
ing it,  as  it  were,  to  every  creature  whom  he 
saw.  “ Look  hei*e  ! Do  you  know  of  this.?  Is 
it  found  ? Do  you  suspect  me  ? ” If  he  had 
been  condemned  to  bear  the  body  in  his  arms, 
and  lay  it  down  for  recognition  at  the  feet  of 
every  one  he  met,  it  could  not  have  been  more 
constantly  with  him,  or  a cause  of  more  monoto- 
nous and  dismal  occupation  than  it  was  in  this 
state  of  his  mind. 

Martin  Chuzzleivit,  Chap.  51. 

MURDERER-His  fears. 

The  passage  way  was  empty  when  his  mur- 
derer’s face  looked  into  it.  He  stole  on,  to  the 
door,  on  tiptoe,  as  if  he  dreaded  to  disturb  his 
own  imaginary  rest. 

He  listened.  Not  a sound.  As  he  turned 
the  key  with  a trembling  hand,  and  pushed  the 
door  softly  open  with  his  knee,  a monstrous 
fear  beset  his  mind. 

What  if  the  murdered  man  were  there  before 
him  ! 

He  cast  a fearful  glance  all  round.  But  there 
was  nothing  there. 

He  went  in,  locked  the  door,  drew  the  key 
through  and  through  the  dust  and  damp  in  the 
fire-place  to  sully  it  again,  and  hung  it  up  as  of 
old.  He  took  off  his  disguise,  tied  it  up  in  a 
bundle  ready  for  carrying  away  and  sinking  in 
the  river  before  night,  and  locked  it  up  in  a 
cupboard.  These  precautions  taken,  he  un- 
dressed, and  went  to  bed. 

The  raging  thirst  ; the  fire  that  burnt  within 
him  as  he  lay  beneath  the  clothes  ; the  aug- 
mented horror  of  the  room,  when  they  shut  it 
out  from  his  view ; the  agony  of  listening,  in 
which  he  paid  enforced  regard  to  every  sound, 
and  thought  the  most  unlikely  one  the  prelude 
to  that  knocking  which  should  bi'ing  the  news  ; 
the  starts  with  which  he  left  his  couch,  and, 
looking  in  the  glass,  imagined  that  his  deed 
was  broadly  written  in  his  face  ; and  lying  down 
and  burying  himself  once  more  beneath  the 
blankets,  heard  his  own  heart  beating  Murder, 
Murder,  Murder,  in  the  bed  ; what  words  can 
paint  tremendous  truths  like  these  ! 

* * * * -x- 

The  sun  was  welcome  to  him.  There  were 


life  and  motion,  and  a world  astir,  to  divide 
the  attention  of  Day.  It  was  the  eye  of  Night ; 
of  wakeful,  watchful,  silent,  and  attentive  Night, 
with  so  much  leisure  for  the  observation  of  his 
wicked  thoughts,  that  he  dreaded  most.  There 
is  no  glare  in  the  night.  Even  Glory  shows  to 
small  advantage  in  the  night,  upon  a crowded 
battle-field.  How  then  shows  Glory’s  blood  re- 
lation, bastard  Murder ! 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  47. 

MURDERER- His  purpose. 

Did  no  men  passing  through  the  dim  streets 
shrink  without  knowing  why,  when  he  came 
stealing  up  behind  them?  As  he  glided  on,  had 
no  child  in  its  sleep  an  indistinct  perception  of 
a guilty  shadow  falling  on  its  bed,  that  troubled 
its  innocent  rest  ? Did  no  dog  howl,  and  strive 
to  break  its  rattling  chain,  that  it  might  tear 
him  ; no  burrowing  rat,  scenting  the  work  he  had 
in  hand,  essay  to  gnaw  a passage  after  him,  that 
it  might  hold  a greedy  revel  at  the  feast  of  his 
providing?  When  he  looked  back,  across  his 
shoulder,  was  it  to  see  if  his  quick  footsteps  still 
fell  dry  upon  the  dusty  pavement,  or  were  already 
moist  and  clogged  with  the  red  mire  that  stained 
the  naked  feet  of  Cain  ? 

^ 

It  is  a common  fancy  that  nature  seems  to 
sleep  by  night.  It  is  a false  fancy,  as  who  should 
know  better  than  he  ? 

The  fishes  slumbered  in  the  cold,  bright  glis- 
tening streams  and  rivers,  perhaps  ; and  the  birds 
roosted  on  the  branches  of  the  trees  ; and  in 
their  stalls  and  pastures  beasts  were  quiet  ; and 
human  creatures  slept.  But  what  of  that,  when 
the  solemn  night  was  watching,  when  it  never 
winked,  when  its  darkness  watched  no  less  than 
its  light ! The  stately  trees,  the  moon  and  shin-' 
ing  stars,  the  softly-stirring  wind,  the  over- shad- 
owed lane,  the  broad,  bright  country-side,  they 
all  kept  watch.  There  was  not  a blade  of  grow- 
ing grass  or  corn,  but  watched  ; and  the  quieter 
it  was,  the  more  intent  and  fixed  its  watch  upon 
him  seemed  to  be. 

And  yet  he  slept.  Riding  on  among  those 
sentinels  of  God,  he  slept,  and  did  not  change 
the  purpose  of  his  journey.  If  he  forgot  it  in 
his  troubled  dreams,  it  came  up  steadily,  and 
woke  him.  But  it  never  woke  him  to  remorse, 
or  to  abandonment  of  his  design. 

4:  % # * 

If  there  be  fluids,  as  we  know  there  are, 
which,  conscious  of  a coming  wind,  or  rain,  or 
frost,  will  shrink  and  strive  to  hide  themselves 
in  their  glass  arteries  ; may  not  that  subtle  liquor 
of  the  blood  perceive  by  properties  within  itself, 
that  hands  are  raised  to  waste  and  spill  it  ; and 
in  the  veins  of  men  run  cold  and  dull  as  his  did, 
in  that  hour  ? 

So  cold,  although  the  air  was  warm  ; so  dull, 
although  the  sky  was  bright  : that  he  rose  up, 
shivering,  from  his  seat,  and  hastily  resumed  his 
walk.  He  checked  himself  as  hastily  : undecid- 
ed whether  to  pursue  the  footpath  which  was 
lonely  and  retired,  or  to  go  back  by  the  road. 

He  took  the  footpath. 

The  glory  of  the  departing  sun  was  on  his  face. 
The  music  of  the  birds  was  in  his  ears.  Sweet 
wild-flowers  bloomed  about  him.  Thatched 
roofs  of  poor  men’s  homes  were  in  the  distance  ; 
and  an  old  gray  spire,  surmounted  by  a Cross, 
rose  up  between  him  and  the  coming  night. 


MURDERER 


322 


MURDERER 


Me  had  never  read  the  lesson  which  these 
things  conveyed  ; he  had  ever  mocked  and  turned 
away  from  it ; but,  before  going  down  into  a hol- 
low place,  he  looked  round,  once,  upon  the 
evening  prospect,  sorrowfully.  Then  he  went 
down,  down,  down,  into  the  dell. 

* * * * * 

The  last  rays  of  the  sun  were  shining  in, 
jislant,  making  a path  of  golden  light  along  the 
stems  and  branches  in  its  range,  which,  even  as 
he  looked,  began  to  die  away,  yielding  gently  to 
the  twilight  that  came  creeping  on.  It  was  so 
very  quiet  that  the  soft  and  stealthy  moss  about 
the  trunks  of  some  old  trees,  seemed  to  have 
grown  out  of  the  silence,  and  to  be  its  proper 
offspring.  Those  other  trees  which  were  subdued 
by  blasts  of  wind  in  winter-time,  had  not  quite 
tumbled  down,  but  being  caught  by  others,  lay 
all  bare  and  scathed  across  their  leafy  arms,  as 
if  unwilling  to  disturb  the  general  repose  by 
the  crash  of  their  fall.  Vistas  of  silence  opened 
everywhere,  into  the  heart  and  innermost  recesses 
of  the  wood  ; beginning  with  the  likeness  of  an 
aisle,  a cloister,  or  a ruin  open  to  the  sky  ; then 
tangling  off  into  a deep,  green,  rustling  mystery, 
through  which  gnarled  trunks,  and  twisted 
boughs,  and  ivy-covered  stems,  and  trembling 
leaves,  and  bark-stripped  bodies  of  old  trees 
stretched  out  at  length,  were  faintly  seen  in 
beautiful  confusion. 

* * * * * 
What  had  he  left  within  the  wood,  that  he 
sprang  out  of  it,  as  if  it  were  a hell  ! 

The  body  of  a murdered  man.  In  one  thick 
solitary  spot,  it  lay  among  the  last  year’s  leaves 
of  oak  and  beech,  just  as  it  had  fallen  headlong 
down.  Sopping  and  soaking  in  among  the  leaves 
that  formed  its  pillow  ; oozing  down  into  the 
boggy  ground,  as  if  to  cover  itself  from  human 
sight ; forcing  its  way  between  and  through  the 
curling  leaves,  as  if  those  senseless  things  re- 
jected and  forswore  it,  and  were  coiled  up  in 
abhorrence,  went  a dark,  dark  stain  that  dyed 
the  whole  summer  night  from  earth  to  heaven. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  47. 

MURDERER— The  phantom  of  the. 

He  went  on  doggedly  ; but  as  he  left  the  town 
behind  him,  and  plunged  into  the  solitude  and 
darkness  of  the  road,  he  felt  a dread  and  awe 
creeping  upon  him  which  shook  him  to  the  core. 
Every  object  before  him,  substance  or  shadow, 
still  or  moving,  took  the  semblance  of  some 
fearful  thing  ; but  these  fears  were  nothing  com- 
pared to  the  sense  that  haunted  him  of  that  morn- 
ing’s ghastly  figure  following  at  his  heels.  He 
could  trace  its  shadow  in  the  gloom,  supply  the 
lie  .1  item  of  the  outline,  and  note  how  stiff 
and  solemn  it  seemed  to  stalk  along.  He  could 
hear  its  garments  rustling  in  the  leaves  ; and 
every  breath  of  wind  came  laden  with  that  last 
low  cry.  If  he  stopped  it  did  the  same.  If  he 
ran,  it  followed — not  running  too  ; that  would 
have  been  a relief ; but  like  a corpse  endowed 
with  the  mere  machinery  of  life,  and  borne  on 
one  slow  melancholy  wind  that  never  rose  or 
fell. 

At  times  he  turned,  with  desperate  determina- 
tion, resolved  to  beat  this  phantom  off,  though  it 
should  look  him  dead  ; but  the  hair  rose  on  his 
head,  and  his  blood  stood  still  : for  it  had  turned 
with  him  and  was  behind  him  then.  I le  had  kept 
it  before  him  that  morning,  but  it  was  behind 


him  now — always.  He  leaned  his  back  against  a 
bank,  and  felt  that  it  stood  above  him,  visibly  out 
against  the  cold  night-sky.  He  threw  himself 
upon  the  road — on  his  back  upon  the  road.  At 
his  head  it  stood,  silent,  erect,  and  still — a living 
gravestone,  with  its  epitaph  in  blood. 

Let  no  man  talk  of  murderers  escaping  jus- 
tice, and  hint  that  Providence  must  sleep.  There 
were  twenty-score  of  violent  deaths  in  one  long 
minute  of  that  agony  of  fear. 

There  was  a shed  in  a held  he  passed,  that 
offered  a shelter  for  the  night,  before  the  door 
were  three  tall  poplar-trees,  which  made  it  very 
dark  within  ; and  the  wind  moaned  through  j 
them  with  a dismal  wail.  He  could  not  walk  on 
till  daylight  came  again  ; and  here  he  stretched 
himself  close  to  the  wall — to  undergo  new  tor- 
ture. 

For  now,  a vision  came  before  him,  as  con 
stant  and  more  terrible  than  that  from  which  he 
had  escaped.  Those  widely  staring  eyes,  so 
lustreless  and  so  glassy,  that  he  had  better  borne 
to  see  them  than  think  upon  them,  appeared  in 
the  midst  of  the  darkness  ; light  in  themselves, 
but  giving  light  to  nothing.  There  were  but  two, 
but  they  were  everywhere.  If  he  shut  out  the 
sight,  there  came  the  room  with  every  well- 
known  object — some,  indeed,  that  he  would 
have  forgotten,  if  he  had  gone  over  its  contents 
from  memory— each  in  its  accustomed  place. 
The  body  was  in  its  place,  and  its  eyes  were  as 
he  saw  them  when  he  stole  away.  He  got  up, 
and  rushed  into  the  field  without.  The  figure 
was  behind  him.  He  re-entered  the  shed,  and 
shrank  down  once  more.  The  eyes  were  there, 
before  he  had  lain  himself  along. 

And  here  he  remained  in  such  terror  as  none 
but  he  can  know,  trembling  in  every  limb,  and 
the  cold  sweat  starting  from  every  pore,  when 
suddenly  there  arose  upon  the  night-wind  the 
noise  of  distant  shouting,  and  the  roar  of  voices 
mingled  in  alarm  and  wonder.  Any  sound  of 
men  in  that  lonely  place,  even  though  it  con- 
veyed a real  cause  of  alarm,  was  something  to 
him.  He  regained  his  strength  and  energy  at 
the  prospect  of  personal  danger  ; and,  springing 
to  his  feet,  rushed  into  the  open  air. 

Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  48. 

MURDERER— The  philosophy  of  the. 

The  miserable  man  whom  he  had  released  for 
the  time,  but  not  for  long,  went  on  towards  Lon- 
don. Bradley  was  suspicious  of  every  sound  he 
heard,  and  of  every  face  he  saw,  but  was  under 
a spell  which  very  commonly  falls  upon  the  shed- 
der  of  blood,  and  had  no  suspicion  of  the  real 
danger  that  lurked  in  his  life,  and  would  have  it 
yet  & Riderhood  was  much  in  his  thoughts 
had  never  been  out  of  his  thoughts  since  the 
night-adventure  of  their  first  meeting ; but 
Riderhood  occupied  a very  different  place  there, 
from  the  place  of  pursuer  ; and  Bradley  had 
been  at  the  pains  of  devising  so  many  means  of 
fitting  that  place  to  him,  and  of  wedging  him 
into  "it,  that  his  mind  could  not  compass  the 
possibility  of  his  occupying  any  other  Aj-d 
this  is  another  spell  against  which  the  shedder 
of  blood  forever  strives  in  vain.  There  are  fifty 
doors  by  which  discovery  may  enter.  With  in- 
finite pains  and  cunning,  he  double  locks  and 
bars  forty-nine  of  them,  and  cannot  see  the 
fiftieth  standing  wide  open.  . 

Now,  too,  was  he  cursed  with  a state  of  mind 


MUSIC 


323 


MUSIC 


more  wearing  and  more  wearisome  than  remorse. 
He  had  no  remorse,  but  the  evil-doer  who  can 
hold  that  avenger  at  bay,  cannot  escape  the 
slower  torture  of  incessantly  doing  the  evil 
deed  again  and  doing  it  more  efficiently.  In 
the  defensive  declarations  and  pretended  con- 
fessions of  murderers,  the  pursuing  shadow  of 
this  torture  may  be  traced  through  every  lie  they 
tell.  If  I had  done  it  as  alleged,  is  it  conceiv- 
able that  I would  have  made  this  and  this 
mistake?  If  I had  done  it  as  alleged,  should 
I have  left  that  unguarded  place  which  that 
false  and  wicked  witness  against  me  so  in- 
famously deposed  to  ? The  state  of  that  wretch 
who  continually  finds  the  weak  spots  in  his 
own  crime,  and  strives  to  strengthen  them  when 
it  is  unchangeable,  is  a state  that  aggravates 
the  offence  by  doing  the  deed  a thousand  times 
instead  of  once ; but  it  is  a state,  too,  that 
tauntingly  visits  the  offence  upon  a sullen,  un- 
repentant nature  with  its  heaviest  punishment 
every  time. 

Bradley  toiled  on,  chained  heavily  to  the  idea 
of  his  hatred  and  his  vengeance,  and  thinking 
how  he  might  have  satiated  both  in  many  bet- 
* ter  ways  than  the  way  he  had  taken.  The  in- 
strument might  have  been  better,  the  spot  and 
the  hour  might  have  been  better  chosen.  To 
batter  a man  down  from  behind  in  the  dark,  on 
the  brink  of  a river,  was  well  enough,  but  he 
ought  to  have  been  instantly  disabled,  whereas 
he  had  turned  and  seized  his  assailant  ; and  so, 
to  end  it  before  chance-help  came,  and  to  be 
rid  of  him,  he  had  been  hurriedly  thrown  back- 
ward into  the  river  before  the  life  was  fully 
beaten  out  of  him.  Now,  if  it  could  be  done 
again,  it  must  not  be  so  done.  Supposing  his 
head  had  been  held  down  under  water  for  a 
while.  Supposing  the  first  blow  had  been  truer. 
Supposing  he  had  been  shot.  Supposing  he  had 
been  strangled.  Suppose  this  way,  that  way, 
the  other  way.  Suppose  anything  but  getting 
unchained  from  the  one  idea,  for  that  was  in- 
exorably impossible. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  IV .,  Chap.  7. 

MUSIC— A melodious  snore. 

He  had  not  what  may  be  called  a fine  ear  for 
music,  but  he  knew  when  it  had  a tranquillizing 
influence  on  his  soul  ; and  that  was  the  case 
now,  for  it  sounded  to  him  like  a melodious 
snore. — Alarlin  Cl  Mizzle  wit.  Chap.  31. 

MUSIC  A serenade  at  Todg-ers’. 

The  young  ladies  were  at  first  so  much  excit- 
ed by  the  news,  that  they  vowed  they  couldn’t 
think  of  going  to  bed  until  the  serenade  was 
over.  But  half  an  hour  of  cool  waiting  so  altered 
their  opinion  that  they  not  only  went  to  bed,  but 
fell  asleep;  and  were,  moreover,  not  ecstatical- 
ly charmed  to  be  awakened  some  time  afterward 
by  certain  dulcet  strains  breaking  in  upon  the 
silent  watches  of  the  night. 

It  was  very  affecting,  very.  Nothing  more 
dismal  could  have  been  desired  by  the  most  fas- 
tidious taste.  The  gentleman  of  a vocal  turn 
was  head  mute,  or  chief  mourner  ; Jinkins  took 
the  bass  ; and  the  rest  took  anything  they  could 
get.  The  youngest  gentleman  blew  his  melan- 
choly into  a flute.  He  didn’t  blow  much  out 
of  it,  but  that  was  all  the  better.  If  the  two 
Miss  Pecksniffs  and  Mrs.  Todgers  had  perished 
by  spontaneous  combustion,  and  the  serenade 


had  been  in  honor  of  their  ashes,  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  surpass  the  unutterable  de- 
spair expressed  in  that  one  chorus,  “ Go  where 
glory  waits  thee  !”  It  was  a requiem,  a dirge, 
a moan,  a howl,  a wail,  a lament,  an  abstract  of 
everything  that  is  sorrowful  and  hideous  in 
sound.  The  flute  of  the  youngest  gentleman 
was  wild  and  fitful.  It  came  and  went  in  gusts 
like  the  wind.  For  a long  time  together  he 
seemed  to  have  left  off,  and  when  it  was  quite 
settled  by  Mrs.  Todgers,  and  the  young  ladies, 
that,  overcome  by  his  feelings,  he  had  retired  in 
tears,  he  unexpectedly  turned  up  again  at  the 
very  top  of  the  tune,  gasping  for  breath.  He 
was  a tremendous  performer.  There  was  no 
knowing  where  to  have  him : and  exactly  when 
you  thought  he  was  doing  nothing  at  all,  then 
was  he  doing  the  very  thing  that  ought  to 
astonish  you  most. 

There  were  several  of  these  concerted  pieces  ; 
perhaps  two  or  three  too  many,  though  that,  as 
Mrs.  Todgers  said,  was  a fault  on  the  right  side. 
But  even  then,  even  at  that  solemn  moment, 
when  the  thrilling  sounds  may  be  presumed  to 
have  penetrated  into  the  very  depths  of  his  na- 
ture, if  he  had  any  depths,  Jinkins  couldn’t 
leave  the  youngest  gentleman  alone.  He  asked 
him  distinctly,  before  the  second  song  began — 
as  a personal  favor  too,  mark  the  villain  in  that 
— not  to  play.  Yes  ; he  said  so  ; not  to  play. 
The  breathing  of  the  youngest  gentleman  was 
heard  through  the  key-hole  of  the  door.  He 
didn't  play.  What  vent  was  a flute  for  the  pas- 
sions swelling  up  within  his  breast?  A trom- 
bone would  have  been  a world  too  mild. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  11. 

MUSIC— Vocal— Of  Sampson  Brass. 

Sampson  Brass  was  no  sooner  left  alone  than 
he  began  to  write  with  extreme  cheerfulness  and 
assiduity  ; humming  as  he  did  so.  in  a voice 
that  was  anything  but  musical,  certain  vocal 
snatches  which  appeared  to  have  reference  to 
the  union  between  Church  and  State,  inasmuch 
as  they  were  compounded  of  the  Evening  Hymn 
and  God  save  the  King. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  56. 

MUSIC— The  sympathy  of. 

The  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa  between  the 
two  chairs,  he  took  it  up,  without  putting  away 
the  vacant  chair,  and  sat  droning  on  it,  and 
slowly  shaking  his  head  at  the  vacant  chair,  for 
a long,  long  time.  The  expression  he  commu- 
nicated to  the  instrument  at  first,  though  mon- 
strously pathetic  and  bland,  was  nothing  to  the 
expression  he  communicated  to  his  own  face, 
and  bestowed  upon  the  empty  chair;  which  was 
so  sincere,  that  he  was  obliged  to  have  recourse 
to  Captain  Cuttle’s  remedy  more  than  once,  and 
to  rub  his  face  with  his  sleeve.  By  degrees, 
however,  the  violoncello,  in  unison  with  his  own 
frame  of  mind,  glided  melodiously  into  the  Har 
monious  Blacksmith,  which  he  played  over  and 
over  again,  until  his  ruddy  and  serene  face 
gleamed  like  true  metal  on  the  anvil  of  a veri- 
table blacksmith.  In  fine,  the  violoncello  and 
the  empty  chair  were  the  companions  of  his 
bachelorhood  until  nearly  midnight ; and  when 
he  took  his  supper,  the  violoncello,  set  up  on 
end  in  the  sofa  corner,  big  with  the  latent  har- 
mony of  a whole  family  full  of  harmonious 
blacksmiths,  seemed  to  ogle  the  empty  chair 


MUSIC 


324 


MYSTERY 


out  of  its  crooked  eyes,  with  unutterable  intel- 
ligence.— Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  58. 

A certain  skillful  action  of  his  fingers  as  he 
hummed  some  bars,  and  beat  time  on  the  seat 
beside  him,  seemed  to  denote  the  musician  ; and 
the  extraordinary  satisfaction  he  derived  from 
humming  something  very  slow  and  long,  which 
had  no  recognizable  tune,  seemed  to  denote 
that  he  was  a scientific  one. 

The  gentleman  was  still  twirling  a theme, 
which  seemed  to  go  round,  and  round,  and 
round,  and  in,  and  in,  and  in,  and  to  involve 
itself  like  a corkscrew  twirled  upon  a table, 
without  getting  any  nearer  to  anything. 

Dombey  dr3  Son,  Chap.  33. 

MUSIC -An  Overture. 

The  overture,  in  fact,  was  not  unlike  a race 
between  the  different  instruments  ; the  piano 
came  in  first  by  several  bars,  and  the  violoncello 
next,  quite  distancing  the  poor  flute  ; for  the 
deaf  gentleman  too-too'd  away,  quite  unconscious 
that  he  was  at  all  wrong,  until  apprised,  by  the 
applause  of  the  audience,  that  the  overture  was 
concluded. — Tales , Chap.  9. 

MUSIC— Mrs.  Skewton’s  definition  of. 

Undeveloped  recollections  of  a previous  state 
of  existence. — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  21. 

MUSIC— Its  associations. 

For  all  that  the  child  observed,  and  felt,  and 
thought,  that  night — the  present  and  the  absent ; 
what  was  then  and  what  had  been — were  blend- 
ed like  the  colors  in  the  rainbow,  or  in  the 
plumage  of  rich  birds  when  the  sun  is  shining 
on  them,  or  in  the  softening  sky  when  the  same 
sun  is  setting.  The  many  things  he  had  had  to 
think  of  lately,  passed  before  him  in  the  music  ; 
not  as  claiming  his  attention  over  again,  or  as 
likely  ever  more  to  occupy  it,  but  as  peacefully 
disposed  of  and  gone.  A solitary  window, 
gazed  through  years  ago,  looked  out  upon  an 
ocean,  miles  and  miles  away  ; upon  its  waters, 
fancies,  busy  with  him  only  yesterday,  were 
hushed  and  lulled  to  rest  like  broken  waves. 
The  same  mysterious  murmur  he  had  wondered 
at,  when  lying  on  his  couch  upon  the  beach,  he 
thought  he  still  heard  soundipg  through  his 
sister’s  song,  and  through  the  hum  of  voices, 
and  the  tread  of  feet,  and  having  some  part  in 
the  faces  flitting  by,  and  even  in  the  heavy  gen- 
tleness of  Mr.  'foots,  who  frequently  came  up 
to  shake  him  by  the  hand.  Through  the  uni- 
versal kindness  he  still  thought  he  heard  it, 
speaking  to  him  ; and  even  his  old-fashioned 
reputation  seemed  tp  be  allied  to  it,  he  knew 
not  how.  Thus  little  Paul  sat  musing,  listening, 
looking  on,  and  dreaming  ; and  was  very 
happy. 

***** 

When  they  all  drew  a little  away,  that  Paul 
might  see  her;  and  when  he  saw  her  sitting 
there  alone,  so  young,  and  good,  and  beautiful, 
and  kind  to  him  ; and  heard  her  thrilling  voice, 
so  natural  and  sweet,  and  such  a golden  link 
between  him  and  all  his  life’s  love  and  happi- 
ness, rising  out  of  the  silence  ; he  turned  his 
face  away  and  hid  his  tears.  Not,  as  he  told 
them  when  they  spoke  to  him,  not  that  the  mu- 
sic was  too  plaintive  or  too  sorrowful,  but  it  was 
so  d;ar  to  him. — Dombey  Ilf  Son.  Chap.  14. 


Tt  was  not  very  long  before,  in  the  midst  of 
the  dismal  house  so  wide  and  dreary,  her  low 
voice  in  the  twilight,  slowly  and  stopping  some- 
times, touched  the  old  air  to  which  he  had  so 
often  listened,  with  his  drooping  head  upon  her 
arm.  And  after  that,  and  when  it  was  quite 
dark,  a little  strain  of  music  trembled  in  the 
room  : so  softly  played  and  sung,  that  it  was 
more  like  the  mournful  recollection  of  what  she 
had  done  at  his  request  on  that  last  night,  than 
the  reality  repeated.  But  it  was  repeated, 
often — very  often,  in  the  shadowy  solitude  ; and 
broken  murmurs  of  thfe  strain  still  trembled  on 
the  keys,  when  the  sweet  voice  was  hushed  in 
tears. — Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  18. 

MUSIC— The  power  of. 

At  such  a time,  the  Christmas  music  he  had 
heard  before,  began  to  play.  He  listened  to  it 
at  first,  as  he  had  listened  in  the  churchyard  ; 
but  presently — it  playing  still,  and  being  borne 
towards  him  on  the  night  air,  in  a low,  sweet, 
melancholy  strain — he  rose,  and  stood  stretching 
his  hands  about  him,  as  if  there  were  some 
friend  approaching  within  his  reach,  on  whom 
his  desolate  touch  might  rest,  yet  do  no  harm. 
As  he  did  this,  his  face  became  less  fixed  and 
wondering  ; a gentle  trembling  came  upon  him  ; 
and  at  last  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he  put 
his  hands  before  them,  and  bowed  down  his 
head. 

His  memory  of  sorrow,  wrong,  and  trouble, 
had  not  come  back  to  him  ; he  knew  that  it  was 
not  restored  ; he  had  no  passing  belief  or  hope 
that  it  was.  But  some  dumb  stir  within  him 
made  him  capable,  again,  of  being  moved  by 
what  was  hidden,  afar  off,  in  the  music.  If  it 
were  only  that  it  told  him  sorrowfully  the  value 
of  what  he  had  lost,  he  thanked  Heaven  for 
it  with  a fervent  gratitude, 

Haunted  Man , Chap.  3. 

MYSTERY- An  enjoyable. 

For  a little  knot  of  smokers  and  solemn  gos- 
sips, who  had  seldom  any  new  topics  of  discus- 
sion, this  was  a perfect  Godsend.  Here  was  a 
good,  dark-looking  mystery  progressing  under 
that  very  roof — brought  home  to  the  fireside  as 
it  were,  and  enjoyable  without  the  smallest  pains 
or  trouble.  It  is  extraordinary  what  a zest  and 
relish  it  gave  to  the  drink,  and  how  it  heightened 
the  flavor  of  the  tobacco.  Every  man  smoked 
his  pipe  with  a face  of  grave  and  serious  delight, 
and  looked  at  his  neighbor  with  a sort  of  quiet 
congratulation.  Nay,  it  was  felt  to  be  such  a 
holiday  and  special  night,  that,  on  the  motion 
of  little  Solomon  Daisy,  every  man  (including 
John  himself)  put  down  his  sixpence  for  a can 
of  flip,  which  grateful  beverage  was  brewed  with 
all  despatch,  and  set  down  in  the  midst  of  them 
on  the  brick  floor  ; both  that  it  might  simmer 
and  stew  before  the.  fire,  and  that  its  fragrant 
steam,  rising  up  among  them  and  mixing  with 
the  wreaths  of  vapor  from  their  pipes,  might 
shroud  them  in  a delicious  atmosphere  of  their 
own,  and  shut  out  all  the  world.  The  very  fur- 
niture of  the  room  seemed  to  mellow  and  deepen 
in  its  tone  : the  ceiling  and  walls  looked  blacker 
and  more  highly  polished,  the  curtains  of  a rud- 
dier red  ; the  fire  burnt  clear  and  high,  and  the 
crickets  in  the  hearth-stone  chirped  with  a morn 
than  wonted  satisfaction. 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  11. 


MYSTERY 


325 


NAME 


MY STER  Y — A respectable. 

Littimer  touched  his  hat  in  acknowledgment 
of  my  good  opinion,  and  I felt  about  eight  years 
old.  He  touched  it  once  more,  wishing  us  a 
good  journey ; and  we  left  him  standing  on  the 
pavement,  as  respectable  a mystery  as  any  pyra- 
mid in  Egypt. — David  Copperjield,  Chap.  23. 

MYSTERY— Captain  Cuttle’s. 

The  Captain  made  signals  with  his  hook, 
warning  him  to  avoid  the  subject.  Not  that 
the  Captain’s  signals  were  calculated  to  have 
proved  very  comprehensible,  however  attentively 
observed  ; for,  like  those  Chinese  sages  who  are 
said  in  their  conferences  to  write  certain  learned 
words  in  the  air  that  are  wholly  impossible  of 
pronunciation,  the  Captain  made  such  waves 
and  flourishes  as  nobody  without  a previous 
knowledge  of  his  mystery  would  have  been  at 
all  likely  to  understand. 

Dombey  Cf  Son , Chap.  17. 

MYSTERY-The  charm  of. 

To  surround  anything,  however  monstrous  or 
ridiculous,  with  an  air  of  mystery,  is  to  invest  it 
with  a secret  charm,  and  power  of  attraction, 
which  to  the  crowd  is  irresistible.  False  priests, 
false  prophets,  false  doctors,  false  patriots,  false 
prodigies  of  every  kind,  veiling  their  proceed- 
ings in  mystery,  have  always  addressed  them- 
selves at  an  immense  advantage  to  the  popular 
credulity,  and  have  been,  perhaps,  more  indebted 
to  that  resource  in  gaining  and  keeping  for  a 
time  the  upper  hand  of  Truth  and  Common 
Sense,  than  to  any  half-dozen  items  in  the  whole 
catalogue  of  imposture.  Curiosity  is,  and  has 
been  from  the  creation  of  the  world,  a master- 
passion.  To  awaken  it,  to  gratify  it  by  slight 
degrees,  and  yet  leave  something  always  in  sus- 
pense, is  to  establish  the  surest  hold  that  can  be 
had,  in  wrong,  on  the  unthinking  portion  of 
mankind. — Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  37. 

MYSTERY-The  power  of. 

If  a man  had  stood  on  London  Bridge,  call- 
ing till  he  was  hoarse,  upon  the  passers-by,  to 
join  with  Lord  George  Gordon,  although  for  an 
object  which  no  man  understood,  and  which  in 
that  very  incident  had  a charm  of  its  own, — the 
probability  is,  that  he  might  have  influenced  a 
score  of  people  in  a month.  If  all  zealous 
Protestants  had  been  publicly  urged  to  join  an 
association  for  the  avowed  purpose  of  singing  a 
hymn  or  two  occasionally,  and  hearing  some  in- 
different speeches  made,  and  ultimately  of  peti- 
tioning Parliament  not  to  pass  an  act  abolishing 
the  penal  laws  against  Roman  Catholic  priests, 
the  penalty  of  perpetual  imprisonment  de- 
nounced against  those  who  educated  children  in 
that  persuasion,  and  the  disqualification  of  all 
members  of  the  Romish  church  to  inherit  real 
property  in  the  United  Kingdom  by  right  of 
purchase  or  descent,  — matters  so  far  removed 
from  the  business  and  bosoms  of  the  mass, 
might,  perhaps,  have  called  together  a hundred 
people.  But  when  vague  rumors  got  abroad, 
that  in  this  Protestant  association  a secret  power 
was  mustering  against  the  government  for  un- 
defined and  mighty  purposes  ; when  the  air  was 
filled  with  whispers  of  a confederacy  among  the 
Popish  powers  to  degrade  and  enslave  England, 
establish  an  inquisition  in  London,  and  turn  the 
pens  of  Smithfield  market  into  stakes  and  cal- 


drons ; when  terrors  and  alarms  which  no  man 
understood  were  perpetually  broached,  both  in 
and  out  of  Parliament,  by  one  enthusiast  who 
did  not  understand  himself;  and  bygone  bugbears 
which  had  lain  quietly  in  their  graves  for  cen- 
turies, were  raised  again  to  haunt  the  ignorant 
and  credulous ; when  all  this  was  done,  as  it 
were,  in  the  dark,  and  secret  invitations  to  join 
the  Great  Protestant  Association  in  defence  of 
religion,  life,  and  liberty,  were  dropped  in  the 
public  ways,  thrust  under  the  house-doors, 
tossed  in  at  windows,  and  pressed  into  the  hands 
of  those  who  trod  the  streets  by  night  ; when 
they  glared  from  every  wall,  and  shone  on  every 
post  and  pillar,  so  that  stocks  and  stones  ap- 
peared infected  with  the  common  fear,  urging 
all  men  to  join  together  blindfold  in  resistance 
of  they  knew  not  what,  they  knew  not  why  : — 
then  the  mania  spread  indeed,  and  the  body, 
still  increasing  every  day,  grew  forty  thousand 
strong. — Bar7iaby  Rudge , Chap.  37. 


JST 

NAME— A sign. 

They  left  me,  during  this  time,  with  a very 
nice  man,  with  a very  large  head  of  red  hair, 
and  a very  small  shiny  hat  upon  it,  who  had  got 
a cross-barred  shirt  or  waistcoat  on,  with  “ Sky- 
lark” in  capital  letters  across  the  chest.  I 
thought  it  was  his  name  ; and  that  as  he  lived 
on  board  ship,  and  hadn’t  a street-door  to  put 
his  name  on,  he  put  it  there  instead  ; but  when 
I called  him  Mr.  Skylark,  he  said  it  meant  the 
vessel. — David  Copperjield , Chap.  2. 

NAME— An  unchristian. 

“ Peggotty ! ” repeated  Miss  Betsey,  with 
some  indignation.  “ Do  you  mean  to  say,  child, 
that  any  human  being  has  gone  into  a Christian 
church,  and  got  herself  named  Peggotty?” 

David  Copperjield,  Chap.  1. 

NAME— Betsey  Trotwood’s  objection  to  a. 

“ You  remember  my  aunt,  Peggotty?”  said  I. 

“ For  the  love  of  goodness,  child,”  exclaimed 
my  aunt,  “ don’t  call  the  woman  by  that  South 
Sea  Island  name  ! If  she  married  and  got  rid  of 
it,  which  was  the  best  thing  she  could  do,  why 
don’t  you  give  her  the  benefit  of  the  change  ? 
What’s  your  name  now,- — P ? ” said  my  aunt, 
as  a compromise  for  the  obnoxious  appellation. 

“ Barkis,  ma’am,’’  said.  Peggotty,  with  a curt- 
sey. 

“Well  ! That’s  human,”  said  my  aunt.  “ It 
sounds  less  as  if  you  wanted  a Missionary.  How 
d’ye  do,  Barkis?  I hope  you’ie  well?” 

David  Coppe7'Jield,  Chap.  34. 

NAME— A morsel  of  grammar. 

“ Oh,  what  an  agreeable  man  he  is  ! ” cried 
P'eggotty,  holding  up  her  hands.  “ Then  there’s 
the  sea ; and  the  boats  and  ships ; and  the 
fishermen  ; and  the  beach  ; and  Am  to  play 
with ” 

Peggotty  meant  her  nephew  Ham,  mentioned 
in  my  first  chapter  ; but  she  spoke  of  him  as  a 
morsel  of  English  Grammar. 

David  Copperjield , Chap.  2. 


NAME 


320 


NAVY  YARD 


NAME-  An  undesirable. 

“ Babley — Mr.  Richard  Babley — that’s  the 
gentleman’s  true  name.” 

“ But  don’t  you  call  him  by  it,  whatever  you 
do.  He  can’t  bear  his  name.  That’s  a pecu- 
liarity of  his.  Though  I don’t  know  that  it’s 
much  of  a peculiarity,  either;  for  he  has  been 
ill-used  enough,  by  some  that  bear  it,  to  have  a 
mortal  antipathy  for  it.  Heaven  knows.  Mr. 
Dick  is  his  name  here,  and  everywhere  else, 
now — if  he  ever  went  anywhere  else,  which  he 
don’t.  So  take  care,  child,  you  don’t  call  him 
anything  but  Mr.  Dick.” 

, David  Copper  field,  Chap.  14. 

NAME-A  grood. 

“ ‘ Swidge  ’ is  the  appellation  by  which  they 
speak  of  Mrs.  William  in  general,  among  them- 
selves, I’m  told  ; but  that’s  what  I say,  sir.  Bet- 
ter be  called  ever  so  far  out  of  your  name,  if  it’s 
done  in  real  liking,  than  have  it  made  ever  so 
much  of,  and  not  cared  about!  What’s  a name 
for?  To  know  a person  by.  If  Mrs.  William 
is  known  by  something  better  than  her  name 
— I allude  to  Mrs.  William’s  qualities  and  dis- 
position— never  mind  her  name,  though  it  is 
Swidger,  by  rights.” — Haunted  Man,  Chap.  1. 

NAPOLEONIC  PACES— In.  art. 

As  usually  happens  in  almost  any  collection 
of  paintings,  of  any  sort,  in  Italy,  where  there 
are  many  heads,  there  is,  in  one  of  them,  a strik- 
ing accidental  likeness  of  Napoleon.  At  one 
time,  I used  to  please  my  fancy  with  the  specu- 
lation whether  these  old  painters,  at  their  work, 
had  a foreboding  knowledge  of  the  man  who 
would  one  day  arise  to  wreak  such  destruction 
upon  art  ; whose  soldiers  would  make  targets  of 
great  pictures,  and  stable  their  horses  among 
triumphs  of  architecture.  But  the  same  Corsi- 
can face  is  so  plentiful  in  some  parts  of  Italy  at 
this  day,  that  a more  commonplace  solution  of 
the  coincidence  is  unavoidable. 

Pictures  from  Italy. 

NATURE— Not  responsible  for  human  er- 
rors. 

‘ Men  fall  into  the  very  common  mistake,  of 
charging  upon  Nature  matters  with  which  she  has 
not  the  smallest  connection,  and  for  which  she 
is  in  no  way  responsible.  Men  talk  of  nature 
as  an  abstract  thing,  and  lose  sight  of  what  is 
natural  while  they  do  so.  Here  is  a poor  lad 
who  has  never  felt  a parent’s  care,  who  has 
scarcely  known  anything  all  his  life  but  suffering 
and  sorrow,  presented  to  a man  who  he  is  told 
is  his  father,  and  whose  first  act  is  to  signify  his 
intention  of  putting  an  end  to  his  short  term  of 
happiness,  of  consigning  him  to  his  old  fate,  and 
taking  him  from  the  only  friend  he  has  ever  had 
— which  is  yourself.  If  Nature,  in  such  a case, 
put  into  that  lad’s  breast  but  one  secret  prompt- 
ing which  urged  him  towards  his  father  and 
away  from  you,  she  would  be  a liar  and  an 
idiot.” — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  45. 

NATURE  Mr.  Squeers’  opinion  of. 

“ It  only  shows  what  Natur  is,  sir,”  said  Mr. 
Squeers.  “ She's  a rum  ’un,  is  Natur.” 

“She  is  a holy  tiling,  sir,”  remarked  Snawley. 

“ I believe  you,”  added  Mr.  Squeers,  with  a 
moral  sigh.  “I  should  like  to  know  how  we 
should  ever  gel  on  without  her.  Natur,”  said  Mr. 


Squeers,  solemnly,  “ is  more  easier  conceived 
than  described.  Oh  what  a blessed  thing,  sir, 
to  be  in  a state  of  natur  ! ” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  45. 

NATURE  The  child’s  love  of. 

So,  he  played  with  that  child,  the  whole  day 
long,  and  they  were  very  merry.  The  sky  was 
so  blue,  the  sun  was  so  bright,  the  water  was  so 
sparkling,  the  leaves  were  so  green,  the  flowers 
were  so  lovely,  and  they  heard  such  singing- 
birds  and  saw  so  many  butterflies,  that  every- 
thing was  beautiful.  This  was  in  fine  weather. 
When  it  rained,  they  loved  to  watch  the  falling 
drops,  and  to  smell  the  fresh  scents.  When  it 
blew,  it  was  delightful  to  listen  to  the  wind,  and 
fancy  what  it  said,  as  it  came  rushing  from  its 
home — where  was  that,  they  wondered  ! — whist- 
ling and  howling,  driving  the  clouds  before  it, 
bending  the  trees,  rumbling  in  the  chimneys, 
shaking  the  house,  and  making  the  sea  roar  in 
fury.  But  when  it  snowed,  that  was  best  of  all  ; 
for  they  liked  nothing  so  well  as  to  look  up  at 
the  white  flakes  falling  fast  and  thick,  like  down 
from  the  breasts  of  millions  of  white  birds  ; and 
to  see  how  smooth  and  deep  the  drift  was  ; and 
to  listen  to  the  hush  upon  the  paths  and  roads. 

The  Child's  ’Story.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

NAVY  YARD— Ship-buildingr  in  a. 

My  good  opinion  of  the  Yard’s  retiring  char- 
acter was  not  dashed  by  nearer  approach.  It  re- 
sounded with  the  noise  of  hammers  beating  upon 
iron  ; and  the  great  sheds  or  slips  under  which 
the  mighty  men-of-war  are  built  loomed  business- 
like when  contemplated  from  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river.  For  all  that,  however,  the  Yard 
made  no  display,  but  kept  itself  snug  under  hill- 
sides of  cornfields,  hop  gardens,  and  orchards  ; 
its  great  chimneys  smoking  with  a quiet — almost 
a lazy — air,  like  giants  smoking  tobacco  ; and  the 
great  Shears  moored  ofl  it,  looking  meekly  and 
inoffensively  out  of  proportion,  like  the  Giraffe 
of  tile  machinery  creation.  The  store  of  cannon 
on  the  neighboring  gun-wharf  had  an  innocent, 
toy-like  appearance,  and  the  one  red-coated 
sentry  on  duty  over  them  was  a mere  toy  figure, 
with  a clock-work  movement.  As  the  hot  sun- 
light sparkled  on  him,  he  might  have  passed  for 
the  identical  little  man  who  had  the  little  gun, 
and  whose  bullets  they  were  made  of  lead,  lead, 
lead. 

Crossing  the  river,  and  landing  at  the  Stairs, 
where  a drift  of  chips  and  weed  had  been  trying 
to  land  before  me,  and  had  not  succeeded,  but  had 
got  into  a corner  instead,  I found  the  very  street- 
posts  to  be  cannon,  and  the  architectural  orna- 
ments to  be  shells.  And  so  I came  to  the  Yard, 
which  was  shut  up  tight  and  strong  with  great 
folded  gates,  like  an  enormous  patent  safe.  These 
gates  devouring  me,  1 became  digested  into  the 
Yard  ; and  it  had,  at  first,  a clean-swept,  holiday 
air,  as  if  it  had  given  over  work  till  next  war- 
time. Though,  indeed,  a quantity  of  hemp  for 
rope  was  tumbling  out  of  storehouses,  even  there, 
which  would  hardly  be  lying  like  so  much  hay  on 
the  white  stones  if  the  Yard  was  as  placid  as  it 
pretended. 

Ding,  Clash,  Dong,  Bang,  Boom,  Rattle,  Clash, 
Bang,  Clink,  Bang,  Dong,  Bang,  Clatter,  Bang, 
Bang,  BANG  ! What  on  earth  is  this  ! This  is, 
or  soon  will  be,  the  Achilles,  iron  armor-plate. I 
ship.  Twelve  hundred  men  are  working  at  her 


NAVY- YARD 


327 


NAVY- YARD 


now:  twelve  hundred  men  working  on  stages 
over  her  sides,  over  her  bows,  over  her  stern, 
under  her  keel,  between  her  decks,  down  in  her 
hold,  within  her  and  without,  crawling  and  creep- 
ing into  the  finest  curves  of  her  lines,  wherever 
it  is  possible  for  men  to  twist.  Twelve  hundred 
hammerers,  measurers,  calkers,  armorers,  forgers, 
smiths,  ship-wrights  ; twelve  hundred  dingers, 
dashers,  dongers,  rattlers,  clinkers,  bangers, 
bangers,  bangers  ! Yet  all  this  stupendous  uproar 
around  the  rising  Achilles  is  as  nothing  to  the 
reverberations  with  which  the  perfected  Achilles 
shall  resound  upon  the  dreadful  day  when  the 
full  work  is  in  hand  for  which  this  is  but  note  of 
preparation, — the  day  when  the  scuppers  that  are 
now  fitting,  like  great,  dry,  thirsty  conduit-pipes, 
shall  run  red.  All  these  busy  figures  between 
decks,  dimly  seen  bending  at  their  work  in  smoke 
and  fire,  are  as  nothing  to  the  figures  that  shall 
do  work  here  of  another  kind  in  smoke  and  fire 
that  day.  These  steam-worked  engines  along- 
side, helping  the  ship  by  travelling  to  and  fro, 
and  wafting  tons  of  iron  plates  about,  as  though 
they  were  so  many  leaves  of  trees,  would  be  rent 
limb  from  limb  if  they  stood  by  her  for  a minute 
then.  To  think  that  this  Achilles,  monstrous 
compound  of  iron  tank  and  oaken  chest,  can  ever 
swim  or  roll  ! To  think  that  any  force  of  wind 
and  wave  could  ever  break  her  ! To  think  that 
wherever  I see  a glowing  red-hot  iron  point  thrust 
out  of  her  side  from  within, — as  I do  now,  there, 
and  there,  and  there  ! — and  two  watching  men 
on  a stage  without,  with  bared  arms  and  sledge- 
hammers, strike  at  it  fiercely  and  repeat  their 
blows  until  it  is  black  and  flat,  I see  a rivet  being 
driven  home,  of  which  there  are  many  in  every 
iron  plate,  and  thousands  upon  thousands  in  the 
ship  ! To  think  that  the  difficulty  I experience 
in  appreciating  the  ship’s  size  when  I am  on 
board  arises  from  her  being  a series  of  iron 
tanks  and  oaken  chests  ; so  that  internally  she  is 
ever  finishing  and  ever  beginning,  and  half  of 
her  might  be  smashed,  and  yet  the  remaining 
half  suffice  and  be  sound.  Then,  to  go  over  the 
side  again  and  down  among  the  ooze  and  wet  to 
the  bottom  of  the  dock,  in  the  depths  of  the 
subterranean  forest  of  dog-shores  and  stays  that 
hold  her  up,  and  to  see  the  immense  mass  bulg- 
ing out  against  the  upper  light,  and  tapering 
down  towards  me,  is,  with  great  pains  and  much 
clambering,  to  arrive  at  an  impossibility  of 
realizing  that  this  is  a ship  at  all,  and  to  become 
possessed  by  the  fancy  that  it  is  an  enormous 
immovable  edifice  set  up  in  an  ancient  amphi- 
theatre (say  that  at  Verona),  and  almost  filling 
it  ! Yet  what  would  even  these  things  be  with- 
out the  tributary  workshops  and  their  mechanical 
powers  for  piercing  the  iron  plates — four  inches 
and  a half  thick — for  rivets,  shaping  them  under 
hydraulic  pressure  to  the  finest  tapering  turns  of 
the  ship’s  lines,  and  paring  them  away,  with 
knives  shaped  like  the  beaks  of  strong  and  cruel 
birds,  to  the  nicest  requirements  of  the  design  ! 
These  machines  of  tremendous  force,  so  easily 
directed  by  one  attentive  face  and  presiding 
hand,  seem  to  me  to  have  in  them  something  of 
the  retiring  character  of  the  Yard.  “ Obedient 
monster,  please  to  bite  this  mass  of  iron  through 
and  through,  at  equal  distances,  where  these  re- 
gular chalk-marks  are,  Ml  round.”  Monster 
looks  at  its  work,  and,  lifting  its  ponderous  head, 
replies  : “ I don’t  particularly  want  to  do  it  ; but 
if  it  must  be  done — ! '*  The  solid  metal  wrig 


gles  out,  hot  from  the  monster’s  crunching  tooth, 
and  it  is  done.  “ Dutiful  monster,  observe  this 
other  mass  of  iron.  It  is  required  to  be  pared 
away,  according  to  this  delicately  lessening  and 
arbitrary  line,  which  please  to  look  at.”  Mon- 
ster (who  has  been  in  a revery)  brings  down  its 
blunt  head,  and,  much  in  the  manner  of  Doctor 
Johnson,  closely  looks  along  the  line — very 
closely,  being  somewhat  near-sighted.  “ I don’t 
particularly  want  to  do  it ; but  if  it  must  be 
done — !”  Monster  takes  another  near-sighted 
look,  takes  aim,  and  the  tortured  piece  writhes 
off,  and  falls,  a hot  tight-twisted  snake,  among  the 
ashes.  The  making  of  the  rivets  is  merely  a 
pretty  round  game,  played  by  a man  and  a boy, 
who  put  red-hot  barley-sugar  in  a Poph  Joan 
board,  and  immediately  rivets  fall  out  of  win- 
dow ; but  the  tone  of  the  great  machines  is 
the  tone  of  the  great  Yard  and  the  great 
country  : “ We  don’t  particularly  want  to  do  it  ; 
but  if  it  must  be  done — !” 

How  such  a prodigious  mass  as  the  Achilles 
can  ever  be  held  by  such  comparatively  little 
anchors  as  those  intended  for  her,  and  lying 
near  her  here,  is  a mystery  of  seamanship  which 
I will  refer  to  the  wise  boy.  For  my  own  part, 
I should  as  soon  have  thought  of  tethering  an 
elephant  to  a tent-peg,  or  the  larger  hippopota- 
mus in  the  Zoological  Gardens  to  my  shirt-pin. 
Yonder,  in  the  river,  alongside  a hulk,  lie  two  of 
this  ship’s  hollow  iron  masts.  They  are  large 
enough  for  the  eye,  I find,  and  so  are  all  her 
other  appliances.  I wonder  why  only  her  an- 
chors look  small. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  24. 

NAVY-YARD-Scenes  in  a. 

Sauntering  among  the  rope-making,  I am  spun 
into  a state  of  blissful  indolence,  wherein  my 
rope  of  life  seems  to  be  so  untwisted  by  the  pro- 
cess as  that  I can  see  back  to  very  early  days  in- 
deed, when  my  bad  dreams — they  were  frightful, 
though  my  more  mature  understanding  has  never 
made  out  why — were  of  an  interminable  sort  of 
rope-making,  with  long,  minute  filaments  for 
strands,  which,  when  they  were  spun  home  to- 
gether close  to  my  eyes,  occasioned  screaming. 
Next  I walk  among  the  quiet  lofts  of  stores, — of 
sails,  spars,  rigging,  ships’  boats, — determined  to 
believe  that  somebody  in  authority  wears  a gir- 
dle, and  bends  beneath  the  weight  of  a massive 
bunch  of  keys,  and  that,  when  such  a thing  is 
wanted,  he  comes,  telling  his  keys  like  Blue- 
Beard,  and  opens  such  a door.  Impassive  as  the 
long  lofts  look,  let  the  electric  battery  send  down 
the  word,  and  the  Shutters  and  doors  shall  fly 
open,  and  such  a fleet  of  armed  ships,  under 
steam  and  under  sail,  shall  burst  forth,  as  will 
charge  the  old  Medway — where  the  merry  Stuart 
let  the  Dutch  come,  while  his  not  so  merry  sail- 
ors starved  in  the  streets— T-with  something  worth 
looking  at  to  carry  to  the  sea.  Thus  I idle  round 
to  the  Medway  again,  where  it  is  now  flood- 
tide  ; and  I find  the  river  evincing  a strong  so- 
licitude to  force  a way  into  the  dry-dock  where 
Achilles  is  waited  on  by  the  twelve  hundred 
bangers,  with  intent  to  bear  the  whole  away  be- 
fore they  are  ready. 

To  the  last,  the  Yard  puts  a quiet  face  upon 
it  ; for  I make  my  way  to  the  gates  through  a 
little  quiet  grove  of  trees,  shading  the  quaintest 
of  Dutch  landing-places,  where  the  leaf-speckled 
shadow  of  a shipwright  just  passing  away  at  the 


NECESSITY  AND  LAWYERS 


328 


NEIGHBORHOOD 


farther  end  might  be  the  shadow  of  Russian  Peter 
himself.  So  the  doors  of  the  great  patent  safe 
at  last  close  upon  me,  and  I take  boat  again, — 
somehow  thinking,  as  the  oars  dip,  of  braggart 
Pistol  and  his  brood,  and  of  the  quiet  monsters 
of  the  Yard,  with  their  “We  don’t  particularly 
want  to  do  it  ; but  if  it  must  be  done — ! ” 
Scrunch. — Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  24. 

NECESSITY  AND  LAWYERS. 

Though  necessity  has  no  law,  she  has  her 
lawyers. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  66. 

NEEDLEWORK  Love  as  a teacher  of. 

Mrs.  John  Rokesmith  sat  at  needlework  in 
her  neat  little  room,  beside  a basket  of  neat  lit  • 
tie  articles  of  clothing,  which  presented  so  much 
of  the  appearance  of  being  in  the  dolls’  dress- 
maker’s way  of  business,  that  one  might  have 
supposed  she  was  going  to  set  up  in  opposition 
to  Miss  Wren.  Whether  the  Complete  British 
Family  Housewife  had  imparted  sage  council 
anent  them,  did  not  appear,  but  probably  not,  as 
that  cloudy  oracle  was  nowhere  visible.  For  cer- 
tain, however,  Mrs.  John  Rokesmith  stitched  at 
them  with  so  dexterous  a hand,  that  she  must 
have  taken  lessons  of  somebody.  Love  is  in  all 
things  a most  wonderful  teacher,  and  perhaps 
love  from  a pictorial  point  of  view,  with  nothing 
on  but  a thimble,  had  been  teaching  this  branch 
of  needlework  to  Mrs.  John  Rokesmith. 

Placidly,  though  rather  consequentially  smiling, 
she  sat  stitching  away  with  a regular  sound,  like 
a sort  of  dimpled  little  charming  Dresden-china 
clock  by  the  very  best  maker. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  IV .,  Chap.  11. 

NEIGHBORHOOD— An  ancient. 

Surely  there  never  was,  in  any  other  borough, 
city,  or  hamlet  in  the  world,  such  a singular  sort 
of  a place  as  Todgers’s.  And  surely  London, 
to  judge  from  that  part  of  it  which  hemmed 
Todgers’s  round,  and  hustled  it,  and  crushed  it, 
and  stuck  its  brick-and-mortar  elbows  into  it, 
and  kept  the  air  from  it,  and  stood  perpetually 
between  it  and  the  light,  was  worthy  of  Tod- 
gers’s, and  qualified  to  be  on  terms  of  close 
relationship  and  alliance  wfith  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  the  odd  family  to  which  Todgers’s 
belonged. 

You  couldn’t  walk  about  in  Todgers’s  neigh- 
borhood, as  you  could  in  any  other  neighbor- 
hood. You  groped  your  way  for.  an  hour 
through  lanes,  and  byeways,  and  court-yards,  and 
passages  ; and  you  never  once  emerged  upon 
anything  that  might  be  reasonably  called  a 
street.  A kind  of  resigned  distraction  came 
over  the  stranger  as  he  trod  those  devious 
mazes,  and,  giving  himself  up  for  lost,  went  in 
and  out,  and  round  about,  and  quietly  turned 
back  again  when  he  came  to  a deal  wall  or  was 
stopped  by  an  iron  railing,  and  felt  that  the 
means  of  escape  might  possibly  present  them- 
selves in  their  own  good  time,  but  that  to  antici- 
pate them  was  hopeless.  Instances  were  known 
of  people  who,  being  asked  to  dine  at  Todgers’s, 
had  travelled  round  and  round  for  a weary 
time,  with  its  very  chimney-pots  in  view  ; and 
finding  i!,  at  last,  impossible  of  attainment,  had 
gone  home  again,  with  a gentle  melancholy  on 
their  spirits,  tranquil  and  uncomplaining.  No- 
bod)  had  ■ . 1 found  Todgers’s  on  a verbal  di- 
rection, though  given  within  a minute’s  walk  of 


it.  Cautious  emigrants  from  Scotland  or  the 

North  of  England  had  been  known  to  reach  it. 
safely,  by  impressing  a charity-boy,  town-bred, 
and  bringing  him  along  with  them ; or  by 
clinging  tenaciously  to  the  postman  ; but  these 
were  rare  exceptions,  and  only  went  to  prove 
the  rule  that  Todgers’s  was  in  a labyrinth,  where- 
of the  mystery  was  known  bijt  to  a chosen  few. 

Several  fruit  brokers  had  their  marts  near 
Todgers’s  ; and  one  of  the  first  impressions 
wrought  upon  the  stranger’s  senses  was  of 
oranges — of  damaged  oranges,  with  blue  and 
green  bruises  on  them,  festering  in  boxes,  or 
mouldering  away  in  cellars.*  All  day  long,  a 
stream  of  porters  from  the  wharves  beside  the 
river,  each  bearing  on  his  back  a bursting  chest 
of  oranges,  poured  slowly  through  the  narrow 
passages  ; while  underneath  the  archway  by  the 
public  house,  the  knots  of  those  who  rested  and 
regaled  within,  were  piled  from  morning  until 
night.  Strange  solitary  pumps  were  found  near 
Todgers’s,  hiding  themselves  for  th^  most  part 
in  blind  alleys,  and  keeping  company  with  fire- 
ladders.  There  were  churches  also  by  dozens, 
with  many  a ghostly  little  church-yard,  all 
overgrown  with  such  straggling  vegetation 
as  springs  up  spontaneously  from  damp,  and 
graves,  and  rubbish.  In  some  of  these  dingy 
resting  places,  which  bore  much  the  same  anal- 
ogy  to  green  church-yards  as  the  pots  of  earth 
for  mignonnette  and  wall -flower  in  the  windows 
overlooking  them  did  to  rustic  gardens,  there 
were  trees — tall  trees  ; still  putting  forth  their 
leaves  in  each  succeeding’  year,  with  such  a lan- 
guishing remembrance  of  their  kind  (so  one 
might  fancy,  looking  on  their  sickly  boughs)  as 
birds  in  cages  have  of  theirs.  Here,  paralyzed 
old  watchmen  guarded  the  bodies  of  the  dead 
at  night,  year  after  year,  until  at  last  they  joined 
that  solemn  brotherhood ; and,  saving  that 
they  slept  below  the  ground  a sounder  sleep 
than  even  they  had  ever  known  above  it,  and 
were  shut  up  in  another  kind  of  box,  their  con- 
dition can  hardly  be  said  to  have  undergone 
any  material  change  when  they  in  turn  were 
watched  themselves. 

Among  the  narrow  thoroughfares  at  hand,  there 
lingered,  here  and  there,  an  ancient  doorway  of 
carved  oak,  from  which,  of  old,  the  sounds  of 
revelry  and  feasting  often  came  > but  now  these 
mansions,  only  used  for  storehouses,  were  dark 
and  dull,  and,  being  filled  with  wool,  and  cotton, 
and  the  like — such  heavy  merchandise  as  stifles 
sounds'  and  stops  the  throat  of  echo — had  an  air 
of  palpable  deadness  about  them  which,  added 
to  their  silence  and  desertion,  made  them  very 
grim.  In  like  manner,  there  were  gloomy  court- 
yards in  these  parts,  into  which  few  but  belat- 
ed wayfarers  ever  strayed,  and  where  vast  bags 
and  packs  of  goods,  upward  or  downward  bound, 
were  forever  dangling  between  heaven  and  earth 
froyi  lofty  cranes.  There  were  more  trucks  near 
Todgers’s  than  you  would  suppose  a whole  city 
could  ever  need  ; not  active  trucks,  but  a vaga- 
bond race,  forever  lounging  in  the  narrow  lanes 
before  their  masters’  doors  and  stopping  up  the 
pass  ; so  that  when  a stray  hackney-coach  or 
lumbering  wagon  came  that  way,  they  were  the 
cause  of  such  an  uproar  as  enlivened  the  whole 
neighborhood,  and  made  the  bells  in  the  next 
church-tower  vibrate  again.  In  the  throats  and 
maws  of  dark  no-thoroughfares  near  Todgers’s, 
individual  wine-merchants  and  wholesale  deal- 


NEIGHBORHOOD 


329 


NEIGHBORHOOD 


ers  in  grocery-ware  had  perfect  little  towns  of 
their  own  ; and  deep  among  the  foundations  of 
these  buildings,  the  ground  was  undermined  and 
burrowed  out  into  stables,  where  cart-horses, 
troubled  by^rats,  might  be  heard  on  a quiet  Sun- 
day rattling  Jheir  halters,  as  disturbed  spirits  in 
tales  of  haunted  houses  are  said  to  clank  their 
chains. 

To  tell  of  half  the  queer  old  taverns  that  had  a 
drowsy  and  secret  existence  near  Todgers’s, 
would  fill  a goodly  book  ; while  a second  volume 
no  less  capacious  might  be  devoted  to  an  account 
of  the  quaint  old  guests  who  frequented  their 
dimly-lighted  parlors.  These  w'ere,  in  general, 
ancient  inhabitants  of  that  region  ; born,  and 
bred  there  from  boyhood  ; who  had  long  since 
become  wheezy  and  asthmatical,  and  short  of 
breath,  except  in  the  article  of  storv-telling  ; in 
which  respect  they  were  still  marvellously  long- 
winded.  These  gentry  were  much  opposed  to 
steam  and  all  new-fangled  ways,  and  held  bal- 
looning to  be  sinful,  and  deplored  the  degener- 
acy of  the  times;  which  that  particular  member 
of  each  little  club  who  kept  the  keys  of  the 
nearest  church  professionally,  always  attributed 
to  the  prevalence  of  dissent  and  irreligion : 
though  the  major  part  of  the  company  inclined 
to  the  belief  that  virtue  went  out  with  hair  pow- 
der, and  that  Old  England’s  greatness  had  de- 
cayed amain  with  barbers. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  9. 

NEIGHBORHOOD— The  Eive  Points,  New 
York. 

Ascend  those  pitch-dark  stairs,  heedful  of  a 
false  footing  on  the  trembling  boards,  and  grope 
your  way  with  me  into  this  wolfish  den,  where 
neither  ray  of  light  nor  breath  of  air  appears  to 
come.  A negro  lad,  startled  from  his  sleep  by 
the  officer’s  voice — he  knows  it  well — but  com- 
forted by  his  assurance  that  he  has  not  come  on 
business,  officiously  bestirs  himself  to  light  a 
candle.  The  match  flickers  for  a moment,  and 
shows  great  mounds  of  dusky  rags  upon  the 
ground  ; then  dies  away  and  leaves  a denser  dark- 
ness than  before,  if  there  can  be  degrees  in  such 
extremes.  He  stumbles  down  the  stairs  and 
presently  comes  back,  shading  a flaring  taper 
with  his  hand.  Then  the  mounds  of  rags  are 
seen  to  be  astir,  and  rise  slowly  up,  and  the  floor 
is  covered  with  heaps  of  negro  women,  waking 
from  their  sleep  ; their  white  teeth  chattering, 
and  their  bright  eyes  glistening  and  winking  on 
all  sides  with  surprise  and  fear,  like  the  countless 
repetition  of  one  astonished  African  face  in  some 
strange  mirror. 

Mount  up  these  other  stairs  with  no  less  cau- 
tion (there  are  traps  and  pitfalls  here  for  those 
who  are  not  so  well  escorted  as  ourselves)  into 
the  house-top  ; where  the  bare  beams  and  raft- 
ers meet  overhead,  and  calm  night  looks  clown 
through  the  crevices  in  the  roof.  Open  the  door 
of  one  of  these  ci-amped  hutches  full  of  sleeping 
negroes.  Pah  ! They  have  a charcoal  fire  within  ; 
there  is  a smell  of  singeing  clothes,  or  flesh,  so 
close  they  gather  round  the  brazier;  and  vapors 
issue  forth  that  blind  and  suffocate.  From  every 
corner,  as  you  glance  about  you  in  these  dark  re- 
treats, some  figure  crawls,  half  awakened,  as  if 
the  judgment  hour  were  near  at  hand,  and  every 
obscene  grave  were  giving  up  its  dead.  Where 
dogs  would  howl  to  lie,  women  and  men  and 
boys  slink  off  to  sleep,  forcing  the  dislodg- 


ed rats  to  move  away  in  quest  of  better  lodg- 
ings. 

Here  too  are  lanes  and  alleys,  paved  with  mu  1 
knee-deep  ; underground  chambers,  where  they 
dance  and  game  ; the  walls  bedecked  with  rough 
designs  of  ships,  and  forts,  and  flags,  and  Ameri- 
can Eagles  out  of  number  ; ruined  houses  open  to 
the  street,  whence,  through  wide  gaps  in  the 
walls,  other  ruins  loom  upon  the  eye,  as  though 
the  world  of  vice  and  misery  had  nothing  efse 
to  show  ; hideous  tenements  which  take  their 
name  from  robbery  and  murder  ; all  that  is 
loathsome,  drooping,  and  decayed  is  here. 

American  Notes , Chap.  6. 

NEIGHBORHOOD— An  irreg-ular. 

The  schools  were  newly  built,  and  there  were 
so  many  like  them  all  over  the  country,  that  one 
might  have  thought  the  whole  were  but  one  rest- 
less edifice  with  the  locomotive  gift  of  Aladdin’s 
palace.  They  were  in  a neighborhood  which 
looked  like  a toy  neighborhood  taken  in  blocks 
out  of  a box  by  a child  of  particularly  incoherent 
mind,  and  set  up  anyhow  ; here,  one  side  of  a 
new  street  ; there,  a large  solitary  public  house 
facing  nowhere  ; here,  another  unfinished  street 
already  in  ruins  ; there,  a church  ; here,  an  im- 
mense new  warehouse  ; there,  a dilapidated  old 
country  villa;  then,  a medley  of  black  ditch, 
sparkling  cucumber-frame,  rank  field,  richly  culti- 
vated kitchen-garden,  brick  viaduct,  arch-spanned 
canal,  and  disorder  of  frowziness  and  fog.  As 
if  the  child  had  given  the  table  a kick,  and 
gone  to  sleep. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap . k. 

NEIGHBORHOOD— A foal. 

They  left  the  busy  scene,  and  went  into  an 
obscure  part  of  the  town,  where  Scrooge  had 
never  penetrated  before,  although  he  recognized 
its  situation,  and  its  bad  repute.  The  ways 
were  foul  and  narrow  ; the  shops  and  houses 
wretched  ; the  people  half-naked,  drunken,  slip- 
shod, ugly.  Alleys  and  archways,  like  so  many 
cesspools,  disgorged  their  offences  of  smell,  and 
dirt,  and  life,  upon  the  straggling  streets  ; and 
the  whole  quarter  reeked  with  crime,  with  filth, 
and  misery. 

Far  in  this  den  of  infamous  resort,  there  was 
a low-browed,  beetling  shop,  below  a pent-house 
roof,  where  iron,  old  rags,  bottles,  bones,  and 
greasy  offal,  were  bought.  Upon  the  floor 
within,  were  piled  up  heaps  of  rusty  keys,  nails, 
chains,  hinges,  files,  scales,  weights,  and  refuse 
iron  of  all  kinds.  Secrets  that  few  would  like 
to  scrutinize  ■were  bred  and  hidden  in  moun- 
tains of  unseemly  rags,  masses  of  corrupted  fat 
and  sepulchres  of  bones.  Sitting  in  among  the 
wares  he  dealt  in,  by  a charcoal  stove,  made  of 
old  bricks,  was  a grey-haired  rascal,  nearly  sev- 
enty years  of  age  ; who  had  screened  himself 
from  the  cold  air  without,  by  a frowzy  curtain- 
ing of  miscellaneous  tatters  hung  upon  a line  ; 
and  smoked  his  pipe  in  all  the  luxury  of  calm 
retirement. — Christmas  Carol,  Stave  4. 

NEIGHBORHOOD— A corrupt;  its  influ- 
ence. 

Darkness  rests  upon  Tom-all- Alone’s.  Di- 
lating and  dilating  since  the  sun  went  down 
last  night,  it  has  gradually  swelled  until  it  fills 
every  void  in  the  place.  For  a time  there  were 
some  dungeon  lights  burning  as  the  lamp  of 


NEIGHBORHOOD 


330 


NEWSBOY 


Life  burns  in  Tom-all-Alone’s,  heavily,  heavily, 
in  the  nauseous  air,  and  winking — as  that  lamp, 
too,  winks  in  Tom-all-Alone’s — at  many  horri- 
ble things.  But  they  are  blotted  out.  The 
moon  has  eyed  Tom  with  a dull,  cold  stare,  as 
admitting  some  puny  emulation  of  herself  in  his 
desert  region,  unfit  for  life  and  blasted  by  volca- 
nic fires  ; but  she  has  passed  on,  and  is  gone. 
The  blackest  nightmare  in  the  infernal  stables 
grazes  on  Tom-all- Aione’s,  and  Tom  is  fast 
asleep. 

* * * * -* 

But  he  has  his  revenge.  Even  the  winds  are 
his  messengers,  and  they  serve  him  in  these 
hours  of  darkness.  There  is  not  a drop  of 
Tom’s  corrupted  blood  but  propagates  infection 
and  contagion  somewhere.  It  shall  pollute,  this 
very  night,  the  choice  stream  (in  which  chemists, 
on  analysis,  would  find  the  genuine  nobility)  of 
a Norman  house,  and  his  Grace  shall  not  be 
able  to  say  Nay  to  the  infamous  alliance.  There 
is  not  an  atom  of  Tom’s  slime,  not  a cubic  inch 
of  any  pestilential  gas  in  which  he  lives,  notone 
obscenity  or  degradation  about  him,  not  an  ig- 
norance, not  a wickedness,  not  a brutality  of 
his  committing,  but  shall  work  its  retribution, 
through  every  order  of  society,  up  to  the  proud- 
est of  the  proud,  and  to  the  highest  of  the  high. 
Verily,  what  with  tainting,  plundering,  and 
spoiling,  Tom  has  his  revenge. 

It  is  a moot  point  whether  Tom-all-Alone’s 
be  uglier  by  day  or  by  night ; but  on  the  argu- 
ment that  the  more  that  is  seen  of  it  the  more 
shocking  it  must  be,  and  that  no  part  of  it  left 
to  the  imagination  is  at  all  likely  to  be  made  so 
bad  as  the  reality,  day  carries  it.  The  day  be- 
gins to  break  now  ; and  in  truth  it  might  be 
better  for  the  national  glory  even  that  the  sun 
should  sometimes  set  upon  the  British  domin- 
ions, than  that  it  should  ever  rise  upon  so  vile 
a wonder  as  Tom. — Bleak  House , Chap.  46. 

NEIGHBORHOOD— An  ancient. 

A place  much  changed  in  feature  and  in  for- 
tune, yet  with  some  relish  of  ancient  greatness 
about  it.  Two  or  three  mighty  stacks  of  chim- 
neys, and  a few  large,  dark  rooms  which  had 
escaped  being  walled  and  subdivided  out  of  the 
recognition  of  their  old  proportions,  gave  the 
Yard  a character.  It  was  inhabited  by  poor 
people,  who  set  up  their  rest  among  its  faded 
glories,  as  Arabs  of  the  desert  pitch  their  tents 
among  the  fallen  stones  of  the  Pyramids  ; but 
there  was  a family  sentimental  feeling  prevalent 
in  the  Yard,  that  it  had  a character. 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  12. 

“NEVER  MIND!” —A  comprehensive 
phrase. 

“ Never  mind.” 

There  must  be  something  very  comprehensive 
in  this  phrase  of  “ Never  mind,”  for  we  do  not 
recollect  to  have  ever  witnessed  a quarrel  in  the 
street,  at  a theatre,  public  room,  or  elsewhere,  in 
which  it  has  not  been  the  standard  reply  to  all 
belligerent  inquiries.  “ Do  you  call  yourself  a 
gentleman,  sir?” — “ Never  mind,  sir.”  “ Did  I 
offer  to  say  anything  to  the  young  woman,  sir?” 
— “ Never  mind,  sir.”  “ Do  you  want  your  head 
knocked  up  against  that  wall,  sir?” — “Never 
mind,  sir.”  It  is  observable,  too,  that  there 
would  appear  to  be  some  hidden  taunt  in  this 
universal  “Never  mind,”  which  rouses  more 


indignation  in  the  bosom  of  the  individual  ad- 
dressed, than  the  most  lavish  abuse  could  possi- 
bly awaken. — Pickwick , Chap.  24. 

NEWSPAPER  A diminutive  re  tder  of  a. 

The  daily  papers  are  so  very  large  in  propor- 
tion to  himself,  shorn  of  his  hat,  that  when  he 
holds  up  the  Times  to  run  his  eye  over  the  col- 
umns, he  seems  to  have  retired  for  the  night, 
and  to  have  disappeared  under  the  bed-clothes. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  20. 

NEWSPAPER  A smeared.  - 

Pretending  to  read  a smeary  newspaper  long 
out  of  date,  which  had  nothing  half  so  legible  in 
its  local  news,  as  the  foreign  matter  of  coffee, 
pickles,  fish  sauces,  gravy,  melted  butler,  and 
wine,  with  which  it  was  sprinkled  all  over,  as  if 
it  had  taken  the  measles  in  a highly  irregular 
form,  I s<jt  at  my  table  while  he  stood  before  the 
fire. — Bleak  House , Chap.  43. 

NEWS— Its  rapid  circulation. 

By  what  means  the  news  that  there  had  been 
a quarrel  between  the  two  young  men  got  into 
Miss  Twinkleton’s  establishment  before  break- 
fast, it  is  impossible  to  say.  Whether  it  was 
brought  in  by  the  birds  of  the  air,  or  came 
blowing  in  with  the  very  air  itself,  when  the 
casement  windows  were  set  open  ; whether  the 
baker  brought  it  kneaded  into  the  bread,  or  the 
milkman  delivered  it  as  part  of  the  adulteration 
of  his  milk  ; or  the  housemaids,  beating  the  dust 
out  of  their  mats  against  the  gateposts,  received 
it  in  exchange  deposited  on  the  mats  by  the  town 
atmosphere  ; certain  it  is  that  the  news  perme- 
ated every  gable  of  the  old  building  before  Miss 
Twinkleton  was  down,  and  that  Miss  Twinkle- 
ton  herself  received  it  through  Mrs.  Tisher,  while 
yet  in  the  act  of  dressing  ; or  (as  she  might  have 
expressed  the  phrase  to  a parent  or  guardian  of 
a mythological  turn)  of  sacrificing  to  the  Graces. 

Edwin  Drood , Chap.  9. 

NEWSBOY- Adolphus  Tetterby  as  a. 

Master  Adolphus  was  also  in  the  newspaper 
line  of  life,  being  employed*  by  a more  thriving 
firm  than  his  father  and  Co.,  to  vend  newspapers 
at  a railway  station,  where  his  chubby  little  per- 
son, like  a shabbily  disguised  Cupid,  and  his 
shrill  little  voice  (he  was  not  much  more  than  ten 
years  old),  were  as  well  known  as  the  hoarse 
panting  of  the  locomotive,  running  in  and  out. 
His  juvenility  might  have  been  at  some  loss  for 
a harmless  outlet,  in  this  early  application  to 
traffic,  but  for  a fortunate  discovery  he  made  of 
a means  of  entertaining  himself,  and  of  dividing 
the  long  day  into  stages  of  interest,  without  ne- 
glecting business.  This  ingenious  invention,  re- 
markable, like  many  great  discoveries,  for  its 
simplicity,  consisted  in  varying  the  first  vowel 
in  the  word  “ paper,”  and  substituting  in  its 
stead,  at  different  periods  of  the  day,  all  the 
other  vowels  in  grammatical  succession.  Thus, 
before  daylight  in  the  winter  time,  he  went  to 
and  fro,  in  his  little  oil-skin  cap  and  cape,  and 
his  big  comforter,  piercing  the  heavy  air  with 
his  cry  of  “ Morn-ing  Pa-per  !”  which,  about  an 
hour  before  noon,  changed  to  “ Morn-ing  Pep- 
per ! ” which,  at  about  two,  changed  to  “ Morn- 
ing Pip-per ; ” which,  in  a couple  of  hours, 
changed  to  “ Morn  ing  Pop-per  ! ” and  so  de- 
clined with  the  sun  into  “Eve-ning  Pup-peri’* 


NEW  YORK 


331 


NIAGARA 


to  the  great  relief  and  comfort  of  this  young 
gentleman’^  spirits. — Haunted  Alan , Chap.  2. 

NEW  YOrfe-The  streets  of. 

The  streetmpnd  shops  are  lighted  now  ; and 
as  the  eye  tra'Els  down  the  long  thoroughfare, 
dotted  with  bright  jets  of  gas,  it  is  reminded  of 
Oxford  Street  or  “ Piccadilly.  Here  and  there  a 
flight  of  broad  stone  cellar  steps  appears,  and  a 
painted  lamp  directs  you  to  the  Bowling  Saloon, 
or  Ten-Pin  alley;  Ten-Pins  being  a game  of 
mingled  chance  and  skill,  invented  when  the 
legislature  passed  an  act  forbidding  Nine-Pins. 
At  other  downward  flights  of  steps  are  other 
lamps,  marking  the  whereabouts  of  oyster  cel- 
lars— pleasant  retreats,  say  I ; not  only  by  rea- 
son of  their  wonderful  cookery  of  oysters,  pretty 
nigh  as  large  as  cheese-plates  (or  for  thy  dear 
sake,  heartiest  of  Greek  Professors  !)  but  be- 
cause, of  -all  kinds  of  eaters  of  fish,  or  flesh,  or 
fowl,  in  these  latitudes,  the  swallowers  of  oys- 
ters, alone  are  not  gregarious,  but,  subduing 
themselves,  as  it  were,  to  the  nature  of  what 
they  work  in,  and  copying  the  coyness  of  the 
thing  they  eat,  do  sit  apart  in  curtained  boxes, 
and  consort  by  twos,  not  by  two  hundreds. 

But  how  quiet  the  streets  are  ! Are  there  no 
itinerant  bands,  no  wind  or  stringed  instru- 
ments? No,  not  one.  By  day  are  there  no 
Punches,  Fantoccini,  Dancing-dogs,  Jugglers, 
Conjurers,  Orchestrinas,  or  even  Barrel-organs? 
No,  not  one.  Yes,  I remember  one.  One  bar- 
rel-organ and  a dancing  monkey — sportive  by 
nature,  but  fast  fading  into  a dull,  lumpish  mon- 
key of  the  Utilitarian  school.  Beyond  that, 
nothing  lively  ; no.  not  so  much  as  a white 
mouse  in  a twirling  cage. 

Are  there  no  amusements?  Yes,  there  is  a 
lecture-room  across  the  way,  from  which  that 
glare  of  light  proceeds,  and  there  may  be  even- 
ing service  for  the  ladies  thrice  a week,  or 
oftener.  For  the  young  gentlemen  there  is  the 
counting-house,  the  store,  the  bar-room  ; the 
latter,  as  you  may  see  through  these  windows, 
pretty  full.  Hark  ! to  the  clinking  sound  of 
hammers  breaking  lumps  of  ice,  and  to  the  cool 
gurgling  of  the  pounded  bits,  as,  in  the  process 
of  mixing,  they  are  poured  from  glass  to  glass  ! 
No  amusements?  What  are  these  suckers  of 
cigars  and  swallowers  of  strong  drinks,  whose 
hats  and  legs  we  see  in  every  possible  variety 
of  twist,  doing,  but  amusing  themselves?  What 
are  the  fifty  newspapers,  which  those  precocious 
urchins  are  bawling  down  the  street,  and  which 
are  kept  filed  within, — what  are  they  but  amuse- 
ments? Not  vapid,  waterisli  amusements,  but 
good  strong  stuff,  dealing  in  round  abuse  and 
blackguard  names,  pulling  off  the  roofs  of  pri- 
vate houses,  as  the  Halting  Devil  did  in  Spain  ; 
pimping  and  pandering  for  all  degrees  of  vicious 
taste,  and  gorging  with  coined  lies  the  most 
voracious  maw  ; imputing  to  every  man  in  pub- 
lic life  the  coarsest  and  the  vilest  motives  ; scar- 
ing away  from  the  stabbed  and  prostrate  body- 
politic  every  Samaritan  of  clear  conscience  and 
good  deeds  ; and  setting  on,  with  yell  and  whis- 
tle, and  the  clapping  of  foul  hands,  the  vilest  of 
vermin  and  worst  birds  of  prey. — No  amuse- 
ments ! 

Let  us  go  on  again,  and  passing  this  wilder- 
ness of  an  hotel  with  stores  about  its  base,  like 
some  Continental  theatre  or  the  London  Opera 
Housfc  shorn  of  its  colonnade,  plunge  into  the 


Five  Points.  But  it  is  needful,  first,  that  we 
take  as  our  escort  these  two  heads  of  the  police, 
whom  you  would  know  for  sharp  and  well-trained 
officers  if  you  met  them  in  the  Great  Desert.  So 
true  it  is,  that  certain  pursuits,  wherever  carried 
on,  will  stamp  men  with  the  same  character. 
These  two  might  have  been  begotten,  born,  and 
bred  in  Bow  Street. 

We  have  seen  no  beggars  in  the  streets  by 
night  or  day,  but  of  other  kinds  of  strollers 
plenty.  Poverty,  wretchedness,  and  vice  are 
rife  enough  where  we  are  going  now. 

This  is  the  place — these  narrow  ways  diverg- 
ing to  the  right  and  left,  and  reeking  everywhere 
with  dirt  and  filth.  Such  lives  as  are  led  here 
bear  the  same  fruits ’ here  as  elsewhere.  The 
coarse  and  bloated  faces  at  the  doors  have  coun- 
terparts at  home  and  all  the  wide  world  over. 
Debauchery  has  made  the  very  houses  prema- 
turely old.  See  how  the  rotten  beams  are  tum- 
bling down,  and  how  the  patched  and  broken 
windows  seem  to  scowl  dimly,  like  eyes  that 
have. been  hurt  in  drunken  frays.  Many  of  those 
pigs  live  here.  Do  they  ever  wonder  why  their 
masters  walk  upright  in  lieu  of  going  on 
all  fours?  and  why  they  talk  instead  of  grunt- 
ing? 

So  far  nearly  every  house  is  a low  tavern,  and 
on  the  bar-room  walls  are  colored  prints  of 
Washington,  and  Queen  Victoria  of  England, 
and  the  American  Eagle.  Among  the  pigeon- 
holes that  hold  the  bottles  are  pieces  of  plate- 
glass  and  colored  paper,  for  there  is,  in  some 
sort,  a taste  for  decoration,  even  here.  And  as 
seamen  frequent  these  haunts,  there  are  mari- 
time pictures,  by  the  dozen,  of  partings  between 
sailors  and  their  lady-loves  ; portraits  of  William, 
of  the  ballad,  and  his  Black-Eyed  Susan  ; of  Will 
Watch,  the  Bold  Smuggler;  of  Paul  Jones,  the 
Pirate,  and  the  like  ; on  which  the  painted  eyes 
of  Queen  Victoria,  and  of  Washington  to  boot, 
rest  in  as  strange  companionship  as  on  most  of 
the  scenes  that  are  enacted  in  their  wondering 
presence. — American  Notes , Chap.  6. 

NIAGARA. 

It  was  a miserable  day,  chilly  and  raw,  a 
damp  mist  falling,  and  the  trees  in  that  northern 
region  quite  bare  and  wintry.  Whenever  the 
train  halted  I listened  for  the  roar,  and  was  con- 
stantly straining  my  eyes  in  the  direction  where 
I knew  the  Falls  must  be,  from  seeing  the  river 
rolling  on  towards  them,  every  moment  expect- 
ing to  behold  the  spray.  Within  a few  minutes 
of  our  stopping,  not  before,  I saw  two  great 
white  clouds  rising  up  slowly  and  majestically 
from  the  depths  of  the  earth.  That  was  all. 
At  length  we  alighted,  and  then  for  the  first 
time  I heard  the  mighty  rush  of  water,  and  felt 
the  ground  tremble  underneath  my  feet. 

The  bank  is  very  steep,  and  was  slippery  with 
rain  and  half-melted  ice.  I hardly  know  how  I 
got  down,  but  I was  soon  at  the  bottom,  and 
climbing,  with  two  English  officers  who  were 
crossing  and  had  joined  me,  over  some  broken 
rocks,  deafened  by  the  noise,  half  blinded  by 
the  spray,  and  wet  to  the  skin.  We  were  at  the 
foot  of  the  American  Fall.  I could  see  an  im- 
mense torrent  of  water  tearing  headlong  down 
from  some  great  height,  but  had  no  idea  of 
shape,  or  situation,  or  anything  but  vague  im- 
mensity. 

When  we  were  seated  in  the  little  ferry-boat, 


NIAGARA 


332 


NIGHT 


and  were  crossing  the  swollen  river  immediately 
before  both  cataracts,  I began  to  feel  what  it 
was  ; but  I was  in  a manner  stunned,  and  unable 
to  comprehend  the  vastness  of  the  scene.  It  was 
not  until  I came  on  Table  Rock,  and  looked — 
Great  Heaven,  on  whaj  a fall  of  bright,  green 
water ! — that  it  came  upon  me  in  its  full  might 
and  majesty. 

Then,  when  I felt  how  near  to  my  Creator  I 
was  standing,  the  first  effect  and  the  enduring 
one — instant  and  lasting — of  the  tremendous 
spectacle,  was  Peace.  Peace  of  mind,  tranquil- 
lity, calm  recollections  of  the  Dead,  great 
thoughts  of  Eternal  Rest  and  Plappiness  ; noth- 
ing of  gloom  or  terror.  Niagara  was  at  once 
stamped  upon  my  heart,  an  Image  of  Beauty  ; 
to  remain  there,  changeless  and  indelible,  until 
its  pulses  cease  to  beat  forever. 

Oh,  how  the  strife  and  trouble  of  daily  life 
receded  from  my  view,  and  lessened  in  the  dis- 
tance, during  the  ten  memorable  days  we  passed 
on  that  Enchanted  Ground  ! What  voices  spoke 
from  out  the  thundering  water  ; what  faces,  faded 
from  the  earth,  looked  out  upon  me  from  its 
gleaming  depths  ; what  Heavenly  promise  glis- 
tened in  those  angels’  tears,  the  drops  of  many 
hues,  that  showered  around,  and  twined  them- 
selves about  the  gorgeous  arches  which  the 
changing  rainbows  made  ! 

I never  stirred  in  all  that  time  from  the  Cana- 
dian side,  whither  I had  gone  at  first.  I never 
crossed  the  river  again  ; for  I knew  there  were 
people  on  the  other  shore,  and  in  such  a place 
it  is  natural  to  shun  strange  company.  To  wan- 
der to  and  fro  all  day,  and  see  the  cataracts 
from  all  points  of  view  ; to  stand  upon  the  edge 
of  the  Great  Horseshoe  Fall,  marking  the  hur- 
ried water  gathering  strength  as  it  approached 
the  verge,  yet  seeming,  too,  to  pause  before  it 
shot  into  the  gulf  below  ; to  gaze  from  the 
river’s  level  up  at  the  torrent  as  it  came  stream- 
ing down  ; to  climb  the  neighboring  heights  and 
watch  it  through  the  trees,  and  see  the  wreathing 
water  in  the  rapids  hurrying  on  to  take  its  fear- 
ful plunge ; to  linger  in  the  shadow  of  the 
solemn  rocks  three  miles  below,  watching  the 
river,  as,  stirred  by  no  visible  cause,  it  heaved 
and  eddied  and  awoke  the  echoes,  being  trou- 
bled yet,  far  down  beneath  the  surface,  by  its 
giant  leap  ; to  have  Niagara  before  me,  lighted 
by  the  sun  and  by  the  moon,  red  in  the  day’s 
decline,  and  gray  as  evening  slowly  fell  upon 
it ; to  look  upon  it  every  day,  and  wake  up  in 
the  night  and  hear  its  ceaseless  voice  : this  was 
enough. 

I think  in  every  quiet  season  now,  still  do. 
those  waters  roll  and  leap,  and  roar  and  tumble, 
all  day  long  ; still  are  the  rainbows  spanning 
them,  a hundred  feet  below.  Still,  when  the 
sun  is  on  them,  do  they  shine  and  glow  like 
molten  gold.  Still,  when  the  day  is  gloomy,  do 
they  fall  like  snow,  or  seem  to  crumble  away 
like  the  front  of  a great  chalk-cliff,  or  roll  down 
the  rock  like  dense  white  smoke.  But  always 
does  the  mighty  stream  appear  to  die  as  it 
comes  down,  and  always  from  its  unfathomable 
grave  arises  that  tremendous  ghost  of  spray  and 
mist  which  is  never  laid, — which  has  haunted 
this  place  with  the  same  dread  solemnity  since 
Darkness  brooded  on  the  deep,  and  that;  first 
flood  before  the  Deluge  -Light — came  rushing 
on  Creation  at  the  word  of  God. 

American  Notes , Chap.  14. 


NIGHT. 

Night  was  still  heavy  in  the  sky.  On  open 
plains,  from  hill-tops,  and  from  the  d^cks  of  soli 
tary  ships  at  sea,  a distant  low-lyiJg  line,  that 
promised  by  and  bye  to  change  tqJ^dit,  was  visi- 
ble in  the  dim  horizon  ; but  its  Qomise  was  re- 
mote and  doubtful,  and  the  xwuim  was  striving 
with  the  night-clouds  busily. 

Haunted  Man , Chap.  3. 

The  wide  stare  stared  itself  out  for  oye  while  ; 
the  sun  went  down  in  a red,  green,  golden  glory  ; 
the  stars  came  out  in  the  heavens,  and  the  fire- 
flies mimicked  them  in  the  lower  air,  as  men 
may  feebly  imitate  the  goodness  of  a better 
order  of  beings  ; the  long  dusty  roads  and  the 
interminable  plains  were  in  repose — and  so  deep 
a hush  was  on  the  sea,  that  it  scarcely  whispered 
of  the  time  when  it  shall  give  up  its  dead. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  1. 

An  awful  survey,  in  a lonely  and  remote  part 
of  an  empty  old  pile  of  building,  on  a winter 
night,  with  the  loud  wind  going  by  upon  its 
journey  of  mystery — whence,  or  whither,  no 
man  knowing  since  the  world  began — and  the 
stars,  in  unimaginable  millions,  glittering 
through  it,  from  eternal  space,  where  the  world’s 
bulk  is  as  a grain,  and  its  hoary  age  is  infancy. 

Haunted  Man , Chap.  1. 

It  was  a fine  dry  night,  and  the  light  of  a 
young  moon,  which  was  then  just  rising,  shed 
around  that  peace  and  tranquillity  which  gives  to 
evening-time  its  most  delicious  charm.  The 
lengthened  shadows  of  the  trees,  softened  as  if 
reflected  in  still  water,  threw  their  carpet  on  the 
path  the  travellers  pursued,  and  the  light  wind 
stirred  yet  more  softly  than  before,  as  though  it 
were  soothing  Nature  in  her  sleep. 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  14. 

Night,  like  a giant,  fills  the  church,  from  pave- 
ment to  roof,  and  holds  dominion  through 
the  silent  hours.  Pale  dawn  again  comes  peep- 
ing through  the  windows  ; and,  giving  place  to 
day,  sees  night  withdraw  into  the  vaults,  and  fol- 
lows it,  and  drives  it  out,  and  hides  among  the 
dead. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  32. 

There  was  no  wind  ; there  was  no  passing 
shadow  on  the  deep  shade  of  the  night ; there 
was  no  noise.  The  city  lay  behind  him,  lighted 
here  and  there,  and  starry  worlds  were  hidden 
by  the  masonry  of  spire  and  roof  that  hardly 
made  out  any  shapes  against  the  sky. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  55. 


The  wind  was  blowing  drearily.  The  lamps 
looked  pale,  and  shook  as  if  they  were  cold. 
•There  was  a distant  glimmer  of  something  that 
was  not  quite  darkness,  rather  than  of  light,  in 
the  sky  ; and  foreboding  night  was  shivering 
and  restless,  as  the  dying  are  who  make  a 
•troubled  end.  Florence  remembered  how,  as  a 
watcher,  by  a sick  bed,  she  had  noted  this  bleak 
time,  and  felt  its  influence,  as  if  in  some  hidden 
natural  antipathy  to  it ; and  now  it  was  very, 
very  gloomy. — Dombey  dr3  Son,  Chap.  43. 

The  rich  light  had  faded,  the  sombre  hues  of 
night  were  falling  fast  upon  the  landscape, 
and  a few  bright  stars  were  already  twinkling 


NIGHT 


333 


NIGHT 


overhead.  The  birds  were  all  at  roost  ; the 
daisies  on  the  green  had  closed  their  fairy  hoods  ; 
the  honeysuckle  twining  round  the  porch  ex- 
haled its  perfume  in  a two-fold  degree,  as 
though  it  lost  its  coyness  at  that  silent  time 
and  loved  to  shed  its  fragrance  on  the  night ; 
the  ivy  scarcely  stirred  its  deep  green  leaves. 
How  tranquil  and  how  beautiful  it  was  ! 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  54. 

It  was  one  of  those  dark  nights  that  hold  their 
breath  by  the  hour  together,  and  than  heave  a 
long,  low  sigh,  and  hold  their  breath  again. 

Tale  of  Tzvo  Cities , Chap.  9. 

NIGHT— And  Morning-. 

The  night  crept  on  apace,  the  moon  went 
down,  the  stars  grew  pale  and  dim,  and  morning, 
cold  as  they,  slowly  approached.  Then,  from 
behind  a distant  hill,  the  noble  sun  rose  up,  driv- 
ing the  mists  in  phantom  shapes  before  it,  and 
clearing  the  earth  of  their  ghostly  forms  till 
darkness  came  again. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  43. 

NIGHT-A  cloudy. 

It  was  a cold,  wild  night,  and  the  trees  shud- 
dered in  the  wind.  The  rain  had  been  thick  and 
heavy  all  day,  and  with  little  intermission  for 
many  days.  None  was  falling  just  then,  how- 
ever. The  sky  had  partly  cleared,  but  was  very 
gloomy — even  above  us,  where  a few  stars  were 
shining.  In  the  north  and  north-west,  where  the 
sun  had  set  three  hours  before,  there  was  a pale 
dead  light,  both  beautiful  and  awful  ; and  into  it 
long  sullen  lines  of  cloud  waved  up,  like  a sea 
stricken  immovable  as  it  was  heaving.  T owards 
London,  a lurid  glare  overhung  the  whole  dark 
waste  ; and  the  contrast  between  these  two  lights, 
and  the  fancy  which  the  redder  light  engendered 
of  an  unearthly  fire,  gleaming  on  all  the  unseen 
buildings  of  the  city,  and  on  all  the  faces  of  its 
many  thousands  of  wondering  inhabitants,  was 
as  solemn  as  might  be. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  31. 

NIGHT  — The  companionship  of  (Little 
Nell). 

In  one  of  those  rambles  which  had  now  be- 
come her  only  pleasure  or  relief  from  care,  light 
had  faded  into  darkness  and  evening  deepened 
into  night,  and  still  the  young  creature  lingered 
in  the  gloom  ; feeling  a companionship  in  Nature, 
so  serene  and  still,  when  noise  of  tongues  and 
glare  of  garish  lights  would  have  been  solitude 
indeed. 

The  sisters  had  gone  home,  and  she  was  alone. 
She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  bright  stars,  looking 
down  so  mildly  from  the  wide  worlds  of  air,  and, 
gazing  on  them,  found  new  stars  burst  upon  her 
view,  and  more  beyond,  and  more  beyond  again, 
until  the  whole  great  expanse  sparkled  with  shin- 
ing spheres,  rising  higher  and  higher  in  immeas- 
urable space,  eternal  in  their  numbers  as  in  their 
changeless  and  incorruptible  existence.  She  bent 
over  the  calm  rive.r,  and  saw  them  shining  in  the 
same  majestic  order  as  when  the  dove  beheld 
them  gleaming  through  the  swollen  waters,  upon 
the  mountain-tops  down  far  below,  and  dead 
mankind  a million  fathoms  deep. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  42. 

NIGHT— To  the  outcast. 

It  was  the  dead  time  of  the  night,  and  all  was 


quiet.  Now  and  then  a drowsy  watchman’s 
footsteps  sounded  on  the  pavement,  or  the  lamp- 
lighter on  his  rounds  went  flashing  past,  leaving 
behind  a little  track  of  smoke  mingled  with 
glowing  morsels  of  his  hot  red  link.  He  hid 
himself  even  from  these  partakers  of  his  lonely 
walk,  and  shrinking  in  some  arch  or  door- 
way while  they  passed,  issued  forth  again  when 
they  were  gone,  and  so  pursued  his  solitary 
way. 

To  be  shelterless  and  alone  in  the  open  coun- 
try, hearing  the  wind  moan,  and  watching  for  day 
through  the  whole  long,  weary  night ; to  listen  to 
the  falling  rain,  and  crouch  for  warmth  beneath 
the  lee  of  some  old  barn  or  rick,  or  in  the  hollow 
of  a tree,  are  dismal  things — but  not  so  dismal 
as  the  wandering  rip  and  down  where  shelter  is, 
and  beds  and  sleepers  are  by  thousands,  a house- 
less, rejected  creature.  To  pace  the  echoing 
stones  from  hour  to  hour,  counting  the  dull 
chimes  of  the  clocks;  to  watch  the  lights  twink- 
ling in  chamber  windows  ; to  think  what  hap- 
py forgetfulness  each  house  shuts  in  ; that  here 
are  children  coiled  together  in  their  beds,  here 
youth,  here  age,  here  poverty,  here  wealth,  all 
equal  in  their  sleep,  and  all  at  rest ; to  have 
nothing  in  common  with  the  slumbering  world 
around,  not  even  sleep — Heaven’s  gift  to  all  its 
creatures — and  be  akin  to  nothing  but  despair ; 
to  feel,  by  the  wretched  contrast  with  everything 
on  every  hand,  more  utterly  alone  and  cast  away 
than  in  a trackless  desert  ; this  is  a kind  of  suf- 
fering on  which  the  rivers  of  great  cities  close 
full  many  a time,  and  which  the  solitude  in 
crowds  alone  awakens. 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  18. 

NIGHT-A  still. 

A fine  night,  and  a bright  large  moon,  and 
multitudes  of  stars.  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  in  re- 
pairing to  his  cellar,  and  in  opening  and  shut- 
ting those  resounding  doors,  has  to  cross  a little 
prison-like  yard.  He  looks  up  casually,  think- 
ing what  a fine  night,  what  a bright  large 
moon,  what  multitudes  of  stars  ! A quiet  night, 
too. 

A very  quiet  night.  When  the  moon  shines 
very  brilliantly,  a solitude  and  stillness  seem  to 
•proceed  from  her,  that  influence  even  crowded 
places,  full  of  life.  Not  only  is  it  a still  night 
on  dusty  high-roads  and  on  hill-summits,  whence 
a wide  expanse  of  country  may  be  seen  in 
repose,  quieter  and  quieter  as  it  spreads  away 
into  a fringe  of  trees  against  the  sky,  with 
the  gray  ghost  of  a bloom  upon  them  ; 
not  only  is  it  a still  night  in  gardens  and  in 
woods,  and  on  the  river  where  the  water  mead- 
ows are  fresh  and  green,  and  the  stream 
sparkles  on  among  pleasant  islands,  murmuring 
weirs,  and  whispering  rushes  ; not  only  does  the 
stillness  attend  it  as  it  flows  where  houses  clus- 
ter thick,  where  many  bridges  are  reflected  in  it, 
where  wharves  and  shipping  make  it  black  and 
awful,  where  it  winds  from  these  disfigurements 
through  marshes  whose  grim  beacons  stand  like 
skeletons  washed  ashore,  where  it  expands 
through  the  bolder  region  of  rising  grounds,  rich 
in  corn-field,  wind-mill,  and  steeple,  and  where 
it  mingles  with  the  ever-heaving  sea  ; not  only  is 
it  a still  night  on  the  deep,  and  an  the  shore 
where  the  watcher  stands  to  see  the  ship  with 
her  spread  wings  cross  the  path  of  light  that 
appears  to  be  presented  to  only  him  ; but  even 


NIGHT 


334 


NIGHT 


on  this  strangers'  wilderness  of  London  there  is 
some  rest.  Its  steeples  and  towers,  and  its  one 
great  dome,  grow  more  ethereal  ; its  smoky 
house-tops  lose  their  grossness,  in  the  pale  efful- 
gence ; the  noises  that  ai'ise  from  the  streets  are 
fewer  and  are  softened,  and  the  footsteps  on  the 
pavements  pass  more  tranquilly  away. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  48. 

NIGHT  On  the  Thames. 

My  face  confessing  a surprised  desire  to  have 
some  friendly  conversation  with  Waterloo 
Bridge,  and  my  friend  Pea  being  the  most 
obliging  of  men,  we  put  about,  pulled  out  of  the 
force  of  the  stream,  arid  in  place  of  going  at 
great  speed  with  the  tide,  began  to  strive  against 
it,  close  in  shore  again.  Every  color  but  black 
seemed  to  have  departed  from  the  world.  The 
air  was  black,  the  water  was  black,  the  barges 
and  hulks  were  black,  the  piles  were  black,  the 
buildings  were  black,  the  shadows  were  only  a 
deeper  shade  of  black  upon  a black  ground. 
Plere  and  there  a coal  fire,  in  an  iron  cresset, 
blazed  upon  a wharf ; but,  one  knew  that  it  too 
had  been  black  a little  while  ago,  and  would  be 
black  again  soon.  Uncomfortable  rushes  of  water 
suggestive  of  gurgling  arid  drowning,  ghostly 
rattlings  of  iron/  chains,  dismal  clankings  of 
discordant  engines,  formed  the  music  that  ac- 
companied the  clip  of  our  oars  and  their  rattling 
in  the  rullocks.  Even  the  noises  had  a black 
sound  to  me — as  the  trumpet  sounded  red  to 
the  blind  man. 

Down  with  the  Tide.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

NIGHT- At  sea. 

The  light  shining  on  the  dreary  waste  of 
water,  and  showing  it  in  all  its  vast  extent  of 
loneliness,  presents  a solemn  spectacle  which 
even  night,  veiling  it  in  darkness  and  uncer- 
tainty, does  not  surpass.  The  rising  of  the 
moon  is  more  in  keeping  with  the  solitary 
ocean,  and  has  an  air  of  melancholy  grandeur, 
which,  in  its  soft  and  gentle  influence,  seems  to 
comfort  while  it  saddens.  I recollect,  when  I 
was  a very  young  child,  having  a fancy  that  the 
reflection  of  the  moon  in  water  was  a path  to 
Heaven,  trodden  by  the  spirits  of  good  people 
ori  their  way  to  God  ; and  this  old  feeling  often 
came  over  me  again,  when  I watched  it  on  a tran- 
quil night  at  sea. — American  Notes.  Chap.  16. 

NIGHT— In  prison  (Barnaby  Rudg-e). 

The  moon  came  slowly  up  in  all  her  gentle 
glory,  and  the  stars  looked  out,  and  through  the 
small  compass  of  the  grated  window,  as  through 
the  narrow  crevice  of  one  good  deed  in  a murky 
life  of  guilt,  the  face  of  Heaven  shone  bright 
and  merciful.  He  raised  his  head;  gazed  upward 
at  the  quiet  sky,  which  seemed  to  smile  upon  the 
earth  in  sadness,  as  if  the  night,  more  thought- 
ful than  the  day,  looked  down  in  sorrow  on  the 
sufferings  and  evil  deeds  of  men  ; and  felt  its 
peace  sink  deep  into  his  heart.  He,  a poor 
idiot,  caged  in  his  narrow  cell,  was  as  much 
lifted  up  to  God,  while  gazing  on  the  mild  light, 
as  the  freest  and  most  favored  man  in  all  the 
tpacious  city  ; and  in  his  ill-rememberecl  prayer, 
and  in  the  fragment  of  the  childish  hymn  with 
which  he  sung  and  crooned  himself  asleep,  there 
br<  athed  as  ti  ue  a spit  it  a 5 evei  studied  homily 
expressed,  or  old  cathedral  arches  echoed. 

Barnaby  Rudgi\  Chap.  73. 


NIGHT  A river  at. 

The  river  had  an  awful  look,  the  buildings  on 
the  banks  were  muffled  in  black  shrouds,  and 
the  reflected  lights  seemed  to  originate  deep  in 
the  water, .as  if  the  spectres  of  suicides  were 
holding  them  to  show  where  they  went  down. 
The  wild  moon  and  clouds  were  as  restless  as 
an  evil  conscience  in  a tumbled  bed,  and  the 
very  shadow  of  the  immensity  of  London  seemed 
to  lie  oppressively  upon  the  river. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  13. 

NIGHT  Out  in  a London. 

Three  o’clock,  and  half-past  three,  and  they 
had  passed  over  London  Bridge.  They  had 
heard  the  rush  of  the  tide  against  obstacles ; 
had  looked  down,  awed,  through  the  dark  vapor 
on  the  river ; had  seen  little  spots  of  lighted 
water  where  the  bridge  lamps  were  reflected, 
shining  like  demon  eyes,  with  a terrible  fasci- 
nation in  them  for  guilt  and  misery.  They  had 
shrunk  past  homeless  people,  lying  coiled  up  in 
nooks.  They  had  run  from  drunkards.  They 
had  started  from  slinking  men,  whistling  and 
singing  to  one  another  at  bye  corners,  or  run- 
ning away  at  full  speed.  Though  evp-vwhere 
the  leader  and  the  guide,  Little  Dorrit,  happy 
for  once  in  her  youthful  appearance,  feigned  to 
cling  to  and  rely  upon  Maggy.  And  more  than 
once  some  voice,  from  among  a knot  of  brawl- 
ing or  prowling  figures  in  their  path,  had  called 
out  to  the  rest,  to  “ let  the  woman  and  the  child 
go  by!” — Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  14. 

NIGHT  In  London. 

But  the  streets  of  London,  to  be  beheld  in 
the  very  height  of  their  glory,  should  be  seen 
on  a dark,  dull,  murky  winter’s  night,  when 
there  is  just  enough  damp  gently  stealing  down 
to  make  the  pavement  greasy,  without  cleans- 
ing it  of  any  of  its  impurities  ; and  when  the 
heavy,  lazy  mist,  which  hangs  over  every  object, 
makes  the  gas-lamps  look  brighter,  and  the 
brilliantly  lighted  shops  more  splendid,  from 
the  contrast  they  present  to  the  darkness  around. 
All  the  people  who  are  at  home  on  such  a night 
as  this,  seem  disposed  to  make  themselves  as 
snug  and  comfortable  as  possible ; and  the 
passengers  in  the  streets  have  excellent  reason 
to  envy  the  fortunate  individuals  who  are  seated 
by  their  own  firesides. 

Sketches  ( Scenes J,  Chap.  2. 

NIGHT— The  approach  and  shadows  of. 

All  that  prospect,  which  from  the  terrace 
looked  so  near,  has  moved  solemnly  away,  and 
changed — not  the  first  nor  the  last  of  beautiful 
things  that  look  so  near  and  will  so  change — 
into  a distant  phantom.  Light  mists  arise,  and 
the  dew  falls,  and  all  the  sweet  scents  in  the 
garden  are  heavy  in  the  air.  Now,  the  woods 
settle  into  great  masses,  as  if  they  were  each  one 
profound  tree.  And  now  the  moon  rises,  to 
separate  them,  and  to  glimmer  here  and  there 
in  horizontal  lines  behind  their  stems,  and  to 
■make  the  avenue  a pavemeftt  of  light  among 
high  cathedral  arches  fantastically  broken. 

Now,  the  moon  is  high  ; and  the  great  house, 
needing  habitation  more  th$m  ever,  is  like  a 
body  without  life.  Now,  it  is  even  awful, 
stealing  through  it,  to  think  of  the  live  people 
who  have  slept  in  the  solitary  bedrooms  ; to  say 
nothing  of  the  dead.  Now  is  the  time  for 


NIGHT-WALKS 


335 


NIGHT-FANCIES 


shadow,  when  every  corner  is  a cavern,  and 
every  downward  step  a pit,  when  the  stained 
glass  is  reflected  in  pale  and  faded  hues  upon  the 
floors,  when  anything  and  everything  can  be 
made  of  the  heavy  staircase  beam^  excepting 
their  own  proper  shapes,  when  the  armor  has 
dull  lights  upon  it  not  easily  to  be  distinguished 
from  stealthy  movement,  and  when  barred  hel- 
mets are  frightfully  suggestive  of  heads  inside. 
But,  of  all  the  shadows  in  Chesney  Wold,  the 
shadow  in  the  long  drawing-room  upon  my 
lady’s  picture  is  the  first  to  come,  the  last  to  be 
disturbed.  At  this  hour  and  by  this  light  it 
changes  into  threatening  hands  raised  up,  and 
menacing  the  handsome  face  with  every  breath 
that  stirs. — Bleak  House , Chap.  40. 

NIGHT- W ALKS-The  associations  of. 

Although  I am  an  old  man,  night  is  generally 
my  time  for  walking.  In  the  summer  I often 
leave  home  early  in  the  morning,  and  roam  about 
the  fields  and  lanes  all  day,  or  even  escape  for 
days  or  weeks  together  ; but,  saving  in  the  coun- 
try, I seldom  go  out  until  after  dark,  though, 
Heaven  be  thanked,  I love  its  light  and  feel  the 
cheerfulness  it  sheds  upon  the  earth,  as  much 
as  any  creature  living. 

I have  fallen  insensibly  into  this  habit,  both 
because  it  favors  my  infirmity,  and  because  it 
affords  me  greater  opportunity  of  speculating  on 
the  characters  and  occupations  of  those  who  fill 
the  streets.  The  glare  and  hurry  of  broad  noon 
are  not  adapted  to  idle  pursuits  like  mine  ; a 
glimpse  of  passing  faces  caught  by  the  light  of 
a street  lamp,  or  a shop  window,  is  often  better 
for  my  purpose  than  their  full  revelation  in  the 
daylight  ; and,  if  I must  add  the  truth,  night  is 
kinder  in  this  respect  than  day,  which  too  often 
destroys  an  air-built  castle  at  the  moment  of  its 
completion,  without  the  least  ceremony  or  re- 
morse. 

That  constant  pacing  to  and  fro,  that  never- 
ending  restlessness,  that  incessant  tread  of  feet 
wearing  the  rough  stones  smooth  and  glossy — is 
it  not  a wonder  how  the  dwellers  in  narrow  ways 
can  bear  to  hear  it?  Think  of  a sick  man,  in 
such  a place  as  St.  Martin’s  Court,  listening,  to' 
the  footsteps,  and  in  the  midst  of  pain  and 
weariness,  obliged,  despite  himself  (as  though  it 
were  a task  he  must  perform)  to  detect  the  child’s 
step  from  the  man’s,  the  slipshod  beggar  from  the 
booted  exquisite,  the  lounging  from  the  busy, 
the  dull  heel  of  the  sauntering  outcast  from  the 
quick  tread  of  an  expectant  pleasure-seeker 
— think  of  the  hum  and  noise  being  always  pres- 
ent to  his  senses,  and  of  the  stream  of  life  that 
’ will  not.  stop,  pouring  on,  on,  on,  through  all  his 
restless  dreams,  as  if  he  were  condemned  to  lie, 
dead,  but  conscious,  in  a noisy  churchyard,  and 
had  no  hope  of  rest  for  centuries  to  come  ! 

Then,  the  crowds  for  ever  passing  and  repass- 
ing on  the  bridges  (on  those  which  are  free  of 
toll,  at  least),  where  many  stop  on  fine  evenings, 
looking  listlessly  down  upon  the  water,  with 
some  vague  idea  that  by-and-bye  it  runs  between 
green  banks  which  grow  wider  and  wider,  until 
at  last  it  joins  the  broad,  vast  sea — where  some 
halt  to  rest  from  heavy  loads,  and  think,  as  they 
look  over  the  parapet,  that  to  smoke  and  lounge 
away  one’s  life,  and  lie  sleeping  in  the  sun  upon 
a hot  tarpaulin,  in  a dull,  slow,  sluggish  barge, 
must  be  happiness  unalloyed — and  where  some, 
and  a very  different  class,  pause  with  heavier 


loads  than  they,  remembering  to  have  heard  nr 
read  in  some  old  time  that  drowning  was  not  a 
hard  death,  but  of  all  means  of  suicide  the  easi- 
est and  best. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  1. 

NIGHT-FANCIES. 

What  a doleful  night ! How  anxious,  how 
dismal,  how  long!  There  was  an  inhospitable 
smell  in  the  room,  of  cold  soot  and  hot  dust  ; 
and,  as  I looked  up  into  the  corners  of  the  tester 
over  my  head,  I thought  what  a number  of  blue- 
bottle flies  from  the  butchers’,  and  earwigs  from 
the  market,  and  grubs  from  the  country,  must 
be  holding  on  up  there,  lying  by  for  next  sum- 
mer. This  led  me  to  speculate  whether  any  of 
them  ever  tumbled  down,  and  then  I fancied 
that  I felt  light  falls  on  my  face — a disagreeable 
turn  of  thought,  suggesting  other  and  more  ob- 
jectionable approaches  up  my  back.  When  I 
had  lain ’awake  a little  while,  those  extraordinary 
voices  with  which  silence  teems,  began  to  make 
themselves  audible.  The  closet  whispered,  the 
fire-place  sighed,  the  little  washing-stand  ticked, 
and  one  guitar-string  played  occasionally  in  the 
chest  of  drawers.  At  about  the  same  time,  the 
eyes  on  the  wall  acquired  a new  expression, 
and  in  every  one  of  those  staring  rounds  I saw 
written,  Don’t  go  Home. 

Whatever  night-fancies  and  night-noises 
crowded  on  me,  they  never  warded  off  this 
Don’t  go  Home.  It  plaited  itself  into  what- 
ever I thought  of,  as  a bodily  pain  would  have 
done.  Not  long  before,  I had  read  in  the  news- 
papers, how  a gentleman  unknown  had  come  to 
the  Hummums  in  the  night,  and  had  gone  to 
bed,  and  had  destroyed  himself,  and  had  been 
found  in  the  morning  weltering  in  blood.  It 
came  into  my  head  that  he  must  have  occupied 
this  very  vault  of  mine,  and  I got  out  of  bed  to 
assure  myself  that  there  were  no  red  marks 
about  ; then  opened  the  door  to  look  out  into 
the  passages,  and  cheer  myself  with  the  com- 
panionship of  a distant  light,  near  which  I 
knew  the  chamberlain  to  be  dozing.  But  all 
this  time,  why  I was  not  to  go  home,  and  what 
had  happened  at  home,  and  when  I should  go 
home,  and  whether  Provis  was  safe  at  home,  were 
questions  occupying  my  mind  so  busily,  that 
one  might  have  supposed  there  could  be  no 
more  room  in  it  for  any  other  theme.  Even 
when  I thought  of  Estella,  and  how  we  had 
parted  that  day  for  ever,  and  when  I recalled 
all  the  circumstances  of  our  parting,  and  all  her 
looks  and  tones,  and  the  action  of  her  fingers 
while  she  knitted — even  then  I was  pursuing, 
here  and  there  and  everywhere,  the  caution, 
Don’t  go  home.  When  at  last  I dozed,  in  sheer 
exhaustion  of  mind  and  body,  it  became  a vast 
shadowy  verb  which  I had  to  conjugate.  Im- 
perative mood,  present  tense  : Do  not  thou  go 
home,  let  him  not  go  home,  let  us  not  go  home, 
do  not  ye  or  you  go  home,  let  not  them  go  home. 
Then  potentially  : I may  not  and  I cannot  go 
home  ; and  I might  not,  could  not,  would  not, 
and  should  not  go  home  ; until  I felt  that  I was 
going  distracted,  and  rolled  over  on  the  pillow, 
and  looked  at  the  staring  rounds  upon  the  wall 
again. — Great  Expectations.  Chap.  45. 

In  the  quiet  hours  of  the  night,  one  house 
shuts  in  as  many  incoherent  and  incongruous 
fancies  as  a madman’s  head. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  5 


NIGHT-THOUGHTS 


8U6 


NOSE 


NIGHT-THOUGHTS— Of  Little  Nell. 

At  that  silent  hour,  when  her  grandfather  was 
sleeping  peacefully  in  his  bed,  and  every  sound 
was  hushed,  the  child  lingered  before  the  dying 
embers,  and  thought  of  her  past  fortunes  as  if 
they  had  been  a dream  and  she  only  now  awoke. 
The  glare  of  the  sinking  flame,  reflected  in  the 
oaken  panels  whose  carved  tops  were  dimly  seen 
in  the  dusky  roof — the  aged  walls,  where  strange 
shadows  came  and  went  with  every  flickering 
of  the  fire — the  solemn  presence,  within,  of  that 
decay  which  falls  on  senseless  things  the  most 
enduring  in  their  nature ; and  without,  and 
round  about  on  every  side,  of  Death — filled  her 
with  deep  and  thoughtful  feelings,  but  with  none 
of  terror  or  alarm.  A change  had  been  gradu- 
ally stealing  over  her,  in  the  time  of  her  loneli- 
ness and  sorrow.  With  failing  strength  and 
heightening  resolution,  there  had  sprung  up  a 
purified  and  altered  mind  ; there  had  grown 
in  her  bosom  blessed  thoughts  and  hopes, 
which  are  the  portion  of  few  but  the  weak  and 
drooping.  There  were  noVie  to  see  the  frail, 
perishable  figure,  as  it  glided  from  the  fire  and 
leaned  pensively  at  the  open  casement ; none 
but  the  stars  to  look  into  the  upturned  face  and 
rej.cl  its  history.  The  old  church  bell  rang  out 
the  hour  with  a mournful  sound,  as  if  it  had 
grown  sad  from  so  much  communing  with  the 
dead  and  unheeded  warning  to  the  living  ; the 
fallen  leaves  rustled  ; the  grass  stirred  upon  the 
graves  ; all  else  was  still  and  sleeping. 

Some  of  those  dreamless  sleepers  lay  close 
within  the  shadow  of  the  church — touching  the 
wall,  as  if  they  clung  to  it  for  comfort  and  pro- 
tection. Others  had  chosen  to  lie  beneath  the 
changing  shade  of  trees  ; others  by  the  path, 
that  footsteps  might  come  near  them  ; others, 
among  the  graves  of  little  children.  Some  had 
desired  to  rest  beneath  the  very  ground  they  had 
trodden  in  their  daily  walks  ; some,  where  the 
setting  sun  might  shine  upon  their  beds  ; some, 
where  its  light  would  fall  upon  them  when  it 
rose.  Perhaps  not  one  of  the  imprisoned  souls 
had  been  able  quite  to  separate  itself  in  living 
thought  from  its  old  companion.  If  any  had,  it 
had  still  felt  for  it  a love  like  that  which  captives 
have  been  known  to  bear  towards  the  cell  in 
which  they  have  been  long  confined,  and,  even 
at  parting,  hung  upon  its  narrow  bounds  affec- 
tionately. 

It  was  long  before  the  child  closed  the  win- 
dow, and  approached  her  bed.  Again  some- 
thing of  the  same  sensation  as  before — an  in- 
voluntary chill — a momentary  feeling  akin  to 
fear — but  vanishing  directly,  and  leaving  no 
alarm  behind.  Again,  too,  dreams  of  the  little 
scholar  ; of  the  roof  opening,  and  a column  of 
bright  faces,  rising  far  away  into  the  sky,  as  she 
had  seen  in  some  old  scriptural  picture  once,  and 
looking  down  on  her,  asleep.  It  was  a sweet 
and  happy  dream.  The  quiet  spot  outside 
seemed  to  remain  the  same,  saving  that  there 
was  music  in  the  air,  and  a sound  of  angels’ 
wings.  After  a time  the  sisters  came  there, 
hand  in  hand,  and  stood  among  the  graves. 
And  then  the  dream  grew  dim  and  faded. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  52. 

NIGHT-CAPS. 

“ People  may  say  what  they  like,”  observed 
Mrs,  Nickleby,  “but  there’s  a great  deal  of  com- 
fort in  a night-cap,  as  I am  sure  you  would  con 


fess,  Nicholas,  my  dear,  if  you  would  only  have 
strings  to  yours,  and  wear  it  like  a Christian, 
instead  of  sticking  it  upon  the  very  top  of  your 
head  like  a blue-coat  boy.  You  needn’t  think 
it  an  unmanly  or  quizzical  thing  to  be  particular 
about  your  night-cap,  for  I have  often  heard 
your  poor  dear  papa,  and  the  Reverend  Mr. 
What’s-his-name,  who  used  to  read  prayers  in 
that  old  church  with  the  curious  little  steeple 
that  the  weathercock  was  blown  off  the  night 
week  before  you  were  born — I have  often  heard 
them  say,  that  the  young  men  at  college  are  un- 
commonly particular  about  their  night-caps,  and 
that  the  Oxford  night-caps  are  quite  celebrated 
for  their  strength  and  goodness  ; so  much  so, 
indeed,  that  the  young  men  never  dream  of  go- 
ing to  bed  without  ’em,  and  I believe  it’s  ad- 
mitted on  all  hands  that  they  know  what’s  good, 
and  don’t  coddle  themselves.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  37. 

NOBILITY— True. 

His  formal  array  of  words  might  have  at  any 
other  time,  as  it  has  often  had,  something  ludic- 
rous in  it  ! but  at  this  time  it  is  serious  and  af- 
fecting. His  noble  earnestness,  his  fidelity,  his 
gallant  shielding  of  her,  his  generous  conquest 
of  his  own  wrong  and  his  own  pride  for  her 
sake,  are  simply  honorable,  manly,  and  true. 
Nothing  less  worthy  can  be  seen  through  the 
lustre  of  such  qualities  in  the  commonest  me- 
chanic, nothing  less  worthy  can  be  seen  in  the 
best-born  gentleman.  In  such  a light  both 
aspire  alike,  both  rise  alike,  both  children  of  the 
dust  shine  equal. — Bleak  Hottse,  Chap.  58. 

NOBODY  The  story  of. 

If  you  were  ever  in  the  Belgian  villages  near 
the  field  of  Waterloo,  you  will  have  seen,  in 
some  quiet  little  church,  a monument  erected 
by  faithful  companions  in  arms  to  the  memory 
of  Colonel  A,  Major  B,  Captains  C,  D,  and  E, 
Lieutenants  F and  G,  Ensigns  H,  I,  and  J,  seven 
non-commissioned  officers,  and  one  hundred  and 
thirty  rank  and  file,  who  fell  in  the  discharge  of 
their  duty  on  the  memorable  day.  The  story  of 
Nobody  is  the  story  of  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
earth.  They  bear  their  shai'e  of  the  battle  ; 
they  have  their  part  in  the  victory  ; they  fall ; 
they  leave  no  name  but  in  the  mass.  The  march 
of  the  proudest  of  us  leads  to  the  dusty  way  by 
which  they  go.  O ! Let  us  think  of  them  this 
year  at  the  Christmas  fire,  and  not  forget  them 
when  it  is  burnt  out. 

Nobody's  Story.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

NOSES— 111  art. 

“ Why,  that  depends  in  a great  measure  on 
the  pattern,”  replied  Miss  La  Creevy.  “ Snubs 
and  Romans  are  plentiful  enough,  and  there  are 
flats  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  when  there’s  a meet- 
ing at  Exeter  Hall ; but  perfect  aquilines,  I am 
sorry  to  say,  are  scarce,  and  we  generally  use 
them  for  uniforms  or  public  characters.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  5. 

NOSE— A mixed  or  Composite. 

“ What  may  you  call  his  nose,  now,  my  dear  ? ” 
pursued  Mrs.  Nickleby,  wishing  to  interest  Nich- 
olas in  the  subject  to  the  utmost. 

“Call  it?”  repeated  Nicholas. 

“ Ah  ! ” returned  his  mother,  “ what  style  of 
nose  ? What  order  of  architecture,  if  one  may 


NOSES 


337 


NURSE 


say  so?  I am  not  very  learned  in  noses.  Do 
you  call  it  a Roman  or  a Grecian?” 

“ Upon  my  word,  mother,”  said  Nicholas, 
laughing,  “ as  well  as  I remember,  I should  call 
it  a kind  of  Composite,  or  mixed  nose.  But  I 
have  no  very  strong  recollection  on  the  subject. 
If  it  will  afford  you  any  gratification,  I’ll  observe 
it  more  closely,  and  let  you  know.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  55. 

NOSES. 

I think  the  Romans  must  have  aggravated  one 
another  very  much,  with  their  noses.  Perhaps 
they  became  the  restless  people  they  were,  in 
consequence.  Anyhow,  Mr.  Wopsle’s  Roman 
nose  so  aggravated  me,  during  the  recital  of  my 
misdemeanors,  that  I should  have  liked  to  pull 
it  until  he  howled  .—  Great  Expectations,  Chap.  4. 

NURSE— Mrs.  Pipchin,  the. 

This  celebrated  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a marvellous 
ill-favored,  ill-conditioned  old  lady,  of  a stooping 
figure,  with  a mottled  face,  like  bad  marble,  a 
hook  nose,  and  a hard  gray  eye,  that  looked  as  if 
it  might  have  been  hammered  at  on  an  anvil  with- 
out sustaining  any  injury.  Forty  years  at  least 
had  elapsed  since  the  Peruvian  mines  had  been 
the  death  of  Mr.  Pipchin  ; but  his  relict  still  wore 
black  bombazine,  of  such  a lustreless,  deep,  dead, 
sombre  shade,  that  gas  itself  couldn’t  light  her 
up  after  dark,  and  her  presence  was  a quencher 
to  any  number  of  candles.  She  was  generally 
spoken  of  as  “ a great  manager  ” of  children  ; 
and  the  secret  of  her  management  was,  to  give 
them  everything  that  they  didn’t  like,  and  nothing 
that  they  did— which  was  found  to  sweeten  their 
dispositions  very  much.  She  was  such  a bitter 
old  lady,  that  one  was  tempted  to  believe  there 
had  been  some  mistake  in  the  application  of  the 
Peruvian  machinery,  and  that  all  her  waters  of 
gladness  and  milk  of  human  kindness  had  been 
pumped  out  dry,  instead  of  the  mines. 

Dombey  6°  Son , Chap.  8. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  hovered  behind  the  victim,  with 
her  sable  plumage  and  her  hooked  beak,  like 
a bird  of  ill-omen.  She  was  out  of  breath — for 
Mr.  Dombey,  full  of  great  thoughts,  had  walked 
fast — and  she  croaked  hoarsely  as  she  waited  for 
the  opening  of  the  door. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  11. 

NURSES — Their  characteristics. 

“ I needn’t  beg  you,”  he  added,  pausing  for  a 
moment  at  the  settee  before  the  fire,  “ to  take 
particular  care  of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs. 

“ Blockitt,  Sir?  ” suggested  the  nurse,  a sim- 
pering piece  of  faded  gentility,  who  did  not  pre- 
sume to  state  her  name  as  a fact,  but  merely  of- 
fered it  as  a mild  suggestion. 


The  excellent  and  thoughtful  old  system,  hal- 
lowed by  long  prescription,  which  has  usually 
picked  out  from  the  rest  of  mankind  the  most 
dreary  and  uncomfortable  people  that  could 
possibly  be  laid  hold  of,  to  act  as  instructors  of 
youth,  finger-posts  to  the  virtues,  matrons,  moni- 
tors, attendants  on  sick-beds,  and  the  like,  had 
established  Mrs.  Wickam  in  very  good  business 
as  a nurse,  and  had  led  to  her  serious  qualities 
being  particularly  commended  by  an  admiring 
and  numerous  connection. 


, ***** 
Mrs.  Wickam  was  a meek  woman,  of  a fair 
> complexion,  with  her  eyebrows  always  elevated, 
and  her  head  always  drooping  ; who  was  always 
ready  to  pity  herself,  or  to  be  pitied,  or  to  pity 
anybody  else  ; and  who  had  a surprising  natural 
gift  of  viewing  all  subjects  in  an  utterly  forlorn 
and  pitiable  light,  and  bringing  dreadful  prece- 
dents to  bear  upon  them,  and  deriving  the  great- 
est consolation  from  the  exercise  of  that  talent. 
***** 
Mrs.  Wickam,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
like  a disconsolate  spectre,  most  decidedly  and 
forcibly  shook  her  head  to  negative  this  position. 

“It  matters  very  little!”  said  Alice,  with  a 
faint  smile.  “ Better  or  worse  to-day,  is  but  a 
day’s  difference— perhaps  not  so  much.” 

Mrs.  Wickam,  as  a serious  character,  expressed 
her  approval  with  a groan  ; and  having  made 
some  cold  dabs  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed-clothes, 
as  feeling  for  the  patient’s  feet  and  expecting  to 
find  them  stony,  went  clinking  among  the  medi- 
cine bottles  on  the  table. 

***** 
Mrs.  Wickam  having  clinked  sufficiently 
among  the  bottles,  now  produced  the  mixture. 
Mrs.  Wickam  looked  hard  at  her  patient  in  the 
act  of  drinking,  screwed  her  mouth  up  tight, 
her  eyebrows  also,  and  shook  her  head,  express- 
ing that  tortures  shouldn’t  make  her  say  it  was  a 
hopeless  case.  Mrs.  Wickam  then  sprinkled  a 
little  cooling-stuff  about  the  room,  with  the  air 
of  a female  grave-digger,  who  was  strewing  ashes 
on  ashes,  dust  on  dust — for  she  was  a serious 
character — and  withdrew  to  partake  of  certain 
funeral  baked  meats  down-stairs. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  58. 

“ My  goodness  gracious  me,  Miss  Floy,  you 
naughty,  sinful  child,  if  you  don’t  shut  your  eyes 
this  minute,  I’ll  call  in  them  hobgoblins  that  lives 
in  the  cockloft  to  come  and  eat  you  up  alive  ! ” 
Here  Miss  Nipper  made  a horrible  lowing, 
supposed  to  issue  from  a conscientious  goblin  of 
the  bull  species,  impatient  to  discharge  the 
severe  duty  of  his  position.  Having  further 
composed  her  young  charge  by  covering  her 
head  with  the  bed-clothes,  and  making  three  or 
four  angry  dabs  at  the  pillow,  she  folded  her 
arms,  and  screwed  up  her  mouth,  and  sat  look- 
ing at  the  fire  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  5. 

NURSE— A gentle. 

Who,  slowly  recovering  from  a disorder  so 
severe  and  dangerous,  could  be  insensible  to  the 
unremitting  attentions  of  such  a nurse  as  gentle, 
tender,  earnest  Kate  ? On  whom  could  the 
sweet  soft  voice,  the  light  step,  the  delicate  hand, 
the  quiet,  cheerful,  noiseless  discharge  of  those 
thousand  little  offices  of  kindness  and  relief 
which  we  feel  so  deeply  when  we  are  ill,  and 
forget  so  lightly  when  we  are  well — on  whom 
could  they  make  so  deep  an  impression  as  on  a 
young  heart  stored  with  every  pure  and  true 
affection  that  women  cherish  ; almost  a stranger 
to  the  endearments  and  devotion  of  its  own  sex, 
save  as  it  learnt  them  from  itself ; rendered,  by 
calamity  and  suffering,  keenly  susceptible  of  the 
sympathy  so  long  unknown  and  so  long  sought 
in  vain  ! What  wonder  that  days  became  as 
years  in  knitting  them  together  ! 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  55. 


NURSE 


338 


NURSE 


NURSE. 

A nurse  attended  her,  who  might  have  been 
the  figure-head  of  a pauper-ship. 

Uncojnmercial  Traveller , Chap.  18. 

NURSE— Mrs.  Squeers  as  a. 

“ I remember  very  well,  sir,”  rejoined  Squeers. 
“Ah!  Mrs.  Squeers,  sir,  was  as  partial  to  that 
lad  as  if  he  had  been  her  own  ; the  attention, 
sir,  that  was  bestowed  upon  that  boy  in  his  ill- 
ness ! Dry  toast  and  warm  tea  offered  him  every 
night  and  morning  when  he  couldn’t  swallow 
anything — a candle  in  his  bed-room  on  the  very 
night  he  died — the  best  dictionary  sent  up  for 
him  to  lay  his  head  upon.  I don’t  regret  it 
though.  It  is  a pleasant  thing  to  reflect  that 
one  clid  one’s  duty  by  him.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  4. 

NURSES— Mercenary. 

Quiet  and  solitude  were  destined,  to  hold  un- 
interrupted rule  no  longer,  beneath  the  roof  that 
sheltered  the  child.  Next  morning,  the  old  man 
was  in  a raging  fever  accompanied  with  deli-, 
rium  ; and  sinking  under  the  influence  of  this 
disorder  he  lay  for  many  weeks  in  imminent 
peril  of  his  life.  There  was  watching  enough 
now,  but  it  was  the  watching  of  strangers  who 
made  a greedy  trade  of  it,  and  who,  in  the  inter- 
vals of  their  attendance  upon  the  sick  man,  hud- 
dled together  with  a ghastly  good  fellowship, 
and  ate  and  drank  and  made  merry  ; for  disease 
and  death  were  their  ordinary  household  gods. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  11. 

NURSE— Sairey  Gamp  as  a. 

“ Why,  highty  tighty,  sir  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Gamp, 
“is  these  your  manners?  You  want  a pitcher 
of  cold  water  throw’d  over  you  to  bring  you 
round  ; that’s  my  belief ; and  if  you  was  under 
Betsy  Prig  you’d  have  it,  too,  I do  assure  you, 
Mr.  Chuffey.  Spanish  Flies  is  the  only  thing  to 
draw  this  nonsense  out  of  you  ; and  if  anybody 
wanted  to  do  you  a kindness,  they’d  clap  a blis- 
ter of  ’em  on  your  head,  and  put  a mustard 
poultige  on  your  back.  Who’s  dead,  indeed ! 
It  wouldn’t  be  no  grievous  loss  if  some  one  was, 
I think  ! ” 

“ He’s  quiet  now,  Mrs.  Gamp,”  said  Merry. 
“ Don’t  disturb  him.” 

“ Oh,  bother  the  old  wictim,  Mrs.  Chuzzle- 
wit,”  replied  that  zealous  lady.  “ I ain’t  no  pa- 
tience with  him.  You  give  him,  his  own  way 
too  much  by  half.  A worritin’  wexagious  cree- 
tur  ! ” 

No  doubt  with  the  view  of  carrying  out  the 
precepts  she  enforced,  and  “ bothering  the  old 
wictim”  in  practice  as  well  as  in  theory,  Mrs. 
Gamp  took  him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  and 
gave  him  some  dozen  or  two  of  hearty  shakes 
backward  and  forward  in  his  chair  ; that  exei- 
cise  being  considered  by  the  disciples  off  the 
Pj ig  ( hool  "I  nui  sing  (who  are  very  numerous 
among  professional  ladies)  as  exceedingly  con- 
ducive to  repose,  and  highly  beneficial  to  the 
p<  1 foi  man<  e of  the  nei  vous  fun<  tion  i.  Its  effect 
in  this  instance  was  to  render  the  patient  so 
giddy  and  addle  headed  that  he  could  say  noth- 
ing more  ; which  Mrs.  Gamp  regarded  as  the 
triumph  of  her  art.  > 

“There!”  she  said,  loosening  the  old  man  s 
it,  hi  consequence  1 >f  hi,  being  rathei  black 
in  the  face  afLer  this  scientific  treatment. 


“ Now,  I hope,  you’re  easy  in  your  mind.  If 
you  should  turn  at  all  faint,  we  can  soon  rewive 
you,  sir,  I promige  you.  Bite  a person’s  thumbs, 
or  turn  their  fingers  the  wrong  way,”  said  Mis. 
Gamp,  smiling  with  the  consciousness  of  at  once 
imparting  pleasure  and  instruction  to  her  audi- 
tors, “and  they  comes  to,  wonderful,  Lord  bless 
you  ! ” 

As  this  excellent  woman  had  been  formally 
entrusted  with  the  care  of  Mr.  Chuffey  on  a pre- 
vious occasion,  neither  Mrs.  Jonas  nor  anybody 
else  had  the  resolution  to  interfere  directly  with 
her  mode  of  treatment : though  all  present  (Tom 
Pinch  and  his  sister  especially)  appeared  to  be 
disposed  to  differ  from  her  views.  For  such  is 
the  rash  boldness  of  the  uninitiated,  that  they 
will  frequently  set  up  some  monstrous  abstract 
principle,  such  as  humanity,  or  tenderness,  or  the 
like  idle  folly,  in  obstinate  defiance  of  all  prece- 
dent and  usage  ; and  will  even  venture  to  main- 
tain the  same  against  the  persons  who  have 
made  the  precedents  and  established  the  usage, 
and  who  must  therefore  be  the  best  and  most 
impartial  judges  of  the  subject. 

Martin  Chnzzlewit,  Chap.  46. 


He  was  so  wasted,  that  it  seemed  as  if  his 
bones  would  rattle  when  they  moved  him. 

1 1 is  cheeks  were  sunken,  and  his  eyes  unnatu- 
rally large.  He  lay  back  in  the  easy-chair  like 
one  more  dead  than  living  ; and  rolled  his  lan- 
guid eyes  towards  the  door  when  Mrs.  Gamp 
appeared,  as  painfully  as  if  their  weight  alone 
were  burdensome  to  move. 

“And  how  are  we  by  this  time?”  Mrs. 
Gamp  observed.  “We  looks  charming.” 

“ We  looks  a deal  charminger  than  we  are, 
then,”  returned  Mrs.  Prig,  a little  chafed  in  her 
temper.  “ We  got  out  of  bed  back’ards,  I 
think,  for  we’re  as  cross  as  two  sticks.  I never  j 
see  sich  a man.  Fie  wouldn’t  have  been  washed,  j 
if  he’d  had  his  own  way.” 

“ She  put  the  soap  in  my  mouth,”  said  the 
unfortunate  patient,  feebly. 

“ Couldn’t  you  keep  it  shut,  then  ? ” retorted 
Mrs.  Prig.  “ Who  do  you  think’s  to  wash  one 
feater,  and  miss  another,  and  wear  one’s  eyes 
out  with  all  manner  of  fine-work  of  that  de- 
scription, for  half-a-crown  a day  ! If  you  wants 
to  be  tittivated,  you  must  pay  accordin'.” 

“ Oh,  dear  me  !”  cried  the  patient,  “ oh  dear, 
dear ! ” 

“ There  ! ” said  Mrs.  Prig,  “ that’s  the  way 
he’s  been  a conducting  of  himself,  Sarah,  ever 
since  I got  him  out  of  bed,  if  you’ll  believe  it. 

“ Instead  of  being  grateful,”  Mrs.  Gamp  ob- 
served, “ for  all  our  little  ways.  Oh,  fie  for 
shame,  sir,  fie  for  shame  !”  ' 

Here  Mrs.  Prig  seized  the  patient  by  the 
chin,  and  began  to  rasp  his  unhappy  head  with 
a hair-brush.  ff 

“ I suppose  you  don’t  like  that,  neither ! she 
observed,  stopping  to  look  at  him. 

It  was  just  possible  that  he  didn’t,  for  the 
brush  was  a specimen  of  the  hardest  kind  of  in- 
strument producible  by  modern  art ; and  his 
very  eye-lids  were  red  with  the  friction.  Mrs. 
Prig  was  gratified  to  observe  the  correctness  of 
her&  supposition,  and  said  triumphantly,  “ she 
know’cl  as  much." 

When  his  hair  was  smoothed  down  comforta- 
bly into  his  eyes,  Mrs.  Prig  and  Mrs.  Gamp  put 
on  his  neckerchief;  adjusting  his  shirt-collai  j 


NURSES 


333 


OFFICE 


with  great  nicety,  so  that  the  starched  points 
should  also  invade  those  organs,  and  afflict  them 
with  an  artificial  ophthalmia.  His  waistcoat 
and  coat  were  next  arranged  ; and  as  every  but- 
ton was  wrenched  into  a wrong  button-hole,  and 
the  order  of  his  boots  was  reversed,  he  presented 
on  the  whole  rather  a melancholy  appearance. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  29. 

NURSES— Children  and. 

If  we  all  knew  our  own  minds  (in  a more  en- 
larged sense  than  the  popular  acceptation  of 
that  phrase),  I suspect  we  should  find  our  nurses 
responsible  for  most  of  the  dark  corners  we  are 
forced  to  go  back  to  against  our  wills. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  15. 

NURSE  AND  CHILD. 

Charley  is  accordingly  introduced,  and,  under 
a heavy  fire  of  eyes,  sits  down  to  her  basin  and 
a Druidical  ruin  of  bread-and-butter.  In  the 
active  superintendence  of  this  young  person, 
Judy  Smallweed  appears  to  attain  a perfectly 
geological  age,  and  to  date  from  the  remotest 
periods. — Bleak  House , Chap.  21. 

NURSERY— Child  in  a. 

The  purblind  day  was  feebly  struggling  with 
the  fog,  when  I opened  my  eyes  to  encounter  1 
those  of  a dirty-faced  little  spectre  fixed  upon 
me.  Peepy  had  scaled  his  crib,  and  crept  down 
, in  his  bed-gown  and  cap,  and  was  so  cold  that 
his  teeth  were  chattering  as  if  he  had  cut  them 
all. — Bleak  House , Chap.  4. 

NURSERY— Miss  Tox  in  the. 

At  the  little  ceremonies  of  the  bath  and  toi- 
lette, she  assisted  with  enthusiasm.  The  ad- 
ministration of  infantine  doses  of  physic  awak- 
ened all  the  active  sympathy  of  her  character  ; 
and  being  on  one  occasion  secreted  in  a cup- 
board (whither  she  had  fled  in  modesty),  when 
- Mr.  Dombey  was  introduced  into  the  nursery  by 
his  sister,  to  behold  his  son,  in  the  course  of 
preparation  for  bed,  taking  a short  walk  uphill 

• over  Richards’s  gown,  in  a short  and  airy  linen 
i jacket,  Miss  Tox  was  so  transported  beyond  the 

• ignorant  present  as  to  be  unable  to  refrain  from 
; crying  out,  “ Is  he  not  beautiful,  Mi\  Dombey  ! 

Is  he  not  a Cupid,  Sir  ! ” and  then  almost  sinlc- 
( ing  behind  the  closet  door  with  confusion  and 
blushes. — Dombey  Son,  Chap.  5. 


OATH-Of  Mr.  Peg-grotty. 

The  only  subject,  she  informed  me,  on  which 
he  ever  showed  a violent  temper  or  swore  an 
oath,  was  this  generosity  of  his  ; and  if  it  were 
ever  referred  to,  by  any  one  of  them,  he 
struck  the  table  a heavy  blow  with  his  right 
hand  (had  split  it  on  one  such  occasion),  and 
swore  a dreadful  oath  that  he  would  be 
‘‘Gormed  ” if  he  didn’t  cut  and  run  for  good, 
if  i*.  was  ever  mentioned  again.  It  appeared, 
in  answer  to  my  inquiries,  that  nobody  had  the 
least  idea  of  the  etymology  of  this  terrible  verb 


passive  to  be  gormed  ; but  that  they  all  regard- 
ed it  as  constituting  a most  solemn  impreca- 
tion.— David  CopperJield,  Chap.  3. 

OBSTRUCTIONS— In  life  and  travel. 

When  a man  is  in  a violent  hurry  to  get  on, 
and  has  a specific  object  in  view,  the  attainment 
of  which  depends  on  the  completion  of  his 
journey,  the  difficulties  which  interpose  them- 
selves in  his  way  appear  not  only  to  be  innume- 
rable, but  to  have  been  called  into  existence 
especially  for  the  occasion.  The  remark  is  by 
no  means  a new  one,  and  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons 
had  practical  and  painful  experience  of  its  just- 
ice in  the  course  of  his  drive.  There  are  three 
classes  of  animated  objects  which  prevent  your 
driving  with  any  degree  of  comfort  or  celerity 
through  streets  which  are  but  little  frequented 
— they  are  pigs,  children,  and  old  women. 

Tales , Chap.  10. 

OCCUPATIONS— Humanizing:. 

For  myself,  I know  no  station  in  which,  the 
occupation  of  to-day  cheerfully  done,  and  the 
occupation  of  to-morrow  cheerfully  looked  to, 
any  one  of  these  pursuits  is  not  most  humaniz- 
ing and  laudable.  I know  no  station  which  F. 
rendered  more  endurable  to  the  person  in  it  or 
more  safe  to  the  person  out  of  it,  by  having 
ignorance  for  its  associate.  I know  no  sta- 
tion which  has  a right  to  monopolize  the 
means  of  mutual  instruction,  improvement,  and 
rational  entertainment,  or  which  has  ever  con- 
tinued to  be  a station  very  long,  after  seeking 
to  do  so. — American  Notes,  Chap.  4. 

OFFICE— A lawyer’s  by  candle  lig-ht. 

As  I stood  idle  by  Mr.  Jaggers’s  fire,  its  rising 
and  falling  flame  made  the  two  casts  on  the  shelf 
look  as  if  they  were  playing  a diabolical  game  at 
bo-peep  with  me  ; while  the  pair  of  coarse  fat 
office  candles  that  dimly  lighted  Mr.  Jaggers  as 
he  wrote  in  a corner,  were  decorated  with  dirty 
winding-sheets,  as  if  in  remembrance  of  a host 
of  hanged  clients. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  48. 

OFFICE— A smeary. 

They  walked  in.  And  a mighty  yellow  jaun- 
diced little  office  Mr.  Fips  had  of  it  ; with  a 
great,  black,  sprawling  splash  upon  the  floor  in 
one  corner,  as  if  some  old  clerk  had  cut  his 
throat  there  years  ago,  and  had  let  out  ink  in- 
stead of  blood. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  39. 

OFFICE— An  intelligence. 

The  office  looked  just  the  same  as  when  he 
had  left  it  last,  and,  indeed,  with  one  or  two  ex- 
ceptions, there  seemed  to  be  the  very  same  pla- 
cards in  the  window  that  he  had  seen  before. 
There  were  the  same  unimpeachable  masters 
and  mistresses  in  want  of  virtuous  servants,  and 
the  same  virtuous  servants  in  want  of  unim- 
peachable masters  and  mistresses,  and  the  same 
magnificent  estates  for  the  investment  of  capi- 
tal, and  the  same  enormous  quantities  of  capital 
to  be  invested  in  estates,  and,  in  short,  the 
same  opportunities  of  all  sorts  for  people  who 
wanted  to  make  their  fortunes.  And  a most 
extraordinary  proof  it  was  of  the  national  pros- 
perity, that  people  had  not  been  found  to  avail 
themselves  of  such  advantages  long  ago. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  35. 


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340 


OFFICE 


OFFICE -A  business. 

Such  vapid  and  flat  daylight  as  filtered  through 
the  ground-glass  windows  and  skylights,  leaving 
a black  sediment  upon  the  panes,  showed  the 
books  and  papers,  and  the  figures  bending  over 
them,  enveloped  in  a studious  gloom,  and  as 
much  abstracted  in  appearance  from  the  world 
without,  as  if  they  were  assembled  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sea  ; while  a mouldy  little  strong 
room  in  the  obscure  perspective,  where  a shady 
lamp  was  always  burning,  might  have  represent- 
ed the  cavern  of  some  ocean-monster,  looking 
on  with  a red  eye  at  these  mysteries  of  the 
deep. — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  13. 

OFFICE— The  Circumlocution. 

The  Circumlocution  Office  was  (as  everybody 
knows  without  being  told)  the  most  important 
Department  under  government.  No  public  busi- 
ness of  any  kind  could  possibly  be  done  at  any 
time,  without  the  acquiescence  of  the  Circumlo- 
cution Office.  Its  finger  was  in  the  largest  pub- 
lic pie,  and  in  the  smallest  public  tart.  It  was 
equally  impossible  to  do  the  plainest  right  and 
to  undo  the  plainest  wrong,  without  the  express 
authority  of  the  Circumlocution  Office.  If  an- 
other Gunpowder  Plot  had  been  discovered 
half  an  hour  before  the  lighting  of  the  match, 
nobody  would  have  been  justified  in  saving  the 
Parliament  until  there  had  been  half  a score  of 
boards,  half  a bushel  of  minutes,  several  sacks 
of  official  memoranda,  and  a family  vault  full  of 
ungrammatical  correspondence  on  the  part  of 
the  Circumlocution  Office. 

This  glorious  establishment  had  been  early  in 
the  field,  when  the  one  sublime  principle  involv- 
ing the  difficult  art  of  governing  a country,  was 
first  distinctly  revealed  to  statesmen.  It  had 
been  foremost  to  study  that  bright  revelation, 
and  to  carry  its  shining  influence  through  the 
whole  of  the  official  proceedings.  Whatever 
was  required  to  be  done,  the  Circumlocution 
Office  was  beforehand  with  all  the  public  De- 
partments in  the  art  of  perceiving — HOW  NOT 
TO  DO  IT. 

Through  this  delicate  perception,  through  the 
tact  with  which  it  invariably  seized  it,  and 
through  the  genius  with  which  it  always  acted 
on  it,  the  Circumlocution  Office  had  risen 
to  overtop  all  the  public  departments ; and 
the  public  condition  had  risen  to  be — what  it 
was. 

* * ❖ * * 

Numbers  of  people  were  lost  in  the  Circum- 
locution Office.  Unfortunates  with  wrongs,  or 
with  projects  for  the  general  welfare  (and  they 
had  better  have  had  wrongs  at  first,  than  have 
taken  that  bitter  English  recipe  for  certainly 
getting  them),  who,  in  slow  lapse  of  time  and 
agony  had  passed  safely  through  other  public 
departments ; who,  according  to  rule,  had  been 
bullied  in  this,  over  reached  by  that,  and  evaded 
by  the  other  ; got  referred  at  last  to  the  Circum- 
locution Office,  and  never  reappeared  in  the 
light  of  day.  Boards  sat  upon  them,  secre- 
taries minuted  upon  them,  commissioners  gab- 
bled about  them,  clerks  registered,  entered, 
checked,  and  ticked  them  off,  and  they  melted 
away.  Tn  short,  all  the  buiiiness  of  the  coun- 
try went  through  the  Circumlocution  Office, 
except  the  business  that  never  came  out  of  it ; 
and  its  name  was  Legion. 

Little  Dorrit , Hook  /.,  Chap.  10. 


OFFICE— An  Official’s  defence  of  the  Cir- 
cumlocution. 

“ No,  but  really  ! Our  place  is,”  said  the  easy 
Young  Barnacle,  “ the  most  inoffensive  place 
possible.  You’ll  say  we  are  a Humbug.  I won’t 
say  we  are  not ; but  all  that  sort  of  thing  is  in- 
tended to  be,  and  must  be.  Don't  you  see?” 

“ I do  not,"  said  Clennam. 

“ You  don’t  regard  it  from  the  right  point  of 
view.  It  is  the  point  of  view  that  is  the  essen- 
tial thing.  Regard  our  place  from  the  point  of 
view  that  we  only  ask  you  to  leave  us  alone,  and 
we  are  as  capital  a Department  as  you’ll  find 
anywhere.” 

“ Is  your  place  there  to  be  left  alone?”  asked 
Clennam. 

“ You  exactly  hit  it,”  returned  Ferdinand. 

It  is  there  with  the  express  intention  that 
everything  shall  be  left  alone.  That  is  what  it 
means.  That  is  what  it’s  for.  No  doubt  there’s 
a certain  form  to  be  kept  up  that  it’s  for  some- 
thing else,  but  its  only  a form.  Why,  good 
Heaven,  we  are  nothing  but  forms ! Think 
what  a lot  of  our  forms  you  have  gone  through. 
And  you  have  never  got  any  nearer  to  an 
end  ? ” 

“ Never,”  said  Clennam. 

“ Look  at  it  from  the  right  point  of  view,  and 
there  you  have  us  official  and  effectual.  It’s 
like  a limited  game  of  cricket.  A field  of  out- 
siders are  always  going  in  to  bowl  at  the  Public 
Service,  and  we  block  the  balls.” 

Clennam  asked  what  became  of  the  bowlers? 
The  airy  young  Barnacle  replied  that  they  grew 
tired,  got  dead  beat,  got  lamed,  got  their  backs 
broken,  died  off,  gave  it  up,  went  in  for  other 
games. 

“ And  this  occasions  me  to  congratulate  my- 
self again,”  he  pursued,  “ on  the  circumstance 
that  our  place  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  your 
temporary  retirement.  It  very  easily  might 
have  had  a hand  in  it ; because  it-  is  undeniable 
that  we  are  sometimes  a most  unlucky  place  in 
our  effects  upon  people  who  will  not  leave  us 
alone.” — Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  28. 

OFFICE— The  Circumlocution. 

The  waiting-rooms  of  that  Department  soon 
began  to  be  familiar  with  his  presence,  and  he 
was  generally  ushered  into  them  by  its  janitors 
much  as  a pickpocket  might  be  shown  into  a 
police-office  ; the  principal  difference  being  that 
the  object  of  the  latter  class  of  public  business 
is  to  keep  the  pickpocket,  while  the  Circumlo- 
cution object  was  to  get  rid  of  Clennam.  How- 
ever, he  was  resolved  to  stick  to  the  Great  De- 
partment ; and  so  the  work  of  form -filling,  cor- 
responding, minuting,  memorandum-making, 
signing,  counter-signing,  counter-counter-sign- 
ing backwards  and  forwards,  and  referring  side- 
ways, crosswise,  and  zigzag,  recommenced. 

Here  arises  a feature  of  the  Circumlocution 
Office,  not  previously  mentioned  in  the  present 
record.  When  that  admirable  Department  got 
into  trouble,  and  was,  by  some  infuriated  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament,  whom  the  smaller  Barnacles 
almost  suspected  of  laboring  under  diabolic 
possession,  attacked,  on  the  merits  of  no  indi- 
vidual case,  but  as  an  Institution  wholly  abomi- 
nable and  Bedlamite  ; then  the  noble  or  right 
honorable  Barnacle  who  represented  it  in  the 
House,  would  smite  that  Member  and  cleave 
him  asunder,  with  a statement  of  the  quantity 


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341 


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L 

of  business  (for  the  prevention  of  business)  done 
by  the  Circumlocution  Office.  Then  would  that 
noble  or  right  honorable  Barnacle  hold  in  his 
I hand  a paper  containing  a few  figures,  to  which, 
with  the  permission  of  the  house,  he  would  en- 
treat its  attention.  Then  would  the  inferior 
Barnacles  exclaim,  obeying  orders,  “ Hear, 
Hear,  Hear  ! ” and  “ Read  ! ” Then  would  the 
noble  or  right  honorable  Barnacle  perceive,  sir, 
from  this  little  document,  which  he  thought 
might  carry  conviction  even  to  the  perversest 
mind  (Derisive  laughter  and  cheering  from  the 
Barnacle  fry),  that  within  the  short  compass  of 
the  last  financial  half-year,  this  much-maligned 
Department  (Cheers)  had  written  and  received 
fifteen  thousand  letters  (Loud  cheers),  twenty- 
four  thousand  minutes  (Louder  cheers),  and 
thirty-two  thousand  five  hundred  and  seventeen 
memoranda  (Vehement  cheering).  Nay,  an  in- 
i genious  gentleman  connected  with  the  Depart- 
ment, and  himself  a valuable  public  servant, 
had  done  him  the  favor  to  make  a curious  cal- 
culation of  the  amount  of  stationery  consumed 
in  it  during  the  same  period.  It  formed  a part 
of  this  same  short  document ; and  he  derived 
from  it  the  remarkable  fact,  that  the  sheets  of 
foolscap  paper  it  had  devoted  to  the  public  ser- 
vice would  pave  the  footways  on  both  sides  of 
Oxford  Street  from  end  to  end,  and  leave  nearly 
a quarter  of  a mile  to  spare  for  the  park  (Im- 
mense cheering  and  laughter) : while  of  tape — 
red  tape — it  had  used  enough  to  stretch,  in 
, graceful  festoons,  from  Hyde  Park  Corner  to 
the  General  Post-Office.  Then,  amidst  a burst 
of  official  exultation,  would  the  noble  or  right 
honorable  Barnacle  sit  down,  leaving  the  muti- 
lated fragments  of  the  Member  on  the  field. 
No  one,  after  that  exemplary  demolition  of  him, 
would  have  the  hardihood  to  hint  that  the  more 
the  Circumlocution  Office  did,  the  less  was  done, 
and  that  the  greatest  blessing  it  could  confer  on 
an  unhappy  public  would  be  to  do  nothing. 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  LI.,  Chap . 8. 

OFFICE— The  trials  of  the  Circumlocution. 

Mr.  Meagles  went  through  the  narrative  ; the 
established  narrative,  which  has  become  tiffe- 
some  ; the  matter-of-course  narrative  which  we 
all  knew  by  heart.  How,  after  interminable 
. attendance  and  correspondence,  after  infinite 
impertinences,  ignorances,  and  insults,  my  lords 
made  Minute,  number  three  thousand  four 
hundred  and  seventy-two,  allowing  the  culprit 
to  make  certain  trials  of  his  invention  at  his 
own  expense.  How  the  trials  were  made  in 
the  presence  of  a board  of  six,  of  whom  two  an- 
[ cient  members  were  too  blind  to  see  it,  two 
other  ancient  members  were  too  deaf  to  hear  it, 
one  other  ancient  member  was  too  lame  to  get 
near  it,  and  the  final  ancient  member  was  too 
pig-headed  to  look  at  it.  How  there  were 
more  years ; more  impertinences,  ignorances, 
j and  insults.  How  my  lords  then  made  a 
Minute,  number  five  thousand  one  hundred 
. and  three,  whereby  they  resigned  the  business 
, to  the  Circumlocution  Office.  How  the  Cir- 
cumlocution Office,  in  course  of  time,  took  up 
the  business  as  if  it  were  a bran  new  thing  of 
yesterday,  which  had  never  been  heard  of  be- 
fore ; muddled  the  business,  addled  the  busi- 
5 ness,  tossed  the  business  in  a wet  blanket. 
How  the  impertinences,  ignorances,  and  insults 
went  through  the  multiplication  table.  How 


there  was  a reference  of  the  invention  to  three 
Barnacles  and  a Stiltstalking,  who  knew  noth- 
ing about  it ; into  whose  heads  nothing  could 
be  hammered  about  it ; who  got  bored  about 
it,  and  reported  physical  impossibilities  about 
it.  How  the  Circumlocution  Office,  in  a 
Minute,  number  eight  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  forty,  “ saw  no  reason  to  reverse  the  deci- 
sion at  which  my  lords  had  arrived.”  How  the 
Circumlocution  Office,  being  reminded  that  my 
lords  had  arrived  at  no  decision,  shelved  the 
business.  How  there  had  been  *a  final  inter- 
view with  the  head  of  the  Circumlocution 
Office  that  very  morning,  and  how  the  Brazen 
Head  had  spoken,  and  had  been,  upon  the 
whole,  and  under  all  the  circumstances,  and 
looking  at  it  from  the  various  points  of  view, 
of  opinion  that  one  of  two  courses  was  to  be 
pursued  in  respect  of  the  business  : that  was  to 
say,  either  to  leave  it  alone  for  evermore,  or  to 
begin  it  all  over  again. 

sK  * * * 

If  that  airy  young  Barnacle  had  been  there, 
he  would  have  frankly  told  them  perhaps  that 
the  Circumlocution  Office  had  achieved  its 
functions.  That  what  the  Barnacles  had  to  do, 
was  to  stick  on  to  the  national  ship  as  long  as 
they  could.  That  to  trim  the  ship,  lighten  the 
ship,  clean  the  ship,  would  be  to  knock  them 
off ; that  they  could  but  be  knocked  off  once  ; 
and  that  if  the  ship  went  down  with  them  yet 
sticking  to  it,  that  was  the  ship’s  look  out,  and 
not  theirs. — Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  io. 

OFFICE— Aspirants  for  (the  Barnacles). 

And  there  too  was  a sprinkling  of  less  distin- 
guished Parliamentary  Barnacles,  who  had  not 
as  yet  got  anything  snug,  and  were  going 
through  their  probation  to  prove  their  worthi- 
ness. These  Barnacles  perched  upon  staircases 
and  hid  in  passages,  waiting  their  .orders  to 
make  houses  or  not  to  make  houses  ; and  they  did 
all  their  hearing,  and  ohing,  and  cheering,  and 
barking,  under  directions  from  the  heads  of  the 
family  ; and  they  put  dummy  motions  on  the 
paper  in  the  way  of  other  men’s  motions,  and 
they  stalled  disagreeable  subjects  off  until  late 
in  the  night,  and  late  in  the  session,  and  then, 
with  virtuous  patriotism,  cried  out  that  it  was 
too  late  : and  they  went  down  into  the  country, 
whenever  they  were  sent,  and  swore  that  Lord 
Decimus  had  revived  trade  from  a swoon  and 
commerce  from  a fit,  and  had  doubled  the  har- 
vest of  corn,  quadrupled  the  harvest  of  hay,  and 
prevented  no  end  of  gold  flying  out  of  the 
Bank.  Also  these  Barnacles  were  dealt,  by  the 
heads  of  the  family,  like  so  many  cards  below 
the  court-cards,  to  public  meetings  and  dinners  ; 
where  they  bore  testimony  to  all  sorts  of  ser- 
vices on  the  part  of  their  noble  and  honorable 
relatives,  and  buttered  the  Barnacles  on  all 
sorts  of  toasts.  And  they  stood,  under  similar 
orders,  at  all  sorts  of  elections  ; and  they  turned 
out  of  their  own  seats,  on  the  shortest  notice 
and  the  most  unreasonable  terms,  to  let  in 
other  men  ; and  they  fetched  and  carried,  and 
toadied  and  jobbed,  and  corrupted,  and  ate 
heaps  of  dirt,  and  were  indefatigable  in  the 
public  service.  And  there  was  not  a list  in  all 
the  Circumlocution  Office,  of  places  that  might 
fall  vacant  anywhere  within  half  a century, 
from  a lord  of  the  Treasury  to  a Chinese  consul, 
and  up  again  to  a governor-general  of  India,  but. 


OFFICE-HOLDERS 


342 


OFFICIAL 


as  applicants  for  such  places,  the  names  of  some 
or  of  every  one  of  these  hungry  and  adhesive 
Barnacles  were  down. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  34. 

OFFICE-HOLDERS-The  Barnacles. 

To  have  got  the  whole  Barnacle  family  to- 
gether would  have  been  impossible,  for  two 
reasons.  Firstly,  because  no  building  could  have 
held  all  the  members  and  connections  of  that 
illustrious  house.  Secondly,  because  wherever 
there  was  a square  yard  of  ground  in  British 
occupation,  under  the  sun  or  moon,  with  a pub- 
lic post  upon  it,  sticking  to  that  post  was  a Bar- 
nacle. No  intrepid  navigator  could  plant  a 
flagstaff  upon  any  spot  of  earth,  and  take  pos- 
session of  it  in  the  British  name,  but  to  that  spot 
of  earth,  so  soon  as  the  discovery  was  known, 
the  Circumlocution  Office  sent  out  a Barnacle 
and  a despatch-box.  Thus  the  Barnacles  were 
all  over  the  world,  in  every  direction — despatch- 
boxing the  compass. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  34. 

OFFICIAL— (Alderman  Cute). 

Seen  the  Alderman  ? Oh,  dear  ! Who  could 
ever  help  seeing  the  Alderman  ? He  was  so 
considerate,  so  affable,  he  bore  so  much  in  mind 
the  natural  desire  of  folks  to  see  him,  that  if  he 
had  a fault,  it  was  the  being  constantly  On  View. 
And  wherever  the  great  people  were,  there,  to 
be  sure,  attracted  by  the  kindred  sympathy  be- 
tween great  souls,  was  Cute. — Chimes,  3 d Quarter. 

OFFICIAL— The  village. 

His  income  is  small,  certainly,  as  the  rusty 
black  coat  and  threadbare  velvet  collar  de- 
monstrate ; but  then  he  lives  free  of  house- 
rent,  has  a limited  allowance  of  coals  and  can- 
dles, and  an  almost  unlimited  allowance  of 
authority  in  his  petty  kingdom.  He  is  a tall, 
thin,  bony  man  ; always  wears  shoes  and  black 
cotton  stockings  with  his  surtout ; and  eyes  you, 
as  you  pass  his  parlor  window,  as  if  he  wished 
you  were  a pauper,  just  to  give  you  a specimen 
of  his  power.  He  is  an  admirable  specimen  of 
a small  tyrant : morose,  brutish,  and  ill-tem- 
pered ; bullying  to  his  inferiors,  cringing  to  his 
superiors,  and  jealous  of  the  influence  and  au- 
thority of  the  beadle. 

Sketches  ( Scenes),  Chap.  1. 

OFFICIALS— Village  (The  parish  beadle). 

The  parish  beadle  is  one  of  the  most,  perhaps 
the  most,  important  member  of  the  local  admin- 
istration. lie  is  not  so  well  off  as  the  church- 
wardens, certainly,  nor  is  he  so  learned  as  the 
vestry-clerk,  nor  does  he  order  things  quite  so 
much  his  own  way  as  either  of  them.  But  his 
power  is  very  great,  notwithstanding  ; and  the 
dignity  of  his  office  is  never  impaired  by  the 
absence  of  efforts  on  his  part  to  maintain  it. 
The  beadle  of  our  parish  is  a splendid  fellow. 
It  is  quite  delightful  to  hear  him,  as  he  explains 
the  state  of  the  existing  poor-laws  to  the  deaf 
old  women  in  the  board-room  passage  on  busi- 
ness nights  ; and  to  hear  what  he  said  to  the 
senior  churchwarden. 

***** 

See  him  again  on  Sunday  in  his  state-coat  and 
cocked-hat,  with  a large-headed  staff  for  show 
in  his  left  hand,  and  a small  cane  for  use  in  his 
right.  I low  pompously  he  marshals  the  children 


into  their  places  ! and  how  demurely  the  little 
urchins  look  at  him  askance  as  he  surveys  them 
when  they  arc  all  seated,  with  a glare  of  the  eye 
peculiar  to  beadles  ! The  churchwardens  and 
overseers  being  duly  installed  in  their  curtained 
pews,  he  seats  himself  on  a mahogany  bracket, 
erected  expressly  for  him  at  the  top  of  the  aisle, 
and  divides  his  attention  between  his  prayer- 
book  and  the  boys.  Suddenly,  just  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  communion  service,  when  the 
whole  congregation  is  hushed  into  a profound 
I silence,  broken  only  by  the  voice  of  the  officiat- 
ing clergyman,  a penny  is  heard  to  ring  on  the 
stone  floor  of  the  aisle  with  astounding  clear- 
ness. Observe  the  generalship  of  the  beadle. 
His  involuntary  look  of  horror-  is  instantly 
changed  into  one  of  perfect  indifference,  as  if 
he  were  the  only  person  present  who  had  not 
heard  the  noise.  The  artifice  succeeds.  After 
putting  forth  his  right  leg  now  and  then,  as  a 
feeler,  the  victim  who  dropped  the  money  ven- 
tures to  make  one  or  two  distinct  dives  after  it  ; 
and  the  beadle,  gliding  softly  round,  salutes  his 
little  round  head,  when  it  again  appears  above 
the  seat,  with  divers  double  knocks,  adminis- 
tered with  the  cane  before  noticed,  to  the  in- 
tense delight  of  three  young  men  in  an  adjacent 
pew,  who  cough  violently  at  intervals  until  the 
conclusion  of  the  sermon. 

Sketches  (Scenes),  Chap.  1. 

OFFICIALS— The  nursery  of. 

Such  a nursery  of  statesmen  had  the  Depart- 
ment become,  in  virtue  of  a long  career  of  this 
nature,  that  several  solemn  lords  had  attained, 
the  reputation  of  being  quite  unearthly  prodi- 
gies of  business,  solely  from  having  practised 
How  not  to  do  it,  at  the  head  of  the  Circuit)1  ••  - 
cution  Office.  As  to  the  minor  priests  and  aco- 
lytes of  that  temple,  the  result  of  all  this  was 
that  they  stood  divided  into  two  classes,  and, 
down  to  the  junior  messenger,  either  believed 
in  the  Circumlocution  Office  as  a heaven-born 
institution,  that  had  an  absolute  right  to  do 
whatever  it  liked  ; or  took  refuge  in  total  in- 
fidelity, and  considered  it  a flagrant  nuisance. 

The  Barnacle  family  had  for  some  time  helped 
to  administer  the  Circumlocution  Office.  The 
Tite  Barnacle  Branch,  indeed,  considered  them- 
selves in  a general  way  as  having  vested  rights 
in  that  direction,  and  took  it  ill  if  any  other 
family  had  much  to  say  to  it.  The  Barnacles 
were  a very  high  family,  and  a very  large  family. 
They  were  dispersed  all  over  the  public  offices, 
and  held  all  sorts  of  public  places.  Either  the 
nation  was  under  a load  of  obligation  to  the 
Barnacles,  or  the" Barnacles  were  under  a load 
of  obligation  to  the  nation.  It  was  not  quite 
unanimously  settled  which  ; the  Barnacles  hav- 
ing their  opinion,  the  nation  theirs. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  10. 

OFFICIAL— Barnacle  at  home. 

Mr.  Barnacle  would  see  him.  Would  he  walk 
up-stairs  ? He  would,  and  he  did  ; and  in  the 
drawing-room,  with  his  leg  on  a rest,  he  found 
Mr.  Barnacle  himself,  the  express  image  and 
presentment  of  How  not  to  do  it. 

Mr.  Barnacle  dated  from  a better  time,  when 
the  country  was  not  so  parsimonious,  and  the 
Circumlocution  Office  was  not  so  badgered.  He 
wound  and  wound  folds  of  white  cravat  round 
his  neck,  as  he  wound  and  wound  folds  of  tape 


OFFICIAL 


343 


OLD  BOYS 


and  paper  round  the  neck  of  the  country.  His 
wristbands  and  collar  were  oppressive,  his  voice 
and  manner  were  oppressive.  He  had  a large 
watch-chain  and  bunch  of  seals,  a coat  buttoned 
up  to  inconvenience,  a waistcoat  buttoned'up  to 
inconvenience,  an  unwrinkled  pair  of  trousers, 
a stiff  pair  of  boots.  He  was  altogether  splen- 
did, massive,  overpowering,  and  impracticable. 
He  seemed  to  have  been  sitting  for  his  portrait 
to.  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  all  the  days  of  his 
life. 

“ Mr.  Clennam  ? ” said  Mr.  Barnacle.  “Be 
seated.” 

Mr.  Clennam  became  seated. 

“ You  have  called  on  me,  1 believe,”  said  Mr. 
Barnacle,  “ at  the  Circumlocution — ” giving  it 
the  air  of  a word  of  about  five  and  twenty  syl- 
lables, “ Office.” 

“ I have  taken  that  liberty.” 

Mr.  Barnacle  solemnly  bent  his  head  as  who 
should  say  “ I do  not  deny  that  it  is  a liberty  ; 
proceed  to  take  another  liberty,  and  let  me  know 
your  business.” 

Mr.  Barnacle  tapped  his  fingers  on  the  table, 
and,  as  if  he  were  now  sitting  for  his  portrait  to 
a new  and  strange  artist,  appeared  to  say  to  his 
visitor,  “ If  you  will  be  good  enough  to  take  me 
with  my  present  lofty  expression,  I shall  feel 
obliged.” — Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  io. 

OFFICIAL— Barnacle,  the  public. 

For  Mr.  Tite  Barnacle,  Mr.  Arthur  Clennam 
made  his  fifth  enquiry  one  day  at  the  Circumlo- 
cution Office  ; having  on  previous  occasions 
awaited  that  gentleman  successively  in  a hall,  a 
glass  case,  a waiting-room,  and  a fire-proof  pas- 
sage where  the  Department  seemed  to  keep  its 
wind.  On  this  occasion  Mr.  Barnacle  was  not 
engaged,  as  he  had  been  before,  with  the  noble 
prodigy  at  the  head  of  the  Department  ; but  was 
absent.  Barnacle  Junior,  however,  was  an- 
nounced as  a lesser  star,  yet  visible  above  the 
office  horizon. 

With  Barnacle  Junior  he  signified  his  desire  to 
confer  ; and  found  that  young  gentleman  singe- 
ing the  calves  of  his  legs  at  the  parental  fire,  and 
supporting  his  spine  against  the  mantel-shelf. 
It  was  a comfortable  room,  handsomely  furnish- 
ed in  the  higher  official  manner  ; and  presenting 
stately  suggestions  of  the  absent  Barnacle,  in  the 
thick  carpet,  the  leather-covered  desk  to  sit  at, 
the  leather-covered  desk  to  stand  at,  the  formid- 
able easy-chair  and  hearth-rug,  the  interposed 
screen,  the  torn-up  papers,  the  despatch-boxes 
with  little  labels  sticking  out  of  them,  like 
medicine  bottles  or  dead  game,  the  pervading 
smell  of  leather  and  mahogany,  and  a general 
bamboozling  air  of  How  not  to  do  it. 

The  present  Barnacle,  holding  Mr.  Clennam’s 
card  in  his  hand,  had  a youthful  aspect,  and  the 
fluffiest  little  whisker,  perhaps,  that  ever  was 
seen.  Such  a downy  tip  was  on  his  callow  chin, 
that  he  seemed  half- fledged,  like  a young  bird  ; 
and  a compassionate  observer  might  have  urged, 
that  if  he  had  not  singed  the  calves  of  his  legs, 
he  would  have  died  of  cold.  He  had  a 
superior  eye-glass  dangling  round  his  neck,  but 
unfortunately  had  such  flat  orbits  to  his  eyes, 
and  such  limp  little  eyelids,  that  it  wouldn’t 
stick  in  when  he  put  it  up,  but  kept  tumbling 
out  against  his  waistcoat  buttons  with  a click 
that  discomposed  him  very  much. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  io. 


OLD  AGE. 

* * * a horse  so  old  that  his  birthday  was 

lost  in  the  mists  of  antiquity. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  I. 

OLD  AGE— The  vanity  of  (The  grave-digr- 
gers). 

“ I have  been  thinking,  Davy,”  replied  the 
sexton,  “ that  she,”  he  pointed  to  the  grfive, 
“ must  have  been  a deal  older  than  you  or 
me.” 

“Seventy-nine,”  answered  the  old  man  with 
a shake  of  the  head,  “ I tell  you  that  I saw  it.” 

“Saw  it?”  replied  the  sexton;  “aye,  but, 
Davy,  women  don’t  always  tell  the  truth  about 
their  age.” 

“ That’s  true,  indeed,”  said  the  other  old  man, 
with  a sudden  sparkle  in  his  eye.  “ She  might 
have  been  older.” 

“ I am  sure  she  must  have  been.  Why,  only 
think  how  old  she  looked.  Y~ou  and  I seemed 
but  boys  to  her.” 

“ She  did  look  old,”  rejoined  David.  “ You’re 
right.  She  did  look  old.” 

“ Call  to  mind  how  old  she  looked  for  many 
a long,  long  year,  and  say  if  she  could  be  but 
seventy-nine  at  last — only  our  age,”  said  the 
sexton. 

“Five  year  older  at  the  very  least!”  cried 
the  other. 

“ Five  ! ” retorted  the  sexton.  “ Ten.  Good 
eighty-nine.  I call  to  mind  the  timelier  daugh- 
ter died.  She  was  eighty-nine  if  she  was  a day, 
and  tries  to  pass  upon  us  now  for  ten  year  young- 
er. Oh  ! human  vanity.” 

The  other  old  man  was  not  behindhand  with 
some  moral  reflections  on  this  fruitful  theme, 
and  both  adduced  a mass  of  evidence,  of  such 
weight  as  to  render  it  doubtful — not  whether 
the  deceased  was  of  the  age  suggested,  but 
whether  she  had  not  almost  reached  the  patri- 
archal term  of  a hundred.  When  they  had 
settled  this  question  to  their  mutual  satisfaction, 
the  sexton,  with  his  friend’s  assistance,  rose  to  go. 

“ It’s  chilly,  sitting  here,  and  I must  be  care- 
ful— till  the  summer,”  he  said,  as  he  prepared 
to  limp  away. 

“ What  ? ” asked  old  David. 

“ He’s  very  deaf,  poor  fellow  ! ” cried  the 
sexton.  “ Good-bye  ! ” 

“ Ah  ! ” said  old  David,  looking  after  him. 
“ He’s  failing  very  fast.  He  ages  every  day.” 

And  so  they  parted  ; each  persuaded  that  the 
other  had  less  life  in  him  than  himself  ; and 
both  greatly  consoled  and  comforted  by  the  lit- 
tle fiction  that  they  had  agreed  upon,  respecting 
Becky  Morgan,  whose  decease  was  no  longer 
a precedent  of  uncomfortable  application,  and 
would  be  no  business  of  theirs  for  half  a score 
of  years  to  come. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  54. 

OLD  BOYS. 

If  we  had  to  make  a classification  of  society, 
there  are  a particular  kind  of  men  whom  we 
should  immediately  set  down  under  the  head  of 
“ Old  Boys  and  a column  of  most  extensive 
dimensions  the  old  boys  would  require.  To 
what  precise  causes  the  rapid  advance  of  old  boy 
population  is  to  be  traced,  we  are  unable  to  der 
termine.  It  would  be  an  interesting  and  curi- 
ous speculation,  but,  as  we  have  not  sufficient 
space  to  devote  to  it  here,  we  simply  state  the 


OLD  CLOTHES 


344 


OLD  CLOTHES 


fact  that  the  numbers  of  the  old  boys  have  been 
gradually  augmenting  within  the  last  few  years, 
and  that  they  are  at  this  moment  alarmingly  on 
the  increase. 

Upon  a genei'al  review  of  the  subject,  and 
without  considering  it  minutely  in  detail,  we 
should  be  disposed  to  subdivide  the  old  boys 
into  two  distinct  classes — the  gay  old  boys,  and 
the  'steady  old  boys.  The  gay  old  boys  are 
paunchy  old  men  in  the  disguise  of  young  ones, 
who  frequent  the  Quadrant  and  Regent  Street 
in  the  daytime  ; the  theatres  (especially  theatres 
under  lady  management)  at  night  ; and  who  as- 
sume all  the  foppishness  and  levity  of  boys, 
without  the  excuse  of  youth  or  inexperience. 
The  steady  old  boys  are  certain  stout  old  gen- 
tlemen of  clean  appearance,  who  are  always  to 
be  seen  in  the  same  taverns,  at  the  same  hours 
every  evening,  smoking  and  drinking  in  the  same 
company. 

There  was  once  a fine  collection  of  old  boys 
to  be  seen  round  the  circular  table  at  Offley’s 
every  night,  between  the  hours  of  half-past  eight 
and  half-past  eleven.  We  have  lost  sight  of  them 
for  some  time.  There  were,  and  may  be  still, 
for  aught  we  know,  two  splendid  specimens  in 
full  blossom  at  the  Rainbow  Tavern  in  Fleet 
Street,  who  always  used  to  sit  in  the  box  nearest 
the  fire-place,  and  smoked  long  cherry-stick 
pipes  which  went  under  the  table,  with  the  bowls 
resting  on  the  floor.  Grand  old  boys  they  were 
— fat,  red-faced,  white-headed  old  fellows — al- 
ways there — one  on  one  side  the  table,  and  the 
other  opposite — puffing  and  drinking  away  in 
great  state.  Everybody  knew  them,  and  it  was 
supposed  by  some  people  that  they  were  both 
immortal. 

Mr.  John  Dounce  was  an  old  boy  of  the  latter 
class  (we  don’t  mean  immortal,  but  steady),  a 
retired  glove  and  braces  maker,  a widower,  resi- 
dent with  three  daughters — all  grown  up,  and  all 
unmarried — in  Cursitor  Street,  Chancery  Lane. 
He  was  a short,  round,  large -faced,  tubbish  sort 
of  a man,  with  a broad-brimmed  hat,  and  a 
square  coat  ; and  had  that  grave,  but  confident, 
kind  of  roll,  peculiar  to  old  boys  in  general. 
Regular  as  clock-work — breakfast  at  nine — 
dress  and  tittivate  a little — down  to  the  Sir 
Somebody’s  Head — glass  of  ale  and  the  paper — 
come  back  again,  and  take  daughters  out  for  a 
walk — dinner  at  three — glass  of  grog  and  pipe — 
nap — tea — little  walk — Sir  Somebody’s  Head 
again — capital  house — delightful  evenings. 

Jj: 

John  Dounce,  having  lost  his  old  friends, 
alienated  his  relations,  and  rendered  himself 
ridiculous  to  everybody,  made  offers  successively 
to  a schoolmistress,  a landlady,  a feminine  to- 
bacconist, and  a housekeeper ; and,  being  di- 
rectly rejected  by  each  and  every  of  them,  was 
accepted  by  his  cook,  with  whom  he  now  lives, 
a henpecked  husband,  a melancholy  monument 
of  antiquated  misery,  and  a living  warning  to  all 
uxorious  old  boys. 

Sketches  ( Characters ),  Chap.  7. 

OLD  CLOTHES  The  depositories  of. 

Through  every  alteration  and  every  change, 
Monmouth  Street  has  still  remained  the  burial- 
place  of  the  fashions;  and  such,  to  judge  from 
all  present  appearances,  it  will  remain  until 
there  are  no  more  fashions  to  bury. 

We  love  to  walk  among  these  extensive  groves 


of  the  illustrious  dead,  and  to  indulge  in  the 
speculations  to  which  they  give  rise  ; now  fit- 
ting  a deceased  coat,  then  a dead  pair  of  trou- 
sers, and  anon  the  mortal  remains  of  a gaudy 
waistcoat,  upon  some  being  of  our  own  conjur- 
ing up,  and  endeavoring  from  the  shape  and 
fashion  of  the  garment  itself,  to  bring  its  former 
owner  before  our  mind’s  eye.  We  have  gone 
on  speculating  in  this  way,  until  whole  rows  of 
coats  have  started  from  their  pegs,  and  buttoned 
up,  of  their  own  accord,  round  the  waists  of 
imaginary  wearers ; lines  of  trousers  have 
jumped  down  to  meet  them  ; waistcoats  have 
almost  burst  with  anxiety  to  put  themselves  on  ; 
and  half  an  acre  of  shoes  have  suddenly  found 
feet  to  fit  them,  and  gone  stumping  down  the 
street  with  a noise  which  has  fairly  awakened 
us  from  our  pleasant  reverie,  and  driven  us 
slowly  away,  with  a bewildered  stare,  an  object 
of  astonishment  to  the  good  people  of  Mon- 
mouth Street,  and  of  no  slight  suspicion  to  the 
policeman  at  the  opposite  street  corner. 

We  were  occupied  in  this  manner  the  other 
day,  endeavoring  to  fit  a pair  of  lace-un  half- 
boots on  an  ideal  personage,  for  whom,  to  say 
the  truth,  they  were  full  a couple  of  sizes  too 
small,  when  our  eyes  happened  to  alight  on  a 
few  suits  of  clothes  ranged  outside  a shop-win- 
dow, which  it  immediately  struck  us,  must  at 
different  periods' have  all  belonged  to,  and  been 
worn  by,  the  same  individual,  and  had  now,  by 
one  of  those  strange  conjunctions  of  circumstan- 
ces which  will  occur  sometimes,  come  to  be  ex- 
posed together  for  sale  in  the  same  shop.  The 
idea  seemed  a fantastic  one,  and  we  looked  at 
the  clothes  again,  with  a firm  determination  not 
to  be  easily  led  away.  No,  we  were  right ; the 
more  we  looked  the  more  we  were  convinced 
of  the  accuracy  of  our  previous  impression. 
There  was  the  man’s  whole  life  written  as  legi- 
bly on  those  clothes,  as  if  we  had  his*  autobi- 
ography engrossed  on  parchment  before  us. 

Sketches  (Scenes),  Chap.  6. 

OLD  CLOTHES— Dealers  in. 

We  have  always  entertained  a particular  at- 
tachment towards  Monmouth  Street,  as  the  only 
true  and  real  emporium  for  second-hand  wear- 
ing apparel.  Monmouth  Street  is  venerable 
from  its  antiquity,  and  respectable  from  its  use- 
fulness. Holywell  Street  we  despise  ; the  red- 
headed and  red-whiskered  Jews  who  forcibly 
haul  you  into  their  squalid  houses,  and  thrust 
you  into  a suit  of  clothes,  whether  you  will  or 
not,  we  detest. 

The  inhabitants  of  Monmouth  Street  are  a 
distinct  class  ; a peaceable  and  retiring  race, 
who  immure  themselves  for  the  most  part  in 
deep  cellars,  or  small  back  parlors,  and  who 
seldom  come  forth  into  the  world,  except  in  the 
dusk  and  coolness  of  the  evening,  when  they 
may  be  seen  seated  in  chairs  on  the  pavement, 
smoking  their  pipes,  or  watching  the  gambols 
of  their  engaging  children  as  they  revel  in  the 
gutter,  a happy  troop  of  infantine  scavengers. 
Their  countenances  bear  a thoughtful  and  a 
dirty  cast,  certain  indications  of  their  love  of 
traffic  ; and  their  habitations  are  distinguished 
by  that  disregard  of  outward  appearance,  and 
neglect  of  personal  comfort,  so  common  among 
people  who  are  constantly  immersed  in  pro- 
found speculations,  and  deeply  engaged  in  sed- 
entary  pursuits. — Sketches  (Scenes),  Chap.  6. 


OLD  COUPLE 


345 


OLD  MAN 


OLD  COUPLE- The. 

They  are  grandfather  and  grandmother  to 
a dozen  grown  people,  and  have  great-grand- 
children besides  ; their  bodies  are  bent,  their 
hair  is  gray,  their  step  tottering  and  infirm. 
Is  this  the  lightsome  pair  whose  wedding  was 
so  merry,  and  have  the  young  couple  indeed 
grown  old  so  soon  ? 

It  seems  but  yesterday, — and  yet  what  a host 
of  cares  and  griefs  are  crowded  into  the  in- 
tervening time,  which,  reckoned  by  them, 
lengthens  out  into  a century  ! IIow  many  new 
associations  have  wreathed  themselves  about 
their  hearts  since  then  ! The  old  time  is  gone, 
and  a new  time  has  come  for  others, — not  for 
them.  They  are  but  the  rusting  link  that 
feebly  joins  the  two,  and  is  silently  loosening 
its  hold  and  dropping  asunder. 

It  seems  but  yesterday, — and  yet  three  of 
their  children  have  sunk  into  the  grave,  and 
the  tree  that  shades  it  has  grown  quite  old. 
One  was  an  infant, — they  wept  for  him.  The 
next  a girl,  a slight  young  thing  too  delicate 
for  earth, — her  loss  was  hard  indeed  to  bear. 
The  third,  a man.  That  was  the  worst  of  all, 
but  even  that  grief  is  softened  now. 

It  seems  but  yesterday, — and  yet  how  the 
gay  and  laughing  faces  of  that  bright  morning 
have  changed  and  vanished  from  above  ground  ! 
Faint  likenesses  of  some  remain  about  them 
yet,  but  they  are  very  faint,  and  scarcely  to  be 
traced.  The  rest  are  only  seen  in  dreams, 
and  even  they  are  unlike  what  they  were,  in 
eyes  so  old  and  dim. 

One  or  two  dresses  from  the  bridal  ward- 
robe are  yet  preserved.  They  are  of  a quaint 
and  antique  fashion,  and  seldom  seen,  except 
in  pictures.  White  has  turned  yellow,  and 
brighter  hues  have  faded.  Do  you  wonder, 
child  ? The  wrinkled  face  was  once  as  smooth 
as  yours,  the  eyes  as  bright,  the  shrivelled  skin  as 
fair  and  delicate.  It  is  the  work  of  hands 
that  have  been  dust  these  many  years. 

Where  are  the  fairy  lovers  of  that  happy  day, 
whose  annual  return  comes  upon  the  old  man 
and  his  wife  like  the  echo  of  some  village 
bell  which  has  long  been  silent  ? 

* * * * * 

This  morning  the  old  couple  are  cheerful  but 
serious,  recalling  old  times  as  well  as  they  can 
remember  them,  and  dwelling  upon  many  pas- 
sages in  their  past  lives  which  the  day  brings  to 
mind.  The  old  lady  reads  aloud,  in  a tremu- 
lous voice,  out  of  a great  Bible,  and  the  old  gen- 
tleman, with  his  hand  to  his  ear,  listens  with 
profound  respect.  When  the  book  is  closed, 
they  sit  silent  for  a short  space,  and  afterwards 
resume  their  conversation,  with  a reference  per- 
haps to  their  dead  children,  as  a subject  not  un- 
suited to  that  they  have  just  left.  By  degrees 
they  are  led  to  consider  which  of  those  who  sur- 
vive are  the  most  like  those  dearly  remembered 
objects,  and  so  they  fall  into  a less  solemn 
strain,  and  become  cheerful  again. 

How  many  people  in  all,  grandchildren,  great- 
grandchildren, and  one  or  two  intimate  friends 
of  the  family,  dine  together  to-day  at  the  eldest 
son’s  to  congratulate  the  old  couple,  and  wish 
them  many  happy  returns,  is  a calculation  be- 
yond our  powers  ; but  this  we  know,  that  the 
old  couple  no  sooner  present  themselves,  very 
sprucely  and  carefully  attired,  than  there  is  a 
violent  shouting  and  rushing  forward  of  the 


younger  branches  with  all  manner  of  presents, 
such  as  pocket-books,  pencil-cases,  pen-wipers, 
watch-papers,  pincushions,  sleeve-buckles,  work- 
ed slippers,  watch-guards,  and  even  a nutmeg- 
grater  ; the  latter  article  being  presented  by  a 
very  chubby  and  very  little  boy,  who  exhibits  it 
in  great  -triumph  as  an  extraordinary  variety. 
The  old  couple’s  emotion  at  these  tokens  of  re- 
membrance occasions  quite  a pathetic  scene,  of 
which  the  chief  ingredients  are  a vast  quantity 
of  kissing  and  hugging,  and  repeated  wipings 
of  small  eyes  and  noses  with  small  square 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  which  don’t  come  at  all 
easily  out  of  small  pockets.  Even  the  peevish 
bachelor  is  moved,  and  he  says,  as  he  presents 
the  old  gentleman  with  a queer  sort  of  antique 
ring  from  his  own  finger,  that  he’ll  be  de’ed  if 
he  doesn’t  think  he  looks  younger  than  he  did 
ten  years  ago. 

* * * * * 

The  old  couple  sit  side  by  side,  and  the  old 
time  seems  like  yesterday  inde'ed.  Looking 
back  upon  the  path  they  have  travelled,  its  dust 
and  ashes  disappear  ; the  flowers  that  withered 
long  ago  show  brightly  again  upon  its  borders, 
and  they  grow  young  once  more  in  the  youth 
of  those  about  them. — Sketches  of  Couples. 

OLD  MAN— The  conventional. 

Anybody  may  pass,  any  day,  in  the  thronged 
thoroughfares  of  the  metropolis,  some  meagre, 
wrinkled,  yellow  old  man  (who  might  be  sup- 
posed to  have  dropped  from  the  stars,  if  there 
were  any  star  in  the  heavens  dull  enough  to  be 
suspected  of  casting  off  so  feeble  a spark),  creep- 
ing along  with  a scared  air,  as  though  bewilder- 
ed and  a little  frightened  by  the  noise  and  bustle. 
This  old  man  is  always  a little  old  man.  If  he 
were  ever  a big  old  man,  he  has  shrunk  into  a 
little  old  man  ; if  he  were  always  a little  old 
man,  he  has  dwindled  into  a less  old  man.  His 
coat  is  of  a color,  and  cut,  that  never  was  the 
mode  anywhere,  at  any  period.  Clearly,  it  was 
not  made  for  him,  or  for  any  individual  mortal. 
Some  wholesale  contractor  measured  Fate  for 
five  thousand  coats  of  such  quality,  and  Fate 
has  lent  this  old  coat  to  this  old  man,  as  one  of 
a long  unfinished  line  of  many  old  men.  It  has 
always  large  dull  metal  buttons,  similar  to  no 
other  buttons.  This  old  man  wears  a hat,  a 
thumbed  and  napless  and  yet  an  obdurate  hat, 
which  has  never  adapted  itself  to  the  shape  of 
his  poor  head.  His  coarse  shirt  and  his  coarse 
neckcloth  have  no  more  individuality  than  his 
coat  and  hat : they  have  the  same  character  of 
not  being  his — of  not  being  anybody’s.  Yet 
this  old  man  wears  these  clothes  with  a certain 
unaccustomed  air  of  being  dressed  and  elaborat- 
ed for  the  public  ways  ; as  though  he  passed  the 
greater  part  of  his  time  in  a nightcap  and  gown. 
And  so,  like  the  country  mouse  in  the  second 
year  of  a famine,  come  to  see  the  town-mouse, 
and  timidly  threading  his  way  to  the  town-mouse’s 
lodging  through  a city  of  cats,  this  old  man 
passes  in  the  streets. 

Sometimes,  on  holidays,  towards  evening,  he 
will  be  seen  to  walk  with  a slightly  increased  in- 
firmity, and  his  old  eyes  will  glimmer  with  a 
moist  and  marshy  light.  Then  the  little  old 
man  is  drunk.  A very  small  measure  will  over- 
set him  ; he  may  be  bowled  off  his  unsteady  legs 
with  a half-pint  pot.  Some  pitying  acquaintance 
— chance  acquaintance,  very  often — has  warmed 


OLD  TIMES 


340 


OLD  MAIDS 


up  his  weakness  with  a treat  of  beer,  and  the 
consequence  will  be  the  lapse  of  a longer  time 
than  usual  before  he  shall  pass  again.  For  the 
little  old  man  is  going  home  to  the  Workhouse  ; 
and  on  his  good  behavior  they  do  not  let  him 
out  often  (though  methinks  they  might,  consider- 
ing the  few  years  he  has  before  him  to  go  out 
in,  under  the  sun)  ; and  on  his  bad  behavior 
they  shut  him  up  closer  than  ever,  in  a grove 
of  two  score  and  nineteen  more  old  men,  every 
one  of  whom  smells  of  all  the  others. 

Mrs.  Plornish’s  father — a poor  little  reedy  pip- 
ing old  gentleman,  like  a worn-out  bird  ; who 
had  been  in  what  he  called  the  music-binding 
business,  and  met  with  great  misfortunes,  and 
who  had  seldom  been  able  to  make  his  way,  or 
to  see  it,  or  to  pay  it,  or  to  do  anything  at  all 
with  it  but  find  it  no  thoroughfare — had  re- 
tired of  his  own  accord  to  the  Workhouse  which 
was  appointed  by  law  to  be  the  Good  Samaritan 
of  his  district. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  31. 

OLD  TIMES. 

“ Those  darling  byegone  times,  Mr.  Carker,” 
said  Cleopatra,  “with  their  delicious  fortresses, 
and  their  dear  old  dungeons,  and  their  delightful 
places  of  torture,  and  their  romantic  vengeances, 
and  their  picturesque  assaults  and  sieges,  and 
everything  that  makes  life  truly  charming ! How 
dreadfully  we  have  degenerated  ! ” 

“ Yes,  we  have  fallen  off  deplorably,”  said  Mr. 
Carker. 

“ We  have  no  Faith  left,  positively,”  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,  advancing  her  shrivelled  ear ; for  Mr. 
Dombey  was  saying  something  to  Edith.  “We 
have  no  Faith  in  the  dear  old  Barons,  who  were 
the  most  delightful  creatures — or  in  the  dear  old 
Priests,  who  were  the  most  warlike  of  men — or 
even  in  the  days  of  that  inestimable  Queen  Bess, 
upon  the  wall  there,  which  were  so  extremely 
golden.  Dear  creature ! She  was  all  Heart ! 
And  that  charming  father  of  hers  ! I hope  you 
doat  on  Harry  the  Eighth  ! ” 

“ I admire  him  very  much,”  said  Carker. 

“ So  bluff ! ” cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  “ wasn’t  he  ? 
So  burly.  So  truly  English.  Such  a picture,  too, 
he  makes,  with  his  dear  little  peepy  eyes,  and  his 
benevolent  chin  ! ” 

* * * * * 

“ Oh  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a faded  little 
scream  of  rapture,  “ the  Castle  is  charming  ! — as- 
sociations of  the  Middle  Ages — and  all  that — 
which  is  so  truly  exquisite.  Don’t  you  doat  upon 
the  Middle  Ages,  Mr.  Carker?” 

“Very  much,  indeed,”  said  Mr.  Carker. 

“ Such  charming  times ! ” cried  Cleopatra.  “ So 
full  of  faith  ! So  vigorous  and  forcible  ! So  pictu- 
resque ! So  perfectly  removed  from  common- 
place ! Oh  dear  ! If  they  would  only  leave  us 
a little  more  of  the  poetry  of  existence  in  these 
terrible  days  !” — Dombey  dr*  Son , Chap.  27. 

Still  the  red-faced  gentleman  extolled  the 
good  old  times,  the  grand  old  times,  the  great 
old  times.  No  matter  what  anybody  else  said, 
he  still  went  turning  round  and  round  in  one  set 
form  of  words  concerning  them  ; as  a poor  squir- 
rel turns  and  turns  in  its  revolving  cage  ; touch- 
ing the  mechanism  and  trick  of  which,  it  has 
probably  quite  as  distinct  perceptions  as  ever 
this  red  faced  gentleman  had  of  his  deceased 
Millennium. — Chimes , 1st  Quarter. 


OLD  PEOPLE  Dick  Swiveller’s  opinion  of. 

“ He  don’t  look  like  it,”  said  Dick,  shaking  his 
head,  “but  these  old  people — there’s  no  trusting 
’em,  Fred.  There’s  an  aunt  of  mine  down  in 
Dorsetshire  that  was  going  to  die  when  I was 
eight  years  old,  and  hasn’t  kept  her  word  yet. 
They’re  so  aggravating,  so  unprincipled,  so  spite- 
ful. Unless  there’s  apoplexy  in  the  family,  Fred, 
you  can’t  calculate  upon  ’em,  and  even  then  they 
deceive  you  just  as  often  as  not.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  7. 

OLD  PEOPLE— The  obstinacy  of. 

“ Nothing  but  taking  him  in  the  very  fact  of 
eloping,  will  convince  the  old  lady,  sir,”  replied 
Job. 

“ All  them  old  cats  will  run  their  heads  agin 
mile-stones,”  observed  Mr.  Weller  in  a parenthe- 
sis.— Pickivick , Chap.  16. 

OLD  MAN— A vigorous. 

He  was  a strong  and  vigorous  old  man,  with 
a will  of  iron,  and  a voice  of  brass. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  3. 

OLD  LADY— A pretty. 

What  is  prettier  than  an  old  lady — except  a 
young  lady — when  her  eyes  are  bright,  when  her 
figure  is  trim  and  compact,  when  her  face  is 
cheerful  and  calm,  when  her  dress  is  as  the 
dress  of  a china  shepherdess  ; so  dainty  in  its 
colors,  so  individually  assorted  to  herself,  so 
neatly  moulded  on  her  ? Nothing  is  prettier, 
thought  the  good  Minor  Canon  frequently,  when 
taking  his  seat  at  table  opposite  his  long- 
widowed  mother.  Her  thought  at  such  times 
may  be  condensed  into  the  two  words  that 
oftenest  did  duty  together  in  all  her  conversa- 
tions : “ My  Sept  ! ” — Edwin  Drood , Chap.  6 

OLD  MAIDS. 

The  house  was  the  perfection  of  neatness — so 
were  the  four  Miss  Willises.  Everything  was 
formal,  stiff,  and  cold — so  were  the  four  Miss 
Willises.  Not  a single  chair  of  the  whole  set 
was  ever  seen  out  of  its  place — not  a single  Miss 
Willis  of  the  whole  four  was  ever  seen  out  of 
hers.  There  they  always  sat,  in  the  same  places, 
doing  precisely  the  same  things  at  the  same 
hour.  The  eldest  Miss  Willis  used  to  knit,  the 
second  to  draw,  the  two  others  to  play  duets  on 
the  piano.  They  seemed  to  have  no  separate 
existence,  but  to  have  made  up  their  minds  just 
to  winter  through  life  together.  They  were 
three  long  graces  in  drapery,  with  the  addition, 
like  a school-dinner,  of  another  long  grace  after- 
wards— the  three  fates  with  another  sister — the 
Siamese  twins  multiplied  by  two.  The  eldest 
Miss  Willis  grew  bilious — the  four  Miss  Willises 
grew  bilious  immediately.  The  eldest  Miss 
Willis  grew  ill-tempered  and  religious — the  four 
Miss  Willises  were  ill-tempered  and  religious 
directly.  Whatever  the  eldest  did,  the  others 
did,  and  whatever  anybody  else  did,  they  all 
disapproved  of ; and  thus  they  vegetated — living 
in  Polar  harmony  among  themselves,  and,  as 
they  sometimes  went  out,  or  saw  company  “in 
a quiet  way  ” at  home,  occasionally  icing  the 
neighbors.  Three  years  passed  over  in  this 
way,  when  an  unlooked-for  and  extraordinary 
phenomenon  occurred.  The  Miss  Willises 
showed  symptoms  of  summer  ; the  frost  gradual- 
ly broke  up  ; a complete  thaw  took  place.  Was 


OLD  MAID 


347 


OLD  FIRM 


it  possible?  one  of  the  four  Miss  Willises  was 
going  to  be  married  ! — Sketches  ( Scenes ),  Chap.  3. 

OLD  MAID— Miss  Volumnia,  the. 

Miss  Volumnia,  displaying  in  early  life  a 
pretty  talent  for  cutting  ornaments  out  of  col- 
ored paper,  and  also  for  singing  to  the  guitar  in 
the  Spanish  tongue,  and  propounding  French 
conundrums  in  country  houses,  passed  the  twen- 
ty years  of  her  existence  between  twenty  and 
forty  in  a sufficiently  agreeable  manner.  Laps- 
ing then  out  of  date,  and  being  considered  to 
bore  mankind  by  her  vocal  performances  in  the 
Spanish  language,  she  retired  to  Bath  ; where 
she  lives  slenderly  on  an  annual  present  from 
Sir  Leicester,  and  whence  she  makes  occasional 
resurrections  in  the  country  houses  of  her  cous- 
ins. She  has  an  extensive  acquaintance  at  Bath 
among  appalling  old  gentlemen  with  thin  legs 
and  nankeen  trousers,  and  is  of  high  standing 
in  that  dreary  city.  But  she  is  a little  dreaded 
elsewhere,  in  consequence  of  an  indiscreet  pro- 
fusion in  the  article  of  rouge,  and  persistency  in 
an  obsolete  pearl  necklace,  like  a rosary  of  little 
bird’s-eggs. — Bleak  House , Chap.  28. 

OLD  MAID— A fashionable. 

The  only  great  occasions  for  Volumnia,  in 
this  changed  aspect  of  the  place  in  Lincolnshire, 
are  those  occasions,  rare  and  widely-separated, 
when  something  is  to  be  done  for  the  county, 
or  the  country,  in  the  way  of  gracing  a public 
ball.  Then,  indeed,  does  the  tuckered  sylph 
come  out  in  fairy  form,  and  proceed  with  joy 
under  cousinly  escort  to  the  exhausted  old  as- 
sembly-room, fourteen  heavy  miles  off ; which, 
during  three  hundred  and  sixty-four  days  and 
nights  of  every  ordinary  year,  is  a kind  of  Anti- 
podean lumber-room,  full  of  old  chairs  and  ta- 
bles, upside  down.  Then,  indeed,  does  she  cap- 
tivate all  hearts  by  her  condescension,  by  her 
girlish  vivacity,  and  by  her  skipping  about  as  in 
the  days  when  the  hideous  old  general  with  the 
mouth  too  full  of  teeth,  had  not  cut  one  of  them 
at  two  guineas  each.  Then  does  she  twirl  and 
twine,  a pastoral  nymph  of  good  family,  through 
the  mazes  of  the  dance.  Then  do  the  swains 
appear  with  tea,  with  lemonade,  with  sandwiches, 
with  homage.  Then  is  she  kind  and  cruel,  state- 
ly and  unassuming,  various,  beautifully  wilful. 
Then  is  there  a singular  parallel  between  her 
and  the  little  glass  chandeliers  of  another  age, 
embellishing  that  assembly-room  ; which,  with 
their  meagre  stems,  their  spare  little  drops,  their 
disappointing  knobs  where  no  drops  are,  their 
bare  little  stalks  from  which  knobs  and  drops 
have  both  departed,  and  their  little  feeble  pris- 
matic twinkling,  all  seem  Volumnias. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  66. 

OLD  MAIDS— The  Crumptons. 

The  Miss  Crumptons,  or,  to  quote  the  author- 
ity of  the  inscription  on  the  garden-gate  of 
Minerva  House,  Hammersmith,  “ The  Misses 
Crumpton,”  were  two  unusually  tall,  particularly 
thin,  and  exceedingly  skinny  personages  ; very 
upright,  and  very  yellow.  Miss  Amelia  Crump- 
ton owned  to  thirty- eight,  and  Miss  Maria 
Crumpton  admitted  she  was  forty  ; an  admis- 
sion which  was  rendered  perfectly  unnecessary 
by  the  self-evident  fact  of  her  being  at  least 
fifty.  They  dressed  in  the  most  interesting 
manner — like  twins  ; and  looked  as  happy  and 


comfortable  as  a couple  of  marigolds  run  to  seed. 
They  were  very  precise,  had  the  strictest  possible 
ideas  of  propriety,  wore  false  hair,  and  always 
smelt  very  strongly  of  lavender. — Tales , Chap.  3. 

OLD  FIRM— Their  place  of  business. 

The  old-established  firm  of  A.nthony  Chuzzle- 
wit  and  Son,  Manchester  Warehousemen,  and 
so  forth,  had  its  place  of  business  in  a very  nar- 
row street  somewhere  behind  the  Post  Office  ; 
where  every  house  was  in  the  brightest  summer 
morning  very  gloomy  ; and  where  light  porters 
watered  the  pavement,  each  before  his  own  em- 
ployer’s premises  in  fantastic  patterns,  in  the 
dog-days  ; and  where  spruce  gentlemen,  with 
their  hands  in  the  pockets  of  symmetrical  trou- 
sers, were  always  to  be  seen  in  warm  weather, 
contemplating  their  undeniable  boots  in  dusty 
warehouse  doorways:  which  appeared  to  be  the 
hardest  work  they  did,  except  now  and  then 
carrying  pens  behind  their  ears.  A dim,  dirty, 
smoky,  tumble  down,  rotten  old  house  it  was, 
as  anybody  would  desire  to  see  ; but  there  the 
firm  of  Anthony  Chuzzlewit  and  Son  transacted 
all  their  business  and  their  pleasure  too,  such  as 
it  was  ; for  neither  the  young  man  nor  the  old 
had  any  other  residence,  or  any  care  or  thought 
beyond  its  narrow  limits. 

Business,  as  may  be  readily  supposed,  was  the 
main  thing  in  this  establishment : insomuch  in- 
deed that  it  shouldered  comfort  out  of  doors, 
and  jostled  the  domestic  arrangements  at  every 
turn.  Thus  in  the  miserable  bed-rooms  there 
were  files  of  moth-eaten  letters  hanging  up 
against  the  walls;  and  linen  rollers,  and  frag- 
ments of  old  patterns,  and  odds  and  ends  of 
spoiled  goods,  strewed  upon  the  ground  ; while 
the  meagre  bedsteads,  washing-stands,  and 
scraps  of  carpet,  were  huddled  away  into  cor- 
ners as  objects  of  secondary  consideration,  not 
to  be  thought  of  but  as  disagreeable  necessities, 
furnishing  no  profit,  and  intruding  on  the  one 
affair  of  life.  The  single  sitting-room  was  on 
the  same  principle  ; a chaos  of  boxes  and  old  pa- 
pers, and  had  more  counting-house  stools  in  it 
than  chairs  : not  to  mention  a great  monster  of 
a desk  straddling  over  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
and  an  iron  safe  sunk  into  the  wall  above  the 
fire-place.  The  solitary  little  table  for  purposes 
of  refection  and  social  enjoyment,  bore  as  fair  a 
proportion  to  the  desk  and  other  business  furni- 
ture, as  the  graces  and  harmless  relaxations  of 
life  had  ever  done,  in  the  persons  of  the  old 
man  and  his  son,  to  their  pursuit  of  wealth.  It 
was  meanly  laid  out  now,  for  dinner ; and  in  a 
chair  before  the  fire  sat  Anthony  himself,  who 
rose  to  greet  his  son  and  his  fair  cousins  as 
they  entered. 

An  ancient  proverb  warns  us  that  we  should 
not  expect  to  find  old  heads  upon  young  shoul- 
ders ; to  which  it  may  be  aclded,  that  we  seldom 
meet  with  that  unnatural  combination  but  we 
feel  a strong  desire  to  knock  them  off;  merely 
from  an  inherent  love  we  have  of  seeing  things 
in  their  right  places.  It  is  not  improbable  that 
many  men,  in  no  wise  choleric  by  nature,  felt 
this  impulse  rising  up  within  them,  when  they 
first  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Jonas;  but 
if  they  had  known  him  more  intimately,  in  his 
own  house,  and  had  sat  with  him  at  his  own 
board,  it  would  assuredly  have  been  paramount 
to  all  other  considerations. 

Marlin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  11. 


OLD  WOMEN 


348 


ORACLE 


OLD  WOMEN  -A  type  of  good. 

She  was  one  of  those  old  women,  was  Mrs. 
Betty  Higden,  who,  by  dint  of  an  indomitable 
purpose  and  a strong  constitution,  fight  out 
many  years,  though  each  year  has  come  with  its 
new  knock  down  blows  fresh  to  the  fight  against 
her,  wearied  by  it  ; an  active  old  woman,  with  a 
bright  dark  eye  and  a resolute  face,  yet  quite  a 
tender  creature  too  ; not  a logically-reasoning 
woman,  but  God  is  good,  and  hearts  may  count 
in  Heaven  as  high  as  heads. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  16. 

OMNIBUS-The. 

Of  all  the  public  conveyances  that  have  been 
constructed  since  the  days  of  the  Ark — we  think 
that  is  the  earliest  on  record — to  the  present 
time — commend  us  to  an  omnibus.  A long 
stage  is  not  to  be  despised,  but  there  you  have 
only  six  insides,  and  the  chances  are,  that  the 
same  people  go  all  the  way  with  you — there  is 
no  change,  no  variety.  Besides,  after  the  first 
twelve  hours  or  so,  people  get  cross  and  sleepy, 
and  when  you  have  seen  a man  in  his  nightcap, 
you  lose  all  respect  for  him  ; at  least,  that  is  the 
case  with  us.  Then,  on  smooth  roads  people 
frequently  get  prosy,  and  tell  long  stories,  and 
even  those  who  don’t  talk,  may  have  very  un- 
pleasant predilections.  We  once  travelled  four 
hundred  miles,  inside  a stage-coach,  with  a stout 
man,  who  had  a glass  of  rum-and  water,  warm, 
handed  in  at  the  window  at  every  place  where 
we  changed  horses.  This  was  decidedly  unpleas- 
ant. We  have  also  travelled,  occasionally,  with 
a small  boy  of  a pale  aspect,  with  light  hair, 
and  no  perceptible  neck,  coming  up  to  town 
from  school  under  the  protection  of  the 
guard,  and  directed  to  be  left  at  the  Cross  Keys 
till  called  for.  This  is,  perhaps,  even  worse 
than  rum-and- water  in  a close  atmosphere. 
Then  there  is  the  whole  train  of  evils  conse- 
quent on  the  change  of  the  coachman  ; and  the 
misery  of  the  discovery— which  the  guard  is 
sure  to  make  the  moment  you  begin  to  doze — 
that  he  wants  a brown-paper  parcel,  which  he 
distinctly  remembers  to  have  deposited  under 
the  seat  on  which  you  are  reposing.  A great 
deal  of  bustle  and  groping  takes  place,  and 
when  you  are  thoroughly  awakened,  and  severely 
cramped,  by  holding  your  legs  up  by  an  almost 
supernatural  exertion,  while  he  is  looking  be- 
hind them,  it  suddenly  occurs  to  him  that  he 
put  it  in  the  fore-boot.  Bang  goes  the  door ; 
the  parcel  is  immediately  found  ; off  starts  the 
coach  again  ; and  the  guard  plays  the  key-bugle 
as  loud  as  he  can  play  it,  as  if  in  mockery  of  your 
wretchedness. 

Now,  you  meet  with  none  of  these  afflictions 
in  an  omnibus  ; sameness  there  can  never  be. 
The  passengers  change  as  often  in  the  course 
of  one  journey  as  the  figures  in  a kaleidoscope, 
and  though  not  so  glittering,  are  far  more  amus- 
ing. We  believe  there  is  no  instance  on  record, 
of  a man’s  having  gone  to  sleep  in  one  of  these  ve- 
hicles. As  to  long  stories,  would  any  man  venture 
to  tell  a long  story  in  an  omnibus  ? and  even  if  he 
did,  where  would  be  the  harm  ? nobody  could 
possibly  hear  what  he  was  talking  about.  Again; 
children,  though  occasionally,  are  not  often  to 
be  found  in  an  omnibus  ; and  even  when  they 
are,  if  the  vehicle  be  full,  as  is  generally  the 
case,  somebody  sits  upon  them,  and  we  are  un- 
conscious of  their  presence.  Yes,  after  mature 


reflection,  and  considerable  experience,  we  are 
decidedly  of  opinion,  that  of  all  known  ve- 
hicles, from  the  glass-coach  in  which  we  were 
taken  to  be  christened,  to  that  sombre  caravan 
in  which  we  must  one  day  make  our  last  earthly 
journey,  there  is  nothing  like  an  omnibus. 

Scenes,  Chap.  15. 

OMNIBUS -Experiences  in  an. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  a little  prim, 
wheezing  old  gentleman,  sitting  opposite  Dumps, 
“ I beg  your  pardon  ; but  have  you  ever  observ- 
ed, when  you  have  been  in  an  omnibus  on  a 
wet  day,  that  four  people  out  of  five  always 
come  in  with  large  cotton  umbrellas,  without  a 
handle  at  the  top,  or  the  brass  spike  at  the  bot- 
tom ? ” — Tales , Chap.  1 1. 

OPPORTUNITIES— Lost. 

From  the  beginning,  she  had  sat  looking  at 
him  fixedly.  As  he  now  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  and  bent  his  deep-set  eyes  upon  her  in 
his  turn,  perhaps  he  might  have  seen  one  waver- 
ing moment  in  her,  when  she  was  impelled  to 
throw  herself  upon  his  breast,  and  give  him  the 
pent-up  confidences  of  her  heart.  But,  to  see  it, 
he  must  have  overleaped  at  a bound  the  artifi- 
cial barriers  he  had  for  many  years  been  erect- 
ing, between  himself  and  all  those  subtle  es- 
sences of  humanity  which  will  elude  the  utmost 
cunning  of  algebra  until  the  last  trumpet  ever  to 
be  sounded  shall  blow'  even  algebra  to  wreck. 
The  barriers  were  too  many  and  too  high  for 
such  a leap.  With  his  unbending,  utilitarian, 
matter-of-fact  face,  he  hardened  her  again  ; and 
the  moment  shot  away  into  the  plumbless  depths 
of  the  past,  to  mingle  with  all  the  lost  opportu- 
nities that  are  drowned  there. — Louisa  Grad- 
grind , in  Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  15. 

OPINION— A unanimity  of. 

“John  Edward  Nandy,”  said  Mr.  Plornish, 
addressing  the  old  gentleman.  “ Sir.  It’s  not 
too  often  that  you  see  unpretending  actions 
without  a spark  of  pride,  and  therefore  when 
you  see  them  give  grateful  honor  unto  the  same, 
being  that  if  you  don’t  and  live  to  want  ’em  it 
follows  serve  you  right.” 

To  which  Mr.  Nandy  replied: 

“ I am  heartily  of  your  opinion,  Thomas,  and 
which  your  opinion  is  the  same  as  mine,  and 
therefore  no  more  words  and  not  being  back- 
wards with  that  opinion,  which  opinion  giving 
it  as  yes,  Thomas,  yes,  is  the  opinion  in  which 
yourself  and  me  must  ever  be  unanimously  jined 
by  all,  and  where  there  is  not  difference  of  opin- 
ion there  can  be  none  but  one  opinion,  which 
fully  no,  Thomas,  Thomas,  no  ! ” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  13. 

OPINIONS— How  chang-ed. 

Some  men  change  their  opinions  from  neces- 
sity, others  from  expediency,  others  from  inspi- 
ration ! — Scenes,  Chap.  18. 

ORACLE-The  village. 

Nearest  the  fire,  with  his  face  towards  the 
door  at  the  bottom  of  the  room,  sat  a stoutish 
man  of  about  forty,  whose  short,  stiff,  black  hair 
curled  closely  round  a broad  high  forehead,  and 
a face  to  which  something  besides  water  and  ex- 
ercise had  communicated  a rather  inflamed  ap 
pearance.  He  was  smoking  a cigar,  with  his 


ORATOR 


349 


ORGAN 


eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  and  had  that  confident, 
oracular  air  which  marked  him'  as  the  leading 
politician,  general  authority,  and  universal  an- 
ecdote-relater  of  the  place.  He  had  evidently 
just  delivered  himself  of  something  very  weigh- 
ty ; for  the  remainder  of  the  company  were  puff- 
ing at  their  respective  pipes  and  cigars  in  a kind 
of  solemn  abstraction,  as  if  quite  overwhelmed 
with  the  magnitude  of  the  subject  recently  under 
discussion. 

* * * * * 

“ What  is  a man  ? ” continued  the  red-faced 
specimen  of  the  species,  jerking  his  hat  indig- 
nantly from  its  peg  on  the  wall.  “ What  is  an 
Englishman?  Is  he  to  be  trampled  upon  by 
every  oppressor?  Is  he  to  be  knocked  down  at 
everybody’s  bidding?  What’s  freedom?  Not 
a standing  army.  What’s  a standing  army? 
Not  freedom.  What’s  general  happiness?  Not 
universal  misery.  Liberty  ain’t  the  window-tax, 
is  it  ? The  Lords  ain’t  the  Commons,  are  they  ? ” 
And  the  red  faced  man,  gradually  bursting  into 
a radiating  sentence,  in  which  such  adjectives 
as  “dastardly,”  “oppressive,”  “violent,”  and 
“ sanguinary,”  formed  the  most  conspicuous 
words,  knocked  his  hat  indignantly  over  his 
eyes,  left  the  room,  and  slammed  the  door  after 
him. — Sketches  ( Characters ),  Chap.  5. 

ORATOR— A windy. 

Then  Lord  Decimus,  who  was  a wonder  on 
his  own  Parliamentary  pedestal,  turned  out  to 
be  the  windiest  creature  here  : proposing  hap- 
piness to  the  bride  and  bridegroom  in  a series 
of  platitudes  that  would  have  made  the  hair  of 
any  sincere  disciple  and  believer  stand  on  end  : 
and  trotting,  with  the  complacency  of  an  idiotic 
elephant,  among  howling  labyrinths  of  sentences 
which  he  seemed  to  take  for  high  roads,  and 
never  so  much  as  wanted  to  get  out  of. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  34. 

ORATOR— His  warmth. 

And  when  the  petition  had  been  read  and  was 
about  to  be  adopted,  there  came  forward  the 
Irish  member  (who  was  a young  gentleman  of 
ardent  temperament),  with  such  a speech  as  only 
an  Irish  member  can  make,  breathing  the  true 
soul  and  spirit  of  poetry,  and  poured  forth  with 
such  fervor,  that  it  made  one  warm  to  look  at 
him. — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  2. 

ORATOR— A British. 

He  might  be  asked,  he  observed,  in  a perora- 
tion of  great  power,  what  were  his  principles? 
His  principles  were  what  they  always  had  been. 
Ilis  principles  were  written  in  the  countenances 
of  the  lion  and  unicorn  ; were  stamped  indeli- 
bly upon  the  royal  shield  which  those  grand  an- 
imals supported,  and  upon  the  free  words  of 
fire  which  that  shield  bore.  His  principles  were, 
Britannia  and  her  sea-king  trident!  His  prin- 
ciples were,  commercial  prosperity  co-existently 
with  perfect  and  profound  agricultural  content- 
ment ; but  short  of  this  he  would  never  stop. 
His  principles  were  these, — with  the  addition 
of  his  colors  nailed  to  the  mast,  every  man’s 
heart  in  the  right  place,  every  man’s  eye  open, 
every  man’s  hand  ready,  every  man’s  mind  on 
the  alert.  His  principles  were  these,  concur- 
rently with  a general  revision  of  something — 
speaking  generally — and  a possible  re-adjust- 


ment of  something  else,  not  to  be  mentioned 
more  particularly.  His  principles,  to  sum  up 
all  in  a word,  were,  Hearths  and  Altars,  Labor 
and  Capital,  Crown  and  Sceptre,  Elephant  and 
Castle. 

Our  Honorable  F?iend.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

ORGAN— Tom  Pinch  at  the. 

What  sounds  are  these  that  fall  so  grandly  on 
the  ear?  What  darkening  room  is  this? 

And  that  mild  figure  seated  at  an  organ,  who 
is  he?  Ah  Tom,  dear  Tom,  old-friend  T ~ 

Thy  head  is  prematurely  gray,  though  Time 
has  passed  between  thee  and  our  old  associa- 
tion, Tom.  But,  in  those  sounds  with  which  it 
is  thy  wont  to  bear  the  twilight  company,  the 
music  of  thy  heart  speaks  out : the  story  of  thy 
life  relates  itself. 

Thy  life  is  tranquil,  calm,  and  happy,  Tom. 
In  the  soft  strain  which  ever  and  again  comes 
stealing  back  upon  the  ear,  the  memory  of  thine 
old  love  may  find  a voice  perhaps  ; but  it  is  a 
pleasant,  softened,  whispering  memory,  like  that 
in  which  we  sometimes  hold  the  dead,  and  does 
not  pain  or  grieve  thee,  God  be  thanked  ! 

Touch  the  notes  lightly,  Tom,  as  lightly  as 
thou  wilt,  but  never  will  thine  hand  fall  half 
so  lightly  on  that  Instrument  as  on  the  head  of 
thine  old  tyrant  brought  down  very,  very  low  ; 
and  never  will  it  make  as  hollow  a response 
to  any  touch  of  thine,  as  he  does  always  ! 

For  a drunken,  squalid,  begging-letter-writ- 
ing  man,  called  Pecksniff  (with  a shrewish  daugh- 
ter), haunts  thee,  Tom  ; and  when  he  makes  ap- 
peals to  thee  for  cash,  reminds  thee  that  he 
built  thy  fortunes  better  than  his  own  ; and  when 
he  spends  it,  entertains  the  alehouse  company 
with  tales  of  thine  ingratitude  and  his  munifi- 
cence towards  thee  once  upon  a time  ; and  then 
he  shows  his  elbows,  worn  in  holes,  and  puts  his 
soleless  shoes  up  on  a bench,  and  begs  his 
auditors  look  there,  while  thou  art  comfortably 
housed  and  clothed.  All  known  to  thee,  and 
yet  all  borne  with,  Tom  ! 

So,  with  a smile  upon  thy  face,  thou  passest 
gently  to  another  measure — to  a quicker  and 
more  joyful  one — and  little  feet  are  used  to 
dance  about  thee  at  the  sound,  and  bright  young 
eyes  to  glance  up  into  thine.  And  there  is  one 
slight  creature,  Tom — her  child  ; not  Ruth’s — 
whom  thine  eyes  follow  in  the  romp  and  dance  ; 
who,  wondering  sometimes  to  see  thee  look  so 
thoughtful,  runs  to  climb  up  on  thy  knee,  and 
put  her  cheek  to  thine  : who  loves  thee,  Tom, 
above  the  rest,  if  that  can  be  : and  falling  sick 
once,  chose  thee  for  her  nurse,  and  never 
knew  impatience,  Tom,  when  thou  wert  by  her 
side. 

Thou  glidest  now  into  a graver  air ; an  air 
devoted  to  old  friends  and  byegone  times  ; and 
in  thy  lingering  touch  upon  the  keys,  and  the 
rich  swelling  of  the  mellow  harmony,  they  rise 
before  thee.  The  spirit  of  that  old  man  dead, 
who  delighted  to  anticipate  thy  wants,  and 
never  ceased  to  honor  thee,  is  there  among  the 
rest ; repeating,  with  a face  composed  and  calm, 
the  words  he  said  to  thee  upon  his  bed,  and 
blessing  thee  ! 

And  coming  from  a garden,  Tom,  bestrewn 
with  flowers  by  children’s  hands,  thy  sister,  lit- 
tle Ruth,  as  light  of  foot  and  heart  as  in  old 
days,  sits  down  beside  thee.  From  the  Present, 
and  the  Past,  with  which  she  is  so  tenderly  en- 


ORGANIST 


350 


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twined  in  all  thy  thoughts,  thy  strain  soars  on- 
ward to  the  Future.  As  it  resounds  within  thee 
and  without,  the  noble  music,  rolling  round  ye 
both,  shuts  out  the  grosser  prospect  of  an  earthly 
parting,  and  uplifts  ye  both  to  Heaven  ! 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  54. 

ORGANIST— The. 

The  organist’s  assistant  was  a friend  of  Mr. 
Pinch’s,  which  was  a good  thing,  for  he,  too, 
was  a very  quiet,  gentle  soul,  and  had  been,  like 
Tom,  a kind  of  old-fashioned  boy  at  school, 
though  well  liked  by  the  noisy  fellows  too.  As 
good  luck  would  have  it  (Tom  always  said  he 
had  great  good  luck)  the  assistant  chanced  that 
very  afternoon  to  be  on  duty  by  himself,  with 
no  one  in  the  dusty  organ-loft  but  Tom  ; so 
while  he  played,  Tom  helped  him  with  the  slops  ; 
and  finally,  the  service  being  just  over,  Tom  took 
the  organ  himself.  It  was  then  turning  dark, 
and  the  yellow  light  that  streamed  in  through 
the  ancient  windows  in  the  choir  was  mingled 
with  a murky  red.  As  the  grand  tones  resound- 
ed through  the  church,  they  seemed,  to  Tom,  to 
find  an  echo  in  the  depth  of  every  ancient  tomb, 
no  less  than  in  the  deep  mystery  of  his  own 
heart.  Great  thoughts  and  hopes  came  crowd- 
ing on  his  mind  as  the  rich  music  rolled  upon 
the  air,  and  yet  among  them — something  more 
grave  and  solemn  in  their  purpose,  but  the 
same — were  all  the  images  of  that  day,  down  to 
its  very  lightest  recollection  of  childhood.  The 
feeling  that  the  sounds  awakened,  in  the  mo- 
ment of  their  existence,  seemed  to  include  his 
whole  life  and  being  ; and  as  the  surrounding 
realities  of  stone  and  wood  and  glass  grew 
dimmer  in  the  darkness,  these  visions  grew  so 
much  the  brighter  that  Tom  might  have  for- 
gotten the  new  pupil  and  the  expectant  master, 
and  have  sat  there  pouring  out  his  grateful 
heart  till  midnight. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  5. 

ORGAN— Its  melody. 

The  organ  sounded  faintly  in  the  church 
below.  Swelling  by  degrees,  the  melody  ascend- 
ed to  the  roof,  and  filled  the  choir  and  nave. 
Expanding  more  and  more,  it  rose  up,  up  ; 
up,  up  ; higher,  higher,  higher  up  ; awakening 
agitated  hearts  within  the  burly  piles  of  oak, 
the  hollow  bells,  the  iron-bound  doors,  the 
stairs  of  solid  stone  ; until  the  tower-walls  were 
insufficient  to  contain  it,  and  it  soared  into  the 
sky. — Chimes , 3 d Quarter. 

ORPHANS— The. 

“ Look  at  this  ! For  God’s  sake  look  at  this  ! ” 

It  was  a thing  to  look  at.  The  three  chil- 
dren close  together,  and  two  of  them  relying 
solely  on  the  third  ; and  the  third  so  young,  and 
yet  with  an  air  of  age  and  steadiness  that  sat  so 
strangely  on  the  childish  figure. 

“Charley,  Charley!”  said  my  guardian. 
“ How  old  are  you  ? ” 

“ Over  thirteen,  sir,”  replied  the  child. 

“ O ! What  a great  age,”  said  my  guardian. 
“ What  a great  age,  Charley  ! ” 

I cannot  describe  the  tenderness  with  which 
he  spoke  to  her,  half  playfully,  yet  all  the  more 
compassionately  and  mournfully. 

“ And  do  you  live  alone  here  with  these  babies, 
Charley?”  said  my  guardian. 

“ Yes,  sir,”  returned  the  child,  looking  up  into 


his  face  with  perfect  confidence,  “ since  father 
died.” 

“ And  how  do  you  live,  Charley?  O ! Char- 
ley,” said  my  guardian,  turning  his  face  away 
for  a mojnent,  “ how  do  you  live  ? ” 

“ Since  father  died,  sir,  I've  gone  out  to  work. 
I’m  out  washing  to-day.” 

“ God  help  you,  Charley,”  said  my  guardian. 
“ You’fe  not  tall  enough  to  reach  the  tub  ! ” 

“ In  pattens  I am,  sir,”  she  said  quickly,  “ I've 
got  a high  pair  as  belonged  to  mother.” 

“ And  when  did  mother  die  ? Poor  mother  ! ” 

“ Mother  died  just  after  Emma  was  born  ! ” 
said  the  child,  glancing  at  the  face  upon  her 
bosom.  “ Then  father  said  I was  to  be  as  good 
a mother  to  her  as  I could.  And  so  I tried. 
And  so  I worked  at  home  and  did  cleaning,  and 
nursing,  and  washing,  for  a long  time  before  I 
began  to  go  out.  And  that’s  how  I know  how. 
Don’t  you  see,  sir?” 

“ And  do  you  often  go  out  ? ” 

“As  often  as  I can,”  said  Charley,  opening 
her  eyes,  and  smiling,  “because  of  earning  six- 
pences and  shillings.” 

“ And  do  you  always  lock  the  babies  up  when 
you  go  out  ? ” 

“ To  keep  ’em  safe,  sir,  don’t  you  see  ?”  said 
Charley.  “ Mrs.  Blinder  comes  up  now  and 
then,  and  Mr.  Gridley  comes  up  sometimes,  and 
perhaps  I can  run  in  sometimes  ; and  they  can 
play,  you  know,  and  Tom  an’t  afraid  of  being 
locked  up,  are  you,  Tom?” 

“ No-o  ! ” said  Tom,  stoutly. 

“ When  it  comes  on  dark,  the  lamps  are  light- 
ed down  in  the  court,  and  they  show  up  here 
quite  bright — almost  quite  bright.  Don’t 
they,  Tom  ? ” 

“ Yes,  Charley,”  said  Tom,  “ almost  quite 
bright.” 

“ Then  he’s  as  good  as  gold,”  said  the  little 
creature — O ! in  such  a motherly,  womanly  way  ! 
“ And  when  Emma’s  tired  he  puts  her  to  bed. 
And  when  lie’s  tired  he  goes  to  bed  himself. 
And  when  I come  home  and  light  the  candle, 
and  has  a bit  of  supper,  he  sits  up  again  and  has 
it  with  me.  Don’t  you,  Tom  ? ” 

“ O yes,  Charley ! ” said  Tom.  “ That  I do  ! ” 
And  either  in  this  glimpse  of  the  great  pleasure 
of  his  life  or  in  gratitude  and  love  for  Charley, 
who  was  all  in  all  to  him,  he  laid  his  face  among 
the  scanty  folds  of  her  frock,  and  passed  from 
laughing  into  crying. 

It  was  the  first  time  since  our  entry  that  a 
tear  had  been  shed  among  these  children.  The 
little  orphan  girl  had  spoken  of  their  father  and 
their  mother,  as  if  all  that  sorrow  were  subdued 
by  the  necessity  of  taking  courage,  and  by  her 
childish  importance  in  being  able  to  work,  and 
by  her  bustling,  busy  way.  But  now,  when  Tom 
cried,  although  she  sat  quite  tranquil,  looking 
quietly  at  us,  and  did  not  by  any  movement  dis- 
turb a hair  of  the  head  of  either  of  her  little 
charges,  I saw  two  silent  tears  fall  down  her 
face. — Bleak  House , Chap.  15. 

OUTCAST  -“Jo,”  his  ignorance. 

It  must  be  a strange  state  to  be  like  Jo  ! To 
shuffle  through  the  streets,  unfamiliar  with  the 
shapes,  and  in  utter  darkness  as  to  the  meaning, 
of  those  mysterious  symbols,  so  abundant  over 
the  shops,  and  at  corners  of  the  streets,  and 
on  the  doors,  and  in  the  windows  ! To  see  peo- 
ple read,  and  to  see  people  write,  and  to  see  the 


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351 


OUTCAST 


postman  deliver  letters,  and  not  to  have  the 
least  idea  of  all  that  language — to  be,  to  every 
scrap  of  it,  stone  blind  and  dumb  ! It  must  be 
very  puzzling  to  see  the  good  company  going  to 
the  churches  on  Sundays,  with  their  books  in 
their  hands,  and  to  think  (for  perhaps  Jo  does 
think  at  odd  times)  what  does  it  all  mean,  and 
if  it  means  anything  to  anybody,  how  comes  it 
that  it  means  nothing  to  me?  To  be  hustled, 
and  jostled,  and  moved  on  ; and  really  to  feel 
that  it  would  appear  to  be  perfectly  true  that  I 
have  no  business,  here,  or  there,  or  anywhere  ; 
and  yet  to  be  perplexed  by  the  consideration 
that  I am  here  somehow,  too,  and  everybody 
overlooked  me  until  I became  the  creature  that 
I am  ! It  must  be  a strange  state,  not  merely 
to  be  told  that  I am  scarcely  human  (as  in  the 
case  of  my  offering  myself  for  a witness),  but  to 
feel  it  of  my  own  knowledge  all  my  life!  To 
see  the  horses,  dogs,  and  cattle  go  by  me,  and 
to  know  that  in  ignorance  I belong  to  them, 
and  not  the  superior  beings  in  my  shape,  whose 
delicacy  I offend!  Jo’s  ideas  of  a Criminal 
Trial,  or  a Judge,  or  a Bishop,  or  a Govern- 
ment, or  that  inestimable  jewel  to  him  (if  he 
only  knew  it)  the  Constitution,  should  be 
strange  ! His  whole  material  and  immaterial 
life  is  wonderfully  strange  ; his  death,  the  stran- 
gest thing  of  all. 

Jo  comes  out  of  Tom-all-Alone’s,  meeting  the 
tardy  morning,  which  is  always  late  in  getting 
down  there,  and  munches  his  dirty  bit  of  bread 
as  he  comes  along.  His  way  lying  through 
many  streets,  and  the  houses  not  yet  being 
open,  he  sits  down  to  breakfast  on  the  door- 
step of  the  Society  for  the  Propagation  of  the 
Gospel  in  Foreign  Parts,  and  gives  it  a brush 
when  he  has  finished,  as  an  acknowledgment  of 
the  accommodation.  He  admires  the  size  of 
the  edifice,  and  wonders  what  it’s  all  about. 
He  has  no  idea,  poor  wretch,  of  the  spiritual 
destitution  of  a coral  reef  in  the  Pacific,  or  what 
it  costs  to  look  up  the  precious  souls  among 
the  cocoa-nuts  and  bread-fruit. 

He  goes  to  his  crossing,  and  begins  to  lay  it 
out  for  the  day.  The  town  awakes  ; the  great 
teetotum  is  set  up  for  its  daily  spin  and  whirl ; 
all  that  unaccountable  reading  and  writing, 
which  has  been  suspended  for  a few  hours,  re- 
commences. Jo,  and  the  other  lower  animals, 
get  on  in  the  unintelligible  mess  as  they  can. 
It  is  market-day.  The  blinded  oxen,  over- 
goaded, over-driven,  never  guided,  run  into 
wrong  places  and  are  beaten  out ; and  plunge, 
red-eyed  and*  foaming,  at  stone  walls  ; and  of- 
ten sorely  hurt  the  innocent,  and  often  sorely 
hurt  themselves.  Very  like  Jo  and  his  order  ; 
very,  very  like  ! 

A band  of  music  comes  and  plays.  Jo  listens 
to  it.  So  does  a dog — a drover’s  dog,  waiting 
for  his  master  outside  a butcher’s  shop,  and  evi- 
dently thinking  about  those  sheep  he  has  had 
upon  his  mind  for  some  hours,  and  is  happily 
rid  of.  He  seems  perplexed  respecting  three  or 
four  ; can’t  remember  where  he  left  them  ; looks 
up  and  down  the  street,  as  half  expecting  to  see 
them  astray  ; suddenly  pricks  up  his  ears  and 
remembers  all  about  it.  A thoroughly  vaga- 
bond dog,  accustomed  to  low  company  and 
. publicrhouses  ; a terrific  dog  to  sheep  ; ready  at 
a whistle  to  scamper  over  their  backs,  and  tear 
out  mouthfuls  of  their  wool  ; but  an  educated, 
improved,  developed  dog,  who  has  been  taught 


his  duties  and  knows  how  to  discharge  them. 
He  and  Jo  listen  to  the  music,  probably  witn 
much  the  same  amount  of  animal  satisfaction  ; 
likewise,  as  to  awakened  association,  aspiration, 
or  regret,  melancholy  or  joyful  reference  to 
things  beyond  the  senses,  they  are  probably 
upon  a par.  But,  otherwise,  how  far  above  the 
human  listener  is  the  brute  ! 

Turn  that  dog’s  descendants  wild,  like  Jo,  and 
in  a very  few  years  they  will  so  degenerate  that 
they  will  lose  even  their  bark — but  not  their  bite. 

The  day  changes  as  it  wears  itself  away,  and 
becomes  dark  and  drizzly.  Jo  fights  it  out,  at 
his  crossing,  among  the  mud  and  wheels,  the 
horses,  whips,  and  umbrellas,  and  gets  but  a 
scanty  sum  to  pay  for  the  unsavory  shelter  of 
Tom-all-Alone’s.  Twilight  comes  on  ; gas  be- 
gins to  start  up  in  the  shops  ; the  lamplighter, 
with  his  ladder,  runs  along  the  margin  of  the 
pavement.  A wretched  evening  is  beginning  to 
close  in. — Bleak  House , Chap.  16. 

OUTCAST-Jo,  the. 

“ You  Phil ! Bring  him  in  ! ” 

Mr.  Squod  tacks  out,  all  on  one  side,  to  exe- 
cute the  word  of  command  : and  the  trooper, 
having  smoked  his  pipe,  lays  it  by.  Jo  is  brought 
in.  He  is  not  one  of  Mrs.  Pardiggle’s  Tocka- 
hoopo  Indians;  he  is  not  one  of  Mrs.  Jellyby’s 
lambs,  being  wholly  unconnected  with  Borrio- 
boola-Gha  ; he  is  not  sofeened  by  distance  and 
unfamiliarity  ; he  is  not  a genuine  foreign-grown 
savage  ; he  is  the  ordinary  home-made  article. 
Dirty,  ugly,  disagreeable  to  all  the  senses,  in 
body  a common  creature  of  the  common  streets, 
only  in  soul  a heathen.  Homely  filth  begrimes 
him,  homely  parasites  devour  him,  homely  sores 
are  in  him,  homely  rags  are  on  him  : native 
ignorance,  the  growth  of  English  soil  and  cli- 
mate, sinks  his  immortal  nature  lower  than  the 
beasts  that  perish.  . Stand  forth,  Jo,  in  uncom- 
promising colors  ! From  the  soul  of  thy  foot  to 
the  crown  of  thy  head,  there  is  nothing  interest- 
ing about  thee. 

He  shuffles  slowly  into  Mr.  George’s  gallery 
and  stands  huddled  together  in  a bundle,  look- 
ing all  about  the  floor.  He  seems  to  know  that 
they  have  an  inclination  to  shrink  from  him, 
partly  for  what  he  is,  and  partly  for  what  he  has 
caused.  He,  too,  shrinks  from  them.  He  is  not 
of  the  same  order  of  things,  not  of  the  same 
place  in  creation.  He  is  of  no  order,  and  no 
place  ; neither  of  the  beasts,  nor  of  humanity. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  47. 

OUTCAST-Betty  Hidden,  the. 

Old  Betty  Higden  fared  upon  her  pilgrimage 
as  many  ruggedly  honest  creatures,  women  and 
men,  fare  on  their  toiling  way  along  the  roads 
of  life.  Patiently  to  earn  a spare,  bare  living, 
and  quietly  to  die,  untouched  by  workhouse 
hands — this  was  her  highest  sublunary  hope. 

:j:  :jc 

In  those  pleasant  little  towns  on  Thames,  you 
may  hear  the  fall  of  the  water  over  the  weirs, 
or  even,  in  still  weather,  the  rustle  of  the  rushes  ; 
and  from  the  bridge  you  may  see  the  young  river, 
dimpled  like  a young  child,  playfully  gliding 
away  among  the  trees,  unpolluted  by  the  defile- 
ments that  lie  in  wait  for  it  on  its  course,  and  as 
yet  out  of  hearing  of  the  deep  summons  of  the 
sea.  It  were  too  much  to  pretend  that  Betty 
Higden  made  out  such  thoughts  ; no ; but  she 


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352 


PARTING 


heard  the  tender  river  whispering  to  many  like 
herself,  “Come  to  me,  come  to  me  ! When  the 
cruel  shame  and  terror  you  have  so  long  fled 
from,  most  beset  you,  come  to  me  ! I am  the 
Relieving  Officer  appointed  by  eternal  ordinance 
to  do  my  work  ; I am  not  held  in  estimation  ac- 
cording as  I shirk  it.  My  breast  is  softer  than 
the  pauper-nurse’s  ; death  in  my  arms  is  peace- 
fuller  than  among  the  pauper  wards.  Come  to 
me  ! ” 

There  was  abundant  place  for  gentler  fancies 
too,  in  her  untutored  mind.  Those  gentlefolks 
and  their  children  inside  those  fine  houses,  could 
they  think,  as  they  looked  out  at  her,  what  it  was 
to  be  really  hungry,  really  cold  ? Did  they  feel 
any  of  the  wonder  about  her,  that  she  felt  about 
them?  Bless  the  dear  laughing  children!  If 
they  could  have  seen  sick  Johnny  in  her  arms, 
would  they  have  cried  for  pity?  If  they  could 
have  seen  dead  Johnny  on  that  little  bed,  would 
they  have  understood  it  ? Bless  the  dear  chil- 
dren for  his  sake,  anyhow  ! So  with  the  hum- 
bler houses  in  the  little  street,  the  inner  firelight 
shining  on  the  panes  as  the  outer  twilight  dark- 
ened. When  the  families  gathered  in-doors 
there,  for  the  night,  it  was  only  a foolish  fancy 
to  feel  as  if  it  were  a little  hard  in  them  to  close 
the  shutter  and  blacken  the  flame.  So  with  the 
lighted  shops,  and  speculations  whether  their 
masters  and  mistresses,  taking  tea  in  a perspec- 
tive of  back-parlor— not  so  far  within  but  that 
the  flavor  of  tea  and  toast  came  out,  mingled 
with  the  glow  of  light,  into  the  street — ate  or 
drank  or  wore  what  they  sold,  with  the  greater 
relish  because  they  dealt  in  it.  So  with  the 
churchyard,  on  a branch  of  the  solitary  way  to 
the  night’s  sleeping-place.  “Ah  me!  The  dead 
and  I seem  to  have  it  pretty  much  to  ourselves 
in  the  dark  and  in  this  weather ! But  so  much 
the  better  for  all  who  are  warmly  housed  at 
home.”  The  poor  soul  envied  no  one  in  bitter- 
ness, and  grudged  no  one  anything. 

* * * * * 

By  what  visionary  hands  she  was  led  along 
upon  that  journey  of  escape  from  the  Samaritan  ; 
by  what  voices,  hushed  in  the  grave,  she  seemed 
to  be  addressed  ; how  she  fancied  the  dead  child 
in  her  arms  again,  and  times  innumerable  ad- 
justed her  shawl  to  keep  it  warm  ; what  infinite 
variety  of  forms  of  tower  and  roof  and  steeple 
the  trees  took  ; how  many  furious  horsemen 
rode  at  her,  crying  “ There  she  goes ! Stop  ! 
Stop,  Betty  Higden  !”  and  melted  away  as  they 
came  close  ; be  these  things  left  untold.  Faring 
on  and  hiding,  hiding  and  faring  on,  the  poor 
harmless  creature,  as  though  she  were  a Mur- 
deress and  the  whole  country  were  up  after  her, 
wore  out  the  day,  and  gained  the  night. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  III.,  Chap.  8. 

OUTCAST-An. 

Cain  might  have  looked  as  lonely  and  avoided. 
With  an  old  sheepskin  knapsack  at  his  back, 
and  a rough,  unbarked  stick  cut  out  of  some 
wood  in  his  hand  ; miry,  footsore,  his  shoes  and 
gaiters  trodden  out,  his  hair  and  beard  untrim- 
med ; the  cloak  he  carried  over  his  shoulder, 
and  the  clothes  he  wore,  soddened  with  wet  ; 
limping  along  in  pain  and  difficulty,  he  looked 
as  if  (lie  clouds  were  hurrying  from  him,  as  if 
the  wail  of  the  wind  and  the  shuddering  of  the 
grass  were  directed  against  him,  as  if  the  low 
mysterious  plashing  of  the  water  murmured  at 


him,  as  if  the  fitful  autumn  night  were  disturbed 
by  him. — Little  Dorr  it , Book  I.,  Chap.  n. 


P 

PATRIOTISM  Of  Miss  Pross. 

“ Well,  my  sweet,”  said  Miss  Pross,  nodding 
her  head  emphatically,  “ the  short  and  the  long 
of  it  is,  that  I am  a subject  of  Ilis  Most  Gra- 
cious Majesty  King  George  the  Third  Miss 
Pross  curtseyed  at  the  name  ; “ and  as  such,  my 
maxim  is,  Confound  their  politics,  Frustrate 
their  knavish  tricks,  On  him  our  hopes  we  fix, 
God  save  the  King  ! ” 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  III.,  Chap.  7. 

PATRONS  AND  PATRONESSES -Boffin’s 

idea  of. 

“ If  Mr.  Tom  Noakes  gives  his  five  shillings 
ain’t  he  a Patron,  and  if  Mrs.  Jack  Styles  gives 
her  five  shillings  ain’t  she  a Patroness?  What 
the  deuce  is  it  all  about?  If  it  ain’t  stark  staring 
impudence,  what  do  you  call  it  ? ” 

“ Don’t  be  warm,  Noddy,”  Mrs.^Boffin  urged. 

“Warm  ! ” cried  Mr.  Boffin.  “ It’s  enough  to 
make  a man  smoking  hot.  I can’t  go  anywhere 
without  being  patronized.  I don’t  want  to  be 
patronized.  If  I buy  a ticket  for  a Flower 
Show,  or  a Music  Show,  or  any  sort  of  Show, 
and  pay  pretty  heavy  for  ir,  why  am  I to  be 
Patroned  and  Patronessed  as  if  the  Patrons  and 
the  Patronesses  treated  me?  Tf  there’s  a good 
thing  to  be  done,  can’t  it  be  done  on  its  own 
merits  ? If  there’s  a bad  thing  to  be  done,  can 
it  ever  be  Patroned  and  Patronessed  right  ? Yet 
when  a new  Institution’s  going  to  be  built,  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  bricks  and  mortar  ain’t 
made  of  half  so  much  consequence  as  the  Pat- 
rons and  Patronesses  ; no,  nor  yet  the  objects. 
I wish  somebody  to  tell  me  whether  other 
countries  get  Patronized  to  anything  like  the  ex- 
tent of  this  one  ? And  as  to  the  Patrons  and 
Patronesses,  themselves,  I wonder  they’re  not 
ashamed  of  themselves.  They  ain’t  Pills,  or 
Hair-washes,  or  invigorating  Nervous  Essences, 
to  be  puffed  in  that  way  ! ” 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  II.,  Chap.  14. 

PARTY-A  social. 

The  gentlemen  immediately  began  to  slide 
about  with  much  politeness,  and  to  look  as  if 
they  wished  their  arms  had  been  legs,  so  little 
did  they  know  what  to  do  with  them.  The 
ladies  smiled,  curtsied,  and  glided  into  chairs, 
and  dived  for  dropped  pocket-handkerchiefs ; 
the  gentlemen  leaned  against  two  of  the  curtain- 
pegs  ; Mrs.  Tibbs  went  through  an  admirable 
bit  of  serious  pantomime  with  a servant  who 
had  come  up  to  ask  some  questions  about  the 
fish-sauce  ; and  then  the  two  young  ladies  look- 
ed at  each  other  ; and  everybody  else  appeared 
to  discover  something  very  attractive  in  the 
pattern  of  the  fender. 

Tales.  The  Boarding  House,  Chap.  1. 

PARTING— And  meeting:. 

“ The  pain  of  parting  is  nothing  to  the  joy  of 
meeting  again.” — Nicholas  Ntckleby,  Chap.  3. 


PANIC 


353 


PARLIAMENT 


PANIC— The  intoxication  of  a. 

The  prisoners  were  far  from  insensible  or  un- 
feeling ; their  ways  arose  out  of  the  condition 
of  the  time.  Similarly,  though  with  a subtle 
difference,  a species  of  fervor  or  intoxication, 
known,  without  doubt,  to  have  led  some  persons 
to  brave  the  guillotine  unnecessarily,  and  to  die 
by  it,  was  not  mere  boastfulness,  but  a wild  in- 
fection of  the  wildly  shaken  public  mind.  In 
seasons  of  pestilence,  some  of  us  will  have  a se- 
cret attraction  to  the  disease — a terrible  passing 
inclination  to  die  of  it.  And  all  of  us  have  like 
wonders  hidden  in  our  breasts,  only  needing 
circumstances  to  evoke  them. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  6. 

PAPA— As  a mode  of  address. 

“ Papa  is  a preferable  mode  of  address,”  ob- 
served Mrs.  General.  “ Father  is  rather  vulgar, 
my  dear.  The  word  Papa,  besides,  gives  a pretty 
form  to  the  lips.  Papa,  potatoes,  poultry,  prunes, 
and  prism,  are  all  very  good  words  for  the  lips  ; 
especially  prunes  and  prism.  You  will  find  it 
serviceable,  in  the  formation  of  a demeanor,  if 
you  sometimes  say  to  yourself  in  company — 
on  entering  a room,  for  instance — Papa,  pota- 
toes, poultry,  prunes,  and  prism,  prunes  and 
prism.” 

“ Pray,  my  child,”  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  “attend  to 
the — hum — precepts  of  Mrs.  General.” 

Poor  Little  Dorrit,  with  a rather  forlorn  glance 
at  that  eminent  varnisher,  promised  to  try. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  5. 

PARALYSIS— Sir  Leicester  Dedlock. 

The  sprightly  Dedlock  is  reputed,  in  that 
grass-grown  city  of  the  ancients,  Bath,  to  be 
stimulated  by  an  urgent  curiosity,  which  impels 
her  on  all  convenient  and  inconvenient  occa- 
sions to  sidle  about  with  a golden  glass  at  her 
eye,  peering  into  objects  of  every  description. 
Certain  it  is  that  she  avails  herself  of  the  pres- 
ent opportunity  of  hovering  over  her  kinsman’s 
letters  and  paper's,  like  a bird  ; taking  a short 
peck  at  this  document,  and  a blink  with  her 
head  on  one  side  at  that  document,  and  hopping 
about  from  table  to  table,  with  her  glass  at  her 
eye,  in  an  inquisitive  and  restless  manner.  ‘ In 
the  course  of  these  researches,  she  stumbles  over 
something  ; and  turning  her  glass  in  that  direc- 
tion, sees  her  kinsman  iying  on  the  ground  like 
a felled  tree. 

* * * * * 

They  lay  him  down  upon  his  bed,  and  chafe, 
and  rub,  and  fan,  and  put  ice  to  his  head,  and 
try  every  means  of  restoration.  Howbeit,  the 
day  has  ebbed  away,  and  it  is  night  in  his  room, 
before  his  stertorous  breathing  lulls,  or  his 
fixed  eyes  show  any  consciousness  of  the  candle 
that  is  occasionally  passed  before  them.  But 
when  this  change  begins,  it  goes  on  ; and  by- 
and-bye  he  nods,  or  moves  his  eyes,  or  even  his 
hand,  in  token  that  he  hears  and  comprehends. 

He  fell  down  this  morning,  a handsome, 
stately  gentleman  ; somewhat  infirm,  but  of  a 
fine  presence,  and  with  a well-filled  face.  Pie 
lies  upon  his  bed,  an  aged  man  with  sunken 
cheeks,  the  decrepit  shadow  of  himself.  His 
voice  was  rich  and  mellow  ; and  he  had  so  long 
been  thoroughly  persuaded  of  the  weight  and 
import  to  mankind  of  any  word  he  said,  that 
his  words  really  had  come  to  sound  as  if  there 
were  something  in  them.  But  now  he  can  only 


whisper ; and  what  he  whispers  sounds  like 
what  it  is — mere  jumble  and  jargon. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  56. 

PARIS — Mrs.  Lirriper’s  opinion  of. 

And  of  Paris  I can  tell  you  no  more  my  dear 
than  that  it’s  town  and  country  both  in  one, 
and  carved  stone  and  long  streets  of  high  houses 
and  gardens  and  fountains  and  statues  and  trees 
and  gold,  and  immensely  big  soldiers  and  im- 
mensely little  soldiers  and  the  pleasantest  nurses 
with  the  whitest  caps  a playing  at  skipping-rope 
with  the  bunehiest  babies  in  the  flattest  caps, 
and  clean  table-cloths  spread  everywhere  for 
dinner,  and  people  sitting  out  of  doors  smoking 
and  sipping  all  day  long  and  little  plays  being 
acted  in  the  open  air  for  little  people  and  every 
shop  a complete  and  elegant  room,  and  every- 
body seeming  to  play  at  everything  in  this 
world.  And  as  to  the  sparkling  lights  my  dear 
after  dark,  glittering  high  up  and  low  down  and 
on  before  and  on  behind  and  all  round,  and  the 
crowd  of  theatres  and  the  crowd  of  people  and 
the  crowd  of  all  sorts,  it’s  pure  enchantment. 
And  pretty  well  the  only  thing  that  grated  on 
me  was  that  whether  you  pay  your  fare  at  the 
railway  or  whether  you  change  your  money  at  a 
money-dealer’s  or  whether  you  take  your  ticket 
at  the  theatre,  the  lady  or  gentleman  is  caged  up 
(I  suppose  by  government)  behind  the  strongest 
iron  bars  having  more  of  a Zoological  appear- 
ance than  a free  country. 

Well  to  be  sure  when  I did  after  all  get  my 
precious  bones  to  bed  that  night,  and  my  Young 
Rogue  came  in  to  kiss  me  and  asks  “ What  do 
you  think  of  this  lovely,  lovely  Paris,  Gran?”  I 
says  “Jemmy  I feel  as  if  it  was  beautiful  fire- 
works being  let  off  in  my  head.”  And  very  cool 
and  refreshing  the  pleasant  country  was  next 
day  when  we  went  on  to  look  after  my  Legacy, 
and  rested  me  much  and  did  me  a deal  of  good. 

Mrs.  Lirripers  Legacy , Chap.  1. 

PARLIAMENT— The  national  dust-heap. 

Her  father  was  usually  sifting  and  sifting  at 
his  parliamentary  cinder-heap  in  London  (with- 
out being  observed  to.  turn  up  many  precious 
articles  among  the  rubbish),  and  was  still  hard 
at  it  in  the  national  dust-yard. 

Hard  Times , Book  II.,.  Chap.  9. 

PARLIAMENT-A  member  of. 

Time  hustled  him  into  a little  noisy  and  rather 
dirty  machinery,  in  a by-corner,  and  made  him 
Member  of  Parliament  for  Coketown  : one  of 
the  respected  members  for  ounce  weights  and 
measures,  one  of  the  representatives  of  the  mul- 
tiplication table,  one  of  the  deaf  honorable  gen- 
tlemen, dumb  honorable  gentlemen,  blind  hon- 
orable gentlemen,  lame  honorable  gentlemen, 
dead  honorable  gentlemen,  to  every  other  con- 
sideration. Else  wherefore  live  we  in  a Christian 
land,  eighteen  hundred  and  odd  years  after  our 
Master? — Hard  Tunes,  Book  I.,  Chap.  14. 

That  singularly  awkward  and  ungainly-look- 
ing man,  in  the  brownish-white  hat,  with  the 
straggling  black  trousers  which  reach  about  half- 
way down  the  leg  of  his  boots,  who  is  leaning 
against  the  meat-screen,  apparently  deluding 
himself  into  the  belief  that  he  is  thinking  about 
something,  is  a splendid  sample  of  a Member 
of  the  House  of  Commons  concentrating  in  his 


PAS3I0N3 


354 


PECKSNIFFIAN  TRAITS 


own  person  the  wisdom  of  a constituency.  Ob- 
serve the  wig,  of  a dark  hue  but  indescribable 
color,  for  if  it  be  naturally  brown,  it  has  ac- 
quired a black  tint  by  long  service,  ancl  if  it  be 
naturally  black,  the  same  cause  has  imparted 
to  it  a tinge  of  rusty  brown  ; and  remark  how 
very  materially  the  great  blinker-like  spectacles 
assist  the  expression  of  that  most  intelligent 
face.  Seriously  speaking,  did  you  ever  see  a 
countenance  so  expressive  of  the  most  hopeless 
extreme  of  heavy  dulness,  or  behold  a form  so 
strangely  put  together  ? He  is  no  great  speaker  : 
but  when  he  does  address  the  House,  the  effect 
is  absolutely  irresistible. — Scenes,  Chap . iS. 

PASSIONS— The  influence  of  bad. 

Verily,  verily,  travellers  have  seen  many  mon- 
strous idols  in  many  countries  ; but  no  human 
eyes  have  ever  seen  more  daring,  gross,  and 
shocking  images  of  the  Divine  nature,  than  we 
creatures  of  the  dust  make  in  our  own  likenesses, 
of  our  own  bad  passions. 

Little  Dorr  it , Book  IT.,  Chap.  30. 

PECKSNIFF— As  a moral  man. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  Mr.  Pecksniff  was 
a moral  man.  So  he  was.  Perhaps  there  never 
was  a more  moral  man  than  Mr.  Pecksniff ; es- 
pecially in  his  conversation  and  correspondence. 

It  was  once  said  of  him  by  a homely  admirer, 
that  he  had  a Fortunatus’s  purse  of  good  sen- 
timents in  his  inside.  In  this  particular  he  was 
like  the  girl  in  the  fairy  tale,  except  that  if  they 
were  not  actual  diamonds  which  fell  from  his 
lips,  they  were  the  very  brightest  paste,  and 
shone  prodigiously.  He  was  a most  exemplary 
man  ; fuller"  of  virtuous  precept  than  a copy- 
book. Some  people  likened  him  to  a direction- 
post,  which  is  always  telling  the  way  to  a place, 
and  never  goes  there  ; but  these  were  his  ene- 
mies ; the  shadows  cast  by  his  brightness  ; that 
was  all.  His  very  throat  was  moral.  You  saw 
a good  deal  of  it.  You  looked  over  a very  low 
fence  of  white  cravat  (whereof  no  man  had  ever 
beheld  the  tie,  for  he  fastened  it  behind),  and 
there  it  lay,  a valley  between  two  jutting  heights 
of  collar,  serene  and  whiskerless,  before  you.  It  ; 
seemed  to  say,  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Pecksniff, 

“ There  is  no  deception,  ladies  and  gentlemen  ; 
all  is  peace,  a holy  calm  pervades  me.”  So  did 
his  hair,  just  grizzled  with  an  iron-gray,  which 
was  all  brushed  off  his  forehead,  and  stood  bolt 
upright,  or  slightly  drooped  in  kindred  action 
with*  his  heavy  eye-lids.  So  did  his  person, 
which  was  sleek,  though  free  from  corpulency. 
So  did  his  manner,  which  was  soft  and  oily.  In 
a word,  even  his  plain  black  suit,  and  state  of 
widower,  and  dangling  double  eye-glass,  all 
tended  to  the  same  purpose,  and  cried  aloud, 
“ Behold  the  moral  Pecksniff!” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  2. 

PECK3NIFF  -And  his  daughters. 

She  was  the  most  arch  and  at  the  same  time 
the  most  artless  creature,  was  the  youngest  Miss 
Pecksniff,  that  you  can  possibly  imagine.  It 
was  her  great  charm.  She  was  too  fresh  and 
guileless,  and  loo  full  of  child-like  vivacity,  was 
the  youngest  Miss  Pecksniff,  to  wear  combs  in 
her  hair,  or  to  turn  it  up,  or  to  frizzle  it,  or 
braid  it.  She  wore  it  in  a crop,  a loosely  flow- 
ing crop,  which  had  so  many  rows  of  curls  in 
it,  that  the  top  row  was  only  one  curl.  Mod- 


erately buxom  was  her  shape,  and  quite  woma  , 

too  ; but  sometimes — yes,  sometimes — she  eve  a 
wore  a pinafore  ; and  how  charming  that  was,  * 
Oh!  she  was  indeed  “a  gushing  thing”  (as  0 
young  gentleman  had  observed  in  verse,  in  th' 
Poet’s  corner  of  a provincial  newspaper),  w 
the  youngest  Miss  Pecksniff! 

Mr.  Pecksniff  was  a moral  man  ; a grave 
man,  a man  of  noble  sentiments  and  speech ; 
and  he  had  had  her  christened  Mercy.  Mercy  ! 
oh,  what  a charming  name  for  such  a pure- 
souled  being  as  the  youngest  Miss  Pecksniff ! 
Her  sister’s  name  was  Charity.  There  was  a 
good  thing  ! Mercy  and  Charity  ! And  Charity, 
with  her  fine  strong  sense,  and  her  mild,  yet  not 
reproachful  gravity,  was  so  well  named,  and  did 
so  well  set  off  and  illustrate  her  sister!  What 
a pleasant  sight  was  that,  the  contrast  they  pre- 
sented ; to  see  each  loved  and  loving  one  sym- 
pathizing with,  and  devoted  to,  and  leaning  on, 
and  yet  correcting  and  counter-checking,  and, 
as  it  were,  antidoting,  the  other!  To  behold 
each  damsel,  in  her  very  admiration  of  her 
sister,  setting  up  in  business  for  herself  on  an 
entirely  different  principle,  and  announcing  no 
connection  with  over-the-way,  and  if  the  quality 
of  goods  at  that  establishment  don’t  please  you, 
you  are  respectfully  invited  to  favor  ME  with 
a call  ! And  the  crowning  circumstance  of  the 
whole  delightful  catalogue  was,  that  both  the 
fair  creatures  were  so  utterly  unconscious  of  all 
this!  They  had  no  idea  of  it.  They  no  more 
thought  or  dreamed  of  it,  than  Mr.  Pecksniff 
did.  Nature  played  them  off  against  each 
other ; they  had  no  hand  in  it,  the  two  Miss 
Pecksniffs. — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  2. 

PE CKSNIFFI AN  MORALITY. 

“ Even  the  worldly  goods  of  which  we  have 
just  disposed,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  glancing 
round  the  table  when  he  had  finished,  “ even 
cream,  sugar,  tea,  toast,  ham — ” 

“And  eggs,”  suggested  Charity,  in  a low 
voice.  , 

“ And  eggs,”  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  “even  they 
have  their  moral.  See  how  they  come  and  go  ! 
Every  pleasure  is  transitory.  We  can’t  even  eat, 
long.  If  we  indulge  in  harmless  fluids,  we  get 
the  dropsy  : if  in  exciting  liquids,  we  get  drunk. 
What  a soothing  reflection  is  that  ! ” j 

“ Don’t  say  we  get  drunk,  Pa,”  urged  the  eld- 
est Miss  Pecksniff. 

“When  I say,  we,  my  dear,”  returned  her 
father,  “ I mean  mankind  in  general  ; the  human 
race,  considered  as  a body,  and  not  as  individu- 
als. There  is  nothing  personal  in  morality,  my 
love.  Even  such  a thing  as  this,”  said  Mi. 
Pecksniff,  laying  the  fore-finger  of  his  left  hand 
upon  the  brown  paper  patch  on  the  top  of  hi.-> 
head,  “ slight  casual  baldness  though  it  be,  le- 
minds  us  that  we  are  but  he  was  going  to  say 
<•  worms,”  but  recollecting  that  worms  were  not 
remarkable  for  heads  of  hair,  he  substituted 
“ flesh  and  blood.” 

“Which,”  cried  Mr.  Pecksniff  after  a pause, 
during  which  he  seemed  to  have  been  casting 
about  for  a new  moral,  and  not  quite  successfully, 
“ which  is  also  very  soothing.” 

Mai  tin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  2. 

PECKSNIFFIAN  TRAITS. 

Primed  in  this  artful  manner,  Mr.  Pecksniff 
presented  himself  at  dinner-time  in  such  a state 


■PEDIGREE 


355 


PHILANTHROPISTS 


wl  suavity,  benevolence,  cheerfulness,  politeness, 
f nd  cordiality,  as  even  he  had  perhaps  never  at- 

ained  before.  The  frankness  of  the  country 
gentleman,  the  refinement  of  the  artist,  the 

ood-humored  allowance  of  the  man  of  the 
■ orld  ; philanthropy,  forbearance,  piety,  toJera- 

.on,  all  blended  together  in  a flexible  adapta- 
bility to  anything  and  everything,  were  express- 
ed in  Mr.  Pecksniff,  as  he  shook  hands  with  the 
great  speculator  and  capitalist. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  44, 

PEDIGREE— The  influence  of  time  upon. 

It  is  a very  hard  thing  upon  the  great  men  of 
past  centuries,  that  they  should  have  come  into 
the  world  so  soon,  because  a man  who  was  born 
three  or  four  hundred  years  ago,  cannot  reason- 
ably be  expected  to  have  had  as  many  relations 
before  him,  as  a man  who  is  born  now.  The 
last  man,  whoever  he  is — and  he  may  be  a cob- 
bler or  some  low,  vulgar  dog  for  aught  we  know 
— will  have  a longer  pedigree  than  the  greatest 
nobleman  now  alive  ; and  I contend  that  this  is 
not  fair. — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  6. 

PENITENCE— Extra  superfine  (writing). 

With  this  prelude,  Mr.  Pickwick  placed  four 
closely  written  sides  of  extra  superfine  wire-wove 
penitence  in  the  hands  of  the  astounded  Mr. 
Winkle,  senior. — Pickwick , Chap.  50. 

PEW-A  church. 

* * * a little  deal  box  without  a lid  (called 

by  courtesy  a pew). 

Sketches  ( Characters ),  Chap.  9. 

PHILANTHROPIST— Mrs.  Jellyby,  the. 

“In-deed!  Mrs.  Jellyby,”  said  Mr.  ICenge, 
standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  casting 
his  eyes  over  the  dusty  hearth-rug,  as  if  it  were 
Mrs.  Jellyby’s  biography,  “is  a lady  of  very  re- 
markable strength  of  character,  who  devotes 
herself  entirely  to  the  public.  She  has  devoted 
herself  to  an  extensive  variety  of  public  subjects 
at  various  times,  and  is  at  present  (until  some- 
thing else  attracts  her)  devoted  to  the  subject  of 
Africa  ; with  a view  to  the  general  cultivation 
of  the  coffee  berry — and  the  natives—  and  the 
happy  settlement,  on  the  banks  of  the  African 
rivers,  of  our  superabundant  home  population. 
Mr.  Jarndyce,  who  is  desirous  to  aid  any  work 
mat  is  considered  likely  to  be  a good  work,  and 
who  is  much  sought  after  by  philanthropists,  has, 
I believe,  a very  high  opinion  of  Mrs.  Jellyby.” 

Mr.  Kenge,  adjusting  his  cravat,  then  looked 
at  us. 

“ And  Mr.  Jellyby,  sir?”  suggested  Richard. 

“Ah  ! Mr.  jellyby,”  said  Mr.  Kenge,  “is — a 
— I don’t  know  that  I can  describe  him  to  you 
better  than  by  saying  that  he  is  the  husband  of 
Mrs.  Jellyby.” 

“ A nonentity,  sir?”  said  Richard,  with  a droll 
look. 

“ I don’t  say  that,”  returned  Mr.  Kenge,  grave- 
ly. “ I can’t  say  that,  indeed,  for  I know  noth- 
ing whatever  of  Mr.  Jellyby.  I never,  to  my 
knowledge,  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Mr.  Jelly- 
by. He  may  be  a very  superior  man  ; but  he 
is,  so  to  speak,  merged — Merged — in  the  more 
shining  qualities  of  his  wife.” 

❖ * * * * 

j 

f Mrs.  Jellyby,  whose  face  reflected  none  of  the 
uneasiness  which  we  could  not  help  showing  in 


our  faces,  as  the  dear  child’s  head  recorded  its 
passage  with  a bump  on  every  stair — Richard 
afterwards  said  he  counted  seven,  besides  one 
for  the  landing — received  11s  with  perfect  equa- 
nimity. She  was  a pretty,  very  diminutive, 
plump  woman,  of  from  forty  to  fifty,  with  hand- 
some eyes,  though  they  had  a curious  habit  of 
seeming  to  look  a long  way  off.  As  if — 1 am 
quoting  Richard  again — they  could  see  nothing 
nearer  than  Africa  ! — Bleak  House , Chap.  4. 

PHILANTHROPIST— Honeythunder,  the 
professional. 

Mrs.  Crisparkle  had  need  of  her  own  share 
of  philanthropy  when  she  beheld  this  very  large 
and  very  loud  excrescence  on  the  little  party.  Al- 
ways something  in  the  nature  of  a Boil  upon  the 
face  of  society,  Mr.  Honeythunder  expanded  in- 
to an  inflammatory  Wen  in  Minor  Canon  Cor- 
ner. Though  it  was  not  literally  true,  as  was 
facetiously  charged  against  him  by  public  un- 
believers, that  he  called  aloud  to  his  fellow- 
creatures,  “ Curse  your  souls  and  bodies,  come 
here  and  be  blessed  ! ” still  his  philanthropy  was 
of  that  gunpowderous  sort  that  the  difference  be- 
tween it  and  animosity  was  hard  to  determine. 
You  were  to  abolish  military  force,  but  you  were 
first  to  bring  ail  commanding  officers  who  had 
done  their  duty,  to  trial  by  court-martial  for 
that  offence,  and  shoot  them.  You  were  to  abol- 
ish war,  but  were  to  make  converts  by  making 
war  upon  them,  and  charging  them  with  loving 
war  as  the  apple  of  their  eye.  You  were  to  have 
no  capital  punishment,  but  were  first  to  sweep  off 
ihe  face  of  the  earth  all  legislators,  jurists,  and 
judges  who  were  of  the  contrary  opinion.  You 
were  to  have  universal  concord,  and  were  to  get 
it  by  eliminating  all  the  people  who  wouldn’t, 
or  conscientiously  couldn’t,  be  concordant. 
You  were  to  love  your  brother  as  yourself,  but 
after  an  indefinite  interval  of  maligning  him 
(very  much  as  if  you  hated  him),  and  calling  him 
all  manner  of  names.  Above  all  things,  you 
were  to  do  nothing  in  private,  or  on  your  own 
account.  You  were  to  go  to  the  offices  of  the 
Haven  of  Philanthropy,  and  put  your  name 
down  as  a Member  and  a Professing  Philanthro- 
pist. Then  you  were  to  pay  up  your  subscrip- 
tion, get  your  card  of  membership  and  your 
riband  and  medal,  and  were  evermore  to  live 
upon  a platform,  and  evermore  to  say  what  Mr. 
Honeythunder  said,  and  what  the  Treasurer 
said,  and  what  the  sub-Treasurer  said,  and 
what  the  Committee  said,  and  what  the  sub- 
committee said,  and  what  the  Secretary  said, 
and  what  the  Vice-Secretary  said.  And  this  was 
usually  said  in  the  unanimously  carried  resolu- 
tion under  hand  and  seal,  to  the  effect : “ That 
this  assembled  Body  of  Professing  Philanthro- 
pistjts  views,  with  indignant  scorn  and  contempt, 
not  unmixed  with  utter  detestation  and  loathing 
abhorrence,” — in  short,  the  baseness  of  all  those 
who  do  not  belong  to  it,  and  pledges  itself  to 
make  as  many  obnoxious  statements  as  possible 
about  them,  without  being  at  all  particular  as  to 
facts. — Edwin  Drool,  Chap.  6. 

PHILANTHROPISTS-The  traits  of. 

“ It  is  a most  extraordinary  thing,”  interpos- 
ed the  gentle  Minor  Canon,  laying  down  his 
knife  and  fork  to  rub  his  ear  in  a vexed  man- 
ner, “ that  these  Philanthropists  are  always 
denouncing  somebody.  And  it  is  another  most 


PHILANTHROPY 


350 


PHILANTHROPY 


extraordinary  thing  that  they  are  always  so 
violently  flush  of  miscreants  !” 

* # * * * 

“ And  it  is  another  most  extraordinary 
thing,”  remarked  the  Minor  Canon  in  the  same 
tone  as  before,  “ that  these  Philanthropists  are 
so  given  to  seizing  their  fellow-creatures  by 
the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  (as  one  may  say) 
bumping  them  into  the  paths  of  peace. — I 
beg  your  pardon,  Ma  dear,  for  interrupting.” 

Edwin  Drood , Chap.  6. 

PHILANTHROPY- As  a platform  ma- 
noeuvre. 

“ You  make  the  platform  discovery  that  War 
is  a calamity,  and  you  propose  to  abolish  it  by 
a string  of  twisted  resolutions  tossed  into  the 
air  like  the  tail  of  a kite.  I do  not  admit  the 
discovery  to  be  yours  in  the  least,  and  I have 
not  a grain  of  faith  in  your  remedy.  Again, 
your  platform  resource  of  representing  me  as 
revelling  in  the  horrors  of  a battle-field  like  a 
fiend  incarnate  ! Another  time,  in  another  of 
your  undiscriminating  platform  rushes,  you 
would  punish  the  sober  for  the  drunken.  I 
claim  consideration  for  the  comfort,  conve- 
nience, and  refreshment  of  the  sober  ; and  you 
presently  make  platform  proclamation  that  I 
have  a depraved  desire  to  turn  Heaven’s  crea- 
tures into  swine  and  wild  beasts  ! In  all  such 
cases  your  movers,  and  your  seconders,  and 
your  supporters— your  regular  Professors  of  all 
degrees — run  amuck  like  so  many  mad  Ma- 
lays ; habitually  attributing  the  lowest  and 
basest  motives  with  the  utmost  recklessness  (lit 
me  call  your  attention  to  a recent  instance  in 
yourself  for  vyhich  you  should  blush),  and  quot- 
ing figures  which  you  know  to  be  as  wilfully 
one-sided  as  a statement  of  any  complicated 
account  that  should  be  all  Creditor  side  and 
no  Debtor,  or  all  Debtor  side  and  no  Creditor. 
Therefore  it  is,  Mr.  Honeythunder,  that  I con- 
sider the  platform  a sufficiently  bad  example 
and  a sufficiently  bad  school,  even  in  public 
life  ; but  hold  that,  carried  into  private  life,  it 
becomes  an  unendurable  nuisance.” 

“ These  are  strong  words,  sir  ! ” exclaimed 
the  Philanthropist. 

“ I hope  so,”  said  Mr.  Crisparkle.  “ Good 
morning.” 

He  walked  out  of  the  Haven  at  a great  rate, 
but  soon  fell  into  his  regular  brisk  pace,  and 
soon  had  a smile  upon  his  face  as  he  went 
along,  wondering  what  the  china  shepherdess 
would  have  said  if  she  had  seen  him  pound- 
ing Mr.  Honeythunder  in  the  late  little  lively 
affair.  For  Mr.  Crisparkle  had  just  enough  of 
harmless  vanity  to  hope  that  he  had  hit  hard, 
and  to  glow  with  the  belief  that  he  had  trim- 
med the  Philanthropic  jacket  pretty  hand- 
somely. 

Air.  Crisparkle  in  Edwin  Drood , Chap.  17. 

PHILANTHROPIST-Mrs.  Pardiffgrle,  the. 

Among  the  ladies  who  were  most  distinguished 
for  this  rapacious  benevolence  (if  I may  use  the 
expression),  was  a Mrs.  Pardigglc,  who  seemed, 
as  1 judged  from  the  number  of  her  letters  to 
Mr.  Jarndyce,  to  be  almost  as  powerful  a cor- 
respondent as  Mrs.  Jellyby  herself.  We  observ- 
ed that  the  wind  always  changed,  when  Mrs. 
Pardigglc  became  the  subject  of  conversation  ; 
and  that  it  invariably  interrupted  Mr.  Jarndyce, 


and  prevented  his  going  any  farther,  when  he  hr 
remarked  that  there  were  two  classes  of  chnrit 
able  people  ; one,  the  people  who  did  a little  and 
made  a great  deal  of  noise  ; the  other,  the  people 
who  did  a great  deal  and  made  no  noise  at  all. 
We  were  therefore  curious  to  see  Mrs.  Pardigglc,' 
suspecting  her  to  be  a type  of  the  former  class; 
and  were  glad  when  she  called  one  day  with  her 


five  young  sons. 

She  was  a formidable  style  of  lady,  with  spec 
tacles,  a prominent  nose,  and  a loud  voice,  who 
had  the  effect  of  wanting  a great  deal  of  room. 
And  she  really  did,  for  she  knocked  down  little 
chairs  with  her  skirts  that  were  quite  a great  way 
off.  As  only  Ada  and  I were  at  home,  we  re- 
ceived her  timidly  ; for  she  seemed  to  come  in 
like  cold  weather,  and  to  make  the  little  Par- 
diggles  blue  as  they  followed. 

‘‘These,  young  ladies,”  said  Mrs.  Pardiggle, 
with  great  volubility,  after  the  first  salutations, 
“are  my  five  boys.  You  may  have  seen  their 
names  in  a printed  subscription  list  (perhaps 
more  than  one),  in  the  possession  of  our  esteemed 
friend,  Mr.  Jarndyce.  Egbert,  my  eldest  (twelve), 
is  the  boy  who  sent  out  his  pocket-money,  to  the 
amount  of  five-and-threepence,  to  the  Tocka- 
hoopo  Indians.  Oswald,  my  second  (ten  and-a- 
half ),  is  the  child  who  contributed  two-and-nine- 
pence  to  the  Great  National  Smithers  Testimo- 
nial. Francis,  my  third  (nine),  one-and-sixpence- 
halfpenny  ; Felix,  my  fourth  (seven),  eightpence 
to  the  Superannuated  Widows ; Alfred,  my 
youngest  (five)  has  voluntarily  enrolled  himself 
in  the  Infant  Bonds  of  Joy,  and  is  pledged  never, 
through  life,  to  use  tobacco  in  any  form.” 

We  had  never  seen  such  dissatisfied  children. 
It  was  not  merely  that  they  were  weazened  and 
shrivelled — though  they  were  certainly  that  too — 
but  they  looked  absolutely  ferocious  with  discon- 
tent. Al  the  mention  of  the  Tockahoopo  Indians, 
I could  really  have  supposed  Egbert  to  be  one 
of  the  most  baleful  members  of  that  tribe,  he 
gave  me  such  a savage  frown.  The  face  of  each 
child,  as  the  amount  of  his  contribution  was 
mentioned,  darkened  in  a peculiarly  vindictive 
manner,  but  his  was  by  far  the  worst.  I must 
except,  however,  the  little  recruit  into  the  Infant 
Bonds  of  Joy,  who  was  stolidly  and  evenly 
miserable. — Bleak  House , Chap.  8. 


PHILANTHROPY— Beg-gars  in  the  name 
of. 

We  lived,  at  first,  rather  a busy  life  at  Bleak 
House  ; for  we  had  become  acquainted  with 
many  residents  in  and  out  of  the  neighborhood 
who  knew  Mr.  Jarndyce.  It  seemed  to  Ada  and 
me  that  everybody  knew  him,  who  wanted  to  do 
anything  with  anybody  else’s  money.  It  amazed  I 
us,  when  we  began  to  sort  his  letters,  and  to 
answer  some  of  them  for  him  in  the  Growlery 
of  a morning,  to  find  how  the  great  object  of 
the  lives  of  nearly  all  his  correspondents  ap- 
peared to  be  to  form  themselves  into  committees 
for  getting  in  and  laying  out  money.  The  ladies 
were  as  desperate  as  the  gentlemen  ; indeed,  I 
think  they  were  even  more  so.  They  threw 
themselves  into  committees  in  the  most  impas- 
sioned manner,  and  collected  subscriptions  with 
a vehemence  quite  extraordinary.  It  appeared 
to  us  that  some  of  them  must  pass  their  whole 
lives  in  dealing  out  subscription-cards  to  the 
whole  Post-office  Directory— shilling  cards,  half- 
crown  cards,  half-sovereign  cards,  penny  cards. 


PHILANTHROPISTS 


357 


PHYSICIAN 


They  wanted  everything.  They  wanted  wearing 
apparel,  they  wanted  linen  rags,  they  wanted 
money,  they  wanted  coals,  they  wanted  soup, 
they  wanted  interest,  they  wanted  autographs, 
they  wanted  flannel,  they  wanted  whatever  Mr. 
Jarndyce  had — or  had  not.  Their  objects  were  as 
various  as  their  demands.  They  were  going  to 
raise  new  buildings,  they  were  going  to  pay  off 
debts  on  old  buildings,  they  were  going  to  estab- 
lish in  a picturesque  building  (engraving  of  pro- 
posed West  Elevation  attached)  the  Sisterhood 
of  Mediaeval ' Marys  ; they  were  going  to  give  a 
testimonial  to  Mrs.  Jellyby  ; they  were  going  to 
have  their  Secretary’s  portrait  painted,  and  pre- 
sented to  his  mother-in-law,  whose  deep  devotion 
to  him  was  well  known : they  were  going  to  get 
up  everything,  I really  believe,  from  five  hundred 
thousand  tracts  to  an  annuity,  and  from  a mar- 
ble monument  to  a silver  tea-pot.  They  took  a 
multitude  of  titles.  They  were  the  Women  of 
England,  the  Daughters  of  Britain,  the  Sisters 
of  all  the  Cardinal  Virtues  separately,  the  P'e- 
males  of  America,  the  Ladies  of  a hundred  de- 
nominations. They  appeared  to  be  always 
excited  about  canvassing  and  electing.  They 
seemed  to  our  poor  wits,  and  according  to  their 
own  accounts,  to  be  constantly  polling  people 
by  tens  of  thousands,  yet  never  bringing  their 
candidates  in  for  anything.  It  made  our  heads 
ache  to  think,  on  the  whole,  what  feverish  lives 
they  must  lead.  — Bleak  House , Chap.  8. 

PHILANTHROPISTS— The  phrenological 
formation  of. 

Full  half  a year  had  come  and  gone,  and 
Mr.  Crisparkle  sat  in  a Waiting-room  in  the 
London  chief  offices  of  the  Haven  of  Philan- 
thropy, until  he  could  have  audience  of  Mr. 
Honeythunder. 

In  his  college- days  of  athletic  exercises, 
Mr.  Crisparkle  had  known  professors  of  the 
Noble  Art  of  fisticuffs,  and  had -attended  two  or 
three  of  their  gloved  gatherings.  He  had  now 
an  opportunity  of  observing,  that  as  to  the  phre- 
nological formation  of  the  backs  of  their  heads, 
the  Professing  Philanthropists  were  uncommon- 
ly like  the  Pugilists.  In  the  development  of  all 
those  organs  which  constitute,  or  attend,  a pro- 
pensity to  “pitch  into”  your  fellow-creatures, 
the  Philanthropists  were  remarkably  favored. 
There  were  several  Professors  passing  in  and 
out,  with  exactly  the  aggressive  air  upon  them 
of  being  ready  for  a turn-up  with  any  Novice 
who  might  happen  to  be  on  hand,  that  Mr.  Cris- 
parkle well  remembered  in  the  circles  of  the 
Fancy.  Preparations  were  in  progress  for  a 
moral  little  Mill  somewhere  on  the  rural  circuit, 
and  other  Professors  were  backing  this  or  that 
Heavy-Weight  as  good  for  such  or  such  speech- 
making  hits,  so  very  much  after  the  manner  of 
the  sporting  publicans  that  the  intended  Reso- 
lutions might  have  been  Rounds.  In  an  official 
manager  of  these  displays,  much  celebrated  for 
his  platform  tactics,  Mr.  Crisparkle  recognized 
(in  a suit  of  black)  the  counterpart  of  a deceased 
benefactor  of  his  species,  an  eminent  public 
character,  once  known  to  fame  as  Frosty-faced 
Fogo,  who  in  days  of  yore  superintended  the 
formation  of  the  magic  circle  with  the  ropes 
and  stakes.  There  were  only  three  conditions 
of  resemblance  wanting  between  these  Profes- 
sors and  those.  Firstly,  the  Philanthropists 
were  in  very  bad  training : much  too  fleshy,  and 


presenting,  both  in  face  and  figure,  a super- 
abundance of  what  is  known  to  Pugilistic  Ex- 
perts as  Suet  Pudding.  Secondly,  the  Philan- 
thropists had  not  the  good  temper  of  the  Pugil- 
ists, and  used  worse  language.  Thirdly,  their 
fighting  code  stood  in  great  need  of  revision,  as 
empowering  them  not  only  to  bore  their  man  to 
the  ropes,  but  to  bore  him  to  the  confines  of  dis- 
traction ; also  to  hit  him  when  he  was  down,  hit 
him  anywhere  and  anyhow,  kick  him,  stamp 
upon  him,  gouge  him,  and  maul  him  behind  his 
back  without  mercy.  In  these  last  particulars 
the  Professors  of  the  Noble  Art  were  much 
nobler  than  the  Professors  of  Philanthropy. 

Edwin  Drood , Chap.  17. 

PHILOSOPHY— Squeers  on. 

“What’s  the  reason,”  said  Mr.  Squeers,  deriv- 
ing fresh  facetiousness  from  the  bottle  ; “ what’s 
the  reason  of  rheumatics?  What  do  they  mean? 
What  do  people  have  ’em  for — eh  ? ” 

Mrs.  Sliderskew  didn’t  know,  but  suggested 
that  it  was  possibly  because  they  couldn’t  help 
it. 

“ Measles,  rheumatics,  hooping-cough,  fevers, 
agers,  and  lumbagers,”  said  Mr.  Squeers,  “ is  all 
philosophy  together;  that’s  what  it  is.  The 
heavenly  bodies  is  philosophy,  and  the  earthly 
bodies  is  philosophy.  If  there’s  a screw  loose 
in  a heavenly  body,  that’s  philosophy  ; and  if 
there’s  a screw  loose  in  a earthly  body,  that’s 
philosophy  too  ; or  it  may  be  that  sometimes 
there’s  a little  metaphysics  in  it,  but  that’s  not 
often.  Philosophy’s  the  chap  for  me.  If  a 
parent  asks  a question  in  the  classical,  commer- 
cial, or  mathematical  line,  says  I,  gravely,  ‘ Why, 
sir,  in  the  first  place,  are  you  a philosopher  ? ’ 
‘ No,  Mr.  Squeers,’  he  says,  I an’t.’  ‘ Then,  sir,’ 
says  I,  ‘ I am  sorry  for  you,  for  I shan’t  be  able 
to  explain  it.’  Naturally,  the  parent  goes  away, 
and  wishes  he  was  a philosopher,  and,  equally 
naturally,  thinks  I’m  one.” 

Saying  this,  and  a great  deal  more,  with  tipsy 
profundity  and  a serio-comic  air,  and  keeping 
his  eye 'all  the  time  on  Mrs.  Sliderskew,  who  was 
unable  to  hear  one  word,  Mr.  Squeers  concluded 
by  helping  himself  and  passing  the  bottle. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  57. 

PHYSICIAN— Bob  Sawyer’s  experience. 

“ Anything  new?  ” 

“ No,  nothing  particular.  Rather  a good  ac- 
cident brought  into  the  casualty  ward.” 

“What  was  that,  sir?”  inquired  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. 

“ Only  a man  fallen  out  of  a four  pair  of  stairs’ 
window  ; — but  it’s  a very  fair  case — very  fair  case 
indeed.” 

“ Do  you  mean  that  the  patient  is  in  a fail- 
way  to  recover?”  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ No,”  replied  Hopkins,  carelessly.  “ No,  I 
should  rather  say  he  wouldn’t.  There  must  be 
a splendid  operation  though,  to-morrow — mag- 
nificent sight  if  Slasher  does  it.” 

“ You  consider  Mr.  Slasher  a good  operator  ? ” 
said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Best  alive,”  replied  Hopkins.  “ Took  a 
boy’s  leg  out  of  the  socket  last  week, — boy  ate 
five  apples  and  a ginger-bread  cake — exactly  two 
minutes  after  it  was  all  over,  boy  said  he 
wouldn’t  lie  there  to  be  made  game  of,  and  he’d 
tell  his  mother  if  they  didn’t  begin.” 

“ Dear  me  ! ” said  Mr.  Pickwick,  astonished. 


PHYSICIAN 


358 


PHYSICIAN 


“ Pooh  1 That’s  nothing,  that  ain’t,”  said 
Jack  Hopkins.  ‘J  Is  it,  Bob?” 

“Nothing  at  all,”  replied  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer. 

“ By-lhe-bye,  Bob,”  said  Hopkins,  with  a 
scarcely  perceptible  glance  at  Mr.  Pickwick’s 
attentive  face,  “ we  had  a curious  accident 
last  night.  A child  was  brought  in,  who  had 
swallowed  a necklace.” 

“ Swallowed  what,  sir  ? ” interrupted  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. 

“ A necklace,”  replied  Jack  Hopkins.  “ Not 
all  at  once,  you  know,  that  would  be  too  much — 
you  couldn’t  swallow  that,  if  the  child  did — eh, 
Mr.  Pickwick,  ha  ! ha  ! ” Mr.  Hopkins  appeared 
highly  gratified  with  his  own  pleasantry,  and 
continued.  “ No,  the  way  was  this.  Child’s 
parents  were  poor  people  who  lived  in  a court. 
Child’s  eldest  sister  bought  a necklace  ; com- 
mon necklace,  made  of  large  black  wooden 
beads.  Child  being  fond  of  toys,  cribbed  the 
necklace,  hid  it,  played  with  it,  cut  the  string, 
and  swallowed  a bead.  Child  thought  it  capital 
fun,  went  back  next  day,  and  swallowed  another 
bead.” 

“ Bless  my  heart,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  “ what 
a dreadful  thing  ! I beg  your  pardon,  sir.  Go 
on.” 

“ Next  day,  child  swallowed  two  beads  ; the 
day  after  that,  he  treated  himself  to  three,  and  so 
on,  till  in  a week’s  time  he  had  got  through  the 
necklace — five-and-twenty  beads  in  all.  The 
sister,  who  was  an  industrious  girl,  and  seldom 
treated  herself  to  a bit  of  finery,  cried  her  eyes 
out,  at  the  loss  of  the  necklace  ; looked  high  and 
low  for  it ; but,  I needn’t  say,  didn’t  find  it.  A 
few  days  afterwards,  the  family  were  at  dinner — 
baked  shoulder  of  mutton,  and  potatoes  under 
it — the  child,  who  wasn’t  hungry,  was  playing 
about  the  room,  when  suddenly  there  was  heard 
a devil  of  a noise,  like  a small  hail  storm. 
‘Don’t  do  that,  my  boy,’  said  the  father.  ‘I 
ain’t  a doin’  nothing,’  said  the  child.  ‘Well, 
don’t  do  it  again,’  said  the  father.  There  was  a 
short  silence,  and  then  the  noise  began  again, 
worse  than  ever.  ‘ If  you  don’t  mind  what  I 
say,  my  boy,’  said  the  father,  ‘ you’ll  find  your- 
self in  bed,  in  something  less  than  a pig’s  whis- 
per.’ He  gave  the  child  a shake  to  make  him 
obedient,  and  such  a rattling  ensued  as  nobody 
ever  heard  before.  ‘ Why,  damme,  it’s  in  the 
child!’  said  the  father,  ‘he’s  got  the  croup  in 
the  wrong  place!’  ‘No  I haven’t,  father,’  said 
the  child,  beginning  to  cry,  ‘it’s  the  necklace; 
I swallowed  it,  father.’ — The  father  caught  the 
child  up,  and  ran  with  him  to  the  hospital : the 
beads  in  the  boy’s  stomach  rattling  all  the  way 
with  the  jolting  ; and  the  people  looking  up  in 
the  air,  and  down  in  the  cellars,  to  see  where  the 
unusual  sound  came  from.  He’s  in  the  hospital 
now,”  said  Jack  Hopkins,  ‘‘and  he  makes  such 
a devil  of  a noise  when  he  walks  about,  that 
they’re  obliged  to  muffle  him  in  a watchman’s 
coat,  for  fear  he  should  wake  the  patients  ! ” 
Pickwick , Chap . 32. 

PHYSICIAN  Bob  Sawyer’s  beginning1. 

“ Who  do  you  suppose  will  ever  employ  a 
professional  man,  when  they  see  his  boy  playing 
at  marbles  in  the  gutter,  or  Hying  the  garter  in 
the  horse-road?  Have  you  no  feeling  for  your 
profession,  you  groveller?  Did  you  leave  all 
the  medicine?” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 


“ The  powders  for  the  child,  at  the  large  house 
with  the  new  family,  and  the  pills  to  be  taken 
four  times  a day  at  the  ill-tempered  old  gentle- 
man’s with  the  gouty  leg?” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“ Then  shut  the  door,  and  mind  the  shop.” 

“Come,”  saifl  Mr.  Winkle,  as  the  boy  retired, 
“ Things  are  not  quite  so  bad  as  you  would  have 
me  believe,  either.  There  is  some  medicine  to 
be  sent  out.” 

Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  peeped  into  the  shop  to  see 
that  no  stranger  was  within  hearing,  and  lean- 
ing forward  to  Mr.  Winkle,  said  in  a low  tone; 

“ He  leaves  it  all  at  the  wrong  houses.” 

Mr.  Winkle  looked  perplexed,  and  Bob  Saw- 
yer and  his  friend  laughed. 

“ Don’t  you  see  ? ” said  Bob.  * “He  goes  up  to 
a house,  rings  the  area  bell,  pokes  a packet  of 
medicine  without  a direction  into  the  servant’s 
hand,  and  walks  off.  Servant  takes  it  Into  the 
dining-parlor;  master  opens  it,  and  reads  the 
label  : ‘ Draught  to  be  taken  at  bed  time — pills 
as  before — lotion  as  usual — the  povvdei.  From 
Sawyer’s,  late  Nockemorf’s.  Physicians’  pre- 
scriptions carefully  prepared,’  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  Shows  it  to  his  wife — she  reads  the  label ; 
it  goes  down  to  the  servants — they  read  the  label. 
Next  day,  boy  calls  : ‘Very  sorry — his  mistake — ■ 
immense  business — great  many  parcels  to  deli- 
ver— Mr.  Sawyer’s  compliments — late  Nockem- 
orf.’  The  name  gets  known,  and  that’s  the 
thing,  my  boy,  in  the  medical  way.  Bless  your 
heart,  old  fellow,  it’s  better  than  all  the  adver- 
tising in  the  world.  We  have  got  one  four- 
ounce  bottle  that’s  been  to  half  the  houses  in 
Bristol,  and  hasn’t  done  yet.” 

“Dear  me,  I see,”  observed  Mr.  Winkle; 
“ what  an  excellent  plan  ! ” — Pickwick , Chap.  38. 

PHYSICIAN— The  oracular. 

The  doctor,  who  was  a red-nosed  gentleman, 
with  a great  bunch  of  seals  dangling  below  a 
waistcoat  of  ribbed  black  satin,  arrived  with  all 
speed,  and  taking  his  seat  by  the  bedside  of 
poor  Nell,  drew  out  his  watch,  and  felt  her 
pulse.  Then  he  looked  at  her  tongue,  then  he 
felt  her  pulse  again,  and  while  he  did  so,  he 
eyed  the  half-emptied  wine-glass  as  if  in  pro- 
found abstraction. 

“ I should  give  her — ” said  the  doctor  at 
length,  “ a tea-spoonful,  every  now  and  then,  of 
hot  brandy  and  water.” 

“ Why,  that’s  exactly  what  we’ve  done,  sir!” 
said  the  delighted  landlady. 

“ I should  also,”  observed  the  doctor,  who 
had  passed  the  foot-bath  on  the  stairs,  “ I should 
also,”  said  the  doctor,  in  the  voice  of  an  oracle, 
“ put  her  feet  in  hot  water,  and  wrap  them  up 
in  flannel.  I should  likewise,”  said  the  doctor, 
with  increased  solemnity,  “give  her  something 
light  for  supper — the  wing  of  a roasted  fowl 
now — ” 

“ Why,  goodness  gracious  me,  sir,  it’s  cook- 
ing at  the  kitchen  fire  this  instant!”  cried  the 
landlady.  And  so  indeed  it  was,  for  the  school- 
master had  ordered  it  to  be  put  down,  and  it 
was  getting  on  so  well  that  the  doctor  might 
have  smelt  it  if  he  had  tried  ; perhaps  he  did. 

“ You  may  then,”  said  the  doctor,  rising 
gravely,  “ give  her  a glass  of  hot  mulled  port 
wine,  if  she  likes  wine — ” 

“ And  a toast,  sir?”  suggested  the  landlady.  # 

“ Ay,”  said  the  doctor,  in  the  tone  of  a man 


PHYSICIAN 


359 


PHYSIOGNOMY 


who  makes  a dignified  concession.  “ And  a toast 
—of  bread.  But  be  very  particular  to  make  it 
of  bread,  if  you  please,  ma’am.” 

With  which  parting  injunction,  slowly  and 
portentously  delivered,  the  doctor  departed, 
leaving  the  whole  house  in  admiration  of  that 
wisdom  which  tallied  so  closely  with  their  own. 
Everybody  said  he  was  a very  shrewd  doctor  in- 
deed, and  knew  perfectly  what  people’s  consti- 
tutions were  ; which  there  appears  some  reason 
to  suppose  he  did. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  46. 

PHYSICIAN— A fashionable. 

Mr.  Jobling  was,  as  we  have  already  seen,  in 
some  measure  a very  popular  character.  He 
had  a portentously  sagacious  chin,  and  a pom- 
pous voice,  with  a rich  huskiness  in  some  of  its 
tones  that  went  directly  to  the  heart,  like  a ray 
of  light  shining  through  the  ruddy  medium  of 
choice  old  burgundy.  His  neck-kerchief  and 
shirt-frill  were  ever  of  the  whitest,  his  clothes 
of  the  blackest  and  sleekest,  his  gold  watch- 
chain  of  the  heaviest,  and  his  seals  of  the  larg- 
est. His  boots,  which  were  always  of  the  bright- 
est, creaked  as  he  walked.  Perhaps  he  could 
shake  his  head,  rub  his  hands,  or  warm  himself 
before  a fire,  better  than  any  man  alive  ; and  he 
had  a peculiar  way  of  smacking  his  lips  and 
saying,  “Ah!”  at  intervals,  while  patients  de- 
tailed their  symptoms,  which  inspired  great 
confidence.  It  seemed  to  express,  “ I know 
what  you’re  going  to  say  better  than  you  do  ; 
but  go  on,  go  on.”  As  he  talked  on  all  occa- 
sions whether  he  had  anything  to  say  or  not,  it 
was  unanimously  observed  of  him  that  he  was 
“full  of  anecdote;”  and  his  experience  and 
profit  from  it  were  considered,  for  the  same  rea- 
son, to  be  something  much  too  extensive  for  de- 
scription. His  female  patients  could  never 
praise  him  too  highly  j and  the  coldest  of  his 
male  admirers  would  always  say  this  for  him  to 
their  friends,  “ that  whatever  Jobling’s  profes- 
sional skill  might  be  (and  it  could  not  be  de- 
nied that  he  had  a very  high  reputation),  he 
was  one  of  the  most  comfortable  fellows  you 
ever  saw  in  your  life  ! ” 

Martin  Chuzzlcwit , Chap.  27. 

PHYSICIAN -The. 

The  dinner-party  was  at  the  great  Physician’s. 
Bar  was  there,  and  in  full  force.  Ferdinand 
Barnacle  was  there,  and  in  his  most  engaging 
state.  Few  ways  of  life  were  hidden  from  Phy- 
sician, and  he  was  oftener  in  its  darkest  places 
than  even  Bishop.'  There  were  brilliant  ladies 
about  London  who  perfectly  doted  on  him,  my 
dear,  as  the  most  charming  creature  and  the 
most  delightful  person,  who  would  have  been 
shocked  to  find  themselves  so  close  to  him  if 
they  could  have  known  on  what  sights  those 
thoughtful  eyes  of  his  had  rested  within  an  hour 
or  two,  and  near  to  whose  beds,  and  under 
what  roofs,  his  composed  figure  had  stood.  But, 
Physician  was  a composed  man,  who  performed 
neither  on  his  own  trumpet,  nor  on  the  trumpets 
of  other  people.  Many  wonderful  things  did  he 
see  and  hear,  and  much  irreconcileable  moral 
contradiction  did  he  pass  his  life  among  ; yet 
his  equality  of  compassion  was  no  more  dis- 
turbed than  the  Divine  Master’s  of  all  healing 
was.  He  went,  like  the  rain,  among  the  just 
and  unjust,  doing  all  the  good  he  could,  and 


neither  proclaiming  it  in  the  synagogues  nor  at 
the  corners  of  streets. 

As  no  man  of  large  experience  of  humanity, 
however  quietly  carried  it  may  be,  can  fail  to  be 
invested  with  an  interest  peculiar  to  the  posses- 
sion of  such  knowledge,  Physician  was  an  at- 
tractive man.  Even  the  daintier  gentlemen  and 
ladies  who  had  no  idea  of  his  secret,  and  who 
would  have  been  startled  out  of  more  wits  than 
they  had,  by  the  monstrous  impropriety  of  his 
proposing  to  them,  “ Come  and  see  what  1 see  ! ” 
confessed  his  attraction.  Where  he  was,  some- 
thing real  was.  And  half  a grain  of  reality, 
like  the  smallest  portion  of  some  other  scarce 
natural  productions,  will  flavor  an  enormous 
quantity  of  diluent. 

It  came  to  pass,  therefore,  that  Physician’s 
little  dinners  always  presented  people  in  their 
least  conventional  lights.  The  guests  said  to 
themselves,  whether  they  were  conscious  of  it 
or  no,  “ Here  is  a man  who  really  has  an  ac- 
quaintance with  us  as  we  are,  who  is  admitted 
to  some  of  us  every  day  with  our  wigs  and 
paint  off,  who  hears  the  wanderings  of  our 
minds,  and  sees  the  undisguised  expression  of 
our  faces,  when  both  are  past  our  control  ; we 
may  as  well  make  an  approach  to  reality  with 
him,  for  the  man  has  got  the  better  of  us  and  is 
too  strong  for  us.”  Therefore  Physician’s  guests 
came  out  so  surprisingly  at  his  round  table,  that 
they  were  almost  natural. 

Bar’s  knowledge  of  that  agglomeration  of 
Jurymen  which  is  called  humanity  was  as  sharp 
as  a razor,  yet  a razor  is  not  a generally  conve- 
nient instrument,  and  Physician’s  plain  bright 
scalpel,  though  far  less  keen,  was  adaptable  to 
far  wider  purposes.  Bar  knew  all  about  the 
gullibility  and  knavery  of  people  ; but  Physi- 
cian could  have  given  him  a better  insight  into 
their  tendernesses  and  affections,  in  one  week 
of  his  rounds,  than  Westminster  Plall  and  all 
the  circuits  put  together,  in  threescore  years 
and  ten.  Bar  always  had  a suspicion  of  this, 
and  perhaps  was  glad  to  encourage  it  (for,  if  the 
world  were  really  a great  Law  Court,  one  would 
think  that  the  last  day  of  Term  could  not  too 
soon  arrive)  ; and  so  he  liked  and  respected 
Physician  quite  as  much  as  any  other  kind  of 
man  did. — Little  Dorr  it.  Book  II.,  Chap.  25. 

PHYSICIAN— The  riches  of  good  deeds. 

I never  walk  out  with  my  husband,  but  I hear 
the  people  bless  him.  I never  go  into  a house 
of  any  degree,  but  I hear  his  praises,  or  see 
them  in  grateful  eyes.  I never  lie  down  at  night 
but  I know  that  in  the  course  of  that  day  he  has 
alleviated  pain,  and  soothed  some  fellow-creature 
in  the  time  of  need.  I know  that  from  the  beds 
of  those  who  were  past  recovery,  thanks  have 
often,  often  gone  up,  in  the  last  hour,  for  his 
patient  ministration.  Is  not  this  to  be  rich"5 
Bleak  House,  Chap.  67. 

PHYSIOGNOMY— Of  a hotel. 

I hold  phrenology,  within  certain  limits,  to  be 
true  ; I am  much  of  the  same  mind  as  to  the 
subtler  expressions  of  the  hand  ; I hold  physi- 
ognomy to  be  infallible  ; though  all  these  sciences 
demand  rare  qualities  in  the  student.  But  I 
also  hold  that  there  is  no  more  certain  index  to 
personal  character  than  the  condition  of  a set 
of  casters  is  to  the  character  of  any  hotel.  Know- 
i ing,  and  having  often  tested  this  theory  of  mine, 


PICKWICKIANS 


380 


PICKWICK 


Bullfinch  resigned  himself  to  the  worst,  when, 
laying  aside  any  remaining  veil  of  disguise,  I 
held  up  before  him  in  succession  the  cloudy  oil 
and  furry  vinegar,  the  clogged  cayenne,  the  dirty 
salt,  the  obscene  dregs  of  soy,  and  the  anchovy 
sauce  in  a flannel,  waistcoat  of  decomposition. 

A Dinner  in  an  Hour.  New  Uncommercial 
Samples. 

PICKWICKIANS— The. 

And  how  much  more  interesting  did  the 
spectacle  become,  when,  starting  into  full  life 
and  animation,  as  a simultaneous  call  for  “ Pick- 
wick” burst  from  his  followers,  that  illustrious 
man  slowly  mounted  into  the  Windsor  chair,  on 
which  he  had  been  previously  seated,  and  ad- 
dressed the  club  himself  had  founded.  What 
a study  for  an  artist  did  that  exciting  scene  pre- 
sent ! The  eloquent  Pickwick,  with  one  hand 
gracefully  concealed  behind  his  coat  tails,  and 
the  other  waving  in  air,  to  assist  his  glowing 
declamation ; his  elevated  position  revealing 
those  lights  and  gaiters,  which,  had  they  clothed 
an  ordinary  man,  might  have  passed  without 
observation,  but  which,  when  Pickwick  clothed 
them — if  we  may  use  the  expression — inspired 
voluntary  awe  and  respect;  surrounded  by  the 
men  who  had  volunteered  to  share  the  perils  of 
his  travels  and  who  were  destined  to  participate 
in  the  glories  of  his  discoveries.  On  his  right  hand 
sat  Mr.  Tracy  Tupman — the  too-susceptible  Tup- 
man,  who  to  the  wisdom  and  experience  of 
maturer  years  superadded  the  enthusiasm  and 
ardor  of  a boy,  in  the  most  interesting  and 
pardonable  of  human  weaknesses — love.  Time 
and  feeding  had  expanded  that  once  romantic 
form  ; the  black -silk  waistcoat  had  become  more 
and  more  developed  ; inch  by  inch  had  the  gold 
watch-chain  beneath  it  disappeared  from  within 
the  range  of  Tupman’s  vision  ; and  gradually 
had  the  capacious  chin  encroached  upon  the 
borders  of  the  white  cravat : but  the  soul  of 
Tupman  had  known  no  change — admiration  of 
the  fair  sex  was  still  its  ruling  passion.  On  the 
left  of  his  great  leader  sat  the  poetic  Snodgrass, 
and  near  him  again  the  sporting  Winkle,  the 
former  poetically  enveloped  in  a mysterious  blue 
cloak  with  a canine-skin  collar,  and  the  latter 
communicating,  additional  lustre  to  a new  green 
shooting-coat,  plaid  neckerchief,  and  closely- 
fitted  drabs. — Pickwick , Chap.  i. 

PICKWICKIAN  SENSE  -The. 

“ Mr.  Blotton  (of  Aldgate)  rose  to  order.  Did 
the  honorable  Pickwickian  allude  to  him  ? (Cries 
of  “Order,”  “Chair,”  “Yes,”  “No,”  “Go  on,” 
“ Leave  off,”  etc.) 

“ Mr.  Pickwick  would  not  put  up  to  be  put 
down  by  clamor.  lie  had  alluded  to  the  honor- 
able gentleman.  (Great  excitement.) 

“ Mr.  Blotton  would  only  say  then,  that  he  re- 
pelled the  lion,  gent.’s  false  and  scurrilous  accu- 
sation, with  profound  contempt. 

* * * =!■-  * 

“ The  Chairman  was  quite  sure  the  lion.  Pick- 
wickian would  withdraw  the  expression  he  had 
just  made  use  of. 

“ Mr.  Blotton,  with  all  possible  respect  for  the 
chair,  was  quite  sure  he  would  not. 

“The  Chairman  felt  it  his  imperative  duty  to 
demand  of  the  honorable  gentleman  whether  he 
had  'I  ed  th<  < pr<  ion  which  had  just  escaped 
him  in  a common  sense  ? 


“ Mr.  Blotton  had  no  hesitation  in  saying 
that  lie  had  not — he  had  used  the  words  in  its 
Pickwickian  sense.  (Hear,  hear.)  He  was 
bound  to  acknowledge  that,  personally,  he  enter- 
tained the  highest  regard  and  esteem  for  the 
honorable  gentleman  ; he  had  merely  considered 
him  a humbug  in  a Pickwickian  point  of  view. 
(Hear,  hear.) 

“ Mr.  Pickwick  felt  much  gratified  by  the  fair, 
candid,  and  full  explanation  of  his  honorable 
friend.  lie  begged  it  to  be  at  once  understood, 
that  his  own  observations  had  been  merely  in- 
tended to  bear  a Pickwickian  construction. 
(Cheers.)” — Pickwick , Chap.  I. 

PICKWICK  -Sam  Weller’s  opinion  of. 

“ Bless  his  old  gaiters,”  rejoined  Sam,  looking 
out  at  the  garden-door.  “ He’s  a-keepin’  guard 
in  the  lane  vith  that  ’ere  dark  lantern,  like  a 
amiable  Guy  Fawkes?  T never  see  such  a fine 
creetur  in  my  days.  Blessed  if  I don’t  think  his 
heart  must  ha’  been  born  five-and-twenty  year 
arter  his  body,  at  least  !” — Pickzuick , Chap.  39. 

“ None  o’  that,  I say,  young  feller,”  repeated 
Sam,  firmly.  “No  man  serves  him  but  me.  And 
now  we’re  upon  it,  I’ll  let  you  into  another  secret 
besides  that,”  said  Sam,  as  he  paid  for  the  beer. 

“ I never  heerd,  mind  you,  nor  read  of  in  story- 
books, nor  see  in  picters,  any  angel  in  tights 
and  gaiters — not  even  in  spectacles,  as  I remem- 
ber, though  that  may  ha’  been  done  for  anythin’ 

I know  to  the  contrairey — but  mark  my  vords,  j 
Job  Trotter,  he’s  a reg’lar  thorough-bred  angel 
for  all  that  ; and  let  me  see  the  man  as  wenturs 
to  tell  me  he  knows  a better  vun.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  45. 

PICKWICK— His  antiquarian  discovery. 

As  they  turned  back,  Mr.  Pickwick’s  eye  fell 
upon  a small  broken  stone,  partially  buried  in 
the  ground,  in  front  of  a cottage  door.  He 
paused. 

“ This  is  very  strange,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“What  is  strange?”  inquired  Mr.  Tupman,  ‘ 
staring  eagerly  at  every  object  near  him,  but  the  J 
right  one.  “ God  bless  me,  what’s  the  matter  ? ” 1 

This  last  was  an  ejaculation  of  iirepressible  j 
astonishment,  occasioned  by  seeing  Mr.  Pick-  1 
wick,  in  his  enthusiasm  for  discovery,  fall  on 
his  knees  before  the  little  stone,  and  commence  1 
wiping  the  dust  off  it  with  his  pocket  handker-  1 
chief. 

“ There  is  an  inscription  here,”  said  Mr.  Pick-  •: 
wick. 

“ Is  it  possible  ? ” said  Mr.  Tupman. 

“ I can  discern,”  continued  Mr.  Pickwick,  1 
rubbing  away  with  all  his  might,  and  gazing  in- 
tently through  his  spectacles  ; “ I can  discern  a 
cross,  and  a B,  and  then  a T.  This  is  import-  J 
ant,”  continued  Mr.  Pickwick,  starting  up  ; f 
“ this  is  some  very  old  inscription,  existing  per-  | 
haps  long  before  the  ancient  alms-houses  in  this  t 
place.  It  must  not  be  lost.” 

lie  tapped  at  the  cottage  door.  A laboring 
man  opened  it. 

“ I)o  you  know  how  this  stone  came  here, 
my  friend?”  inquired  the  benevolent  Mr.  Pick- 
nick. 

“ No,  I doan’t,  sir,”  replied  the  man  civilly.  * 
“It  was  here  long  afore  I war  born  or  any  onus.” 

Mr.  Pickwick  glanced  triumphantly  at  his 
companion. 


PICKWICK 


361 


“ You — you — are  not  particularly  attached  to 
it,  I dare  say,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  trembling 
with  anxiety.  “You  wouldn’t  mind  selling  it, 
now  ? ” 

“ Ah  ! but  who’d  buy  it  ? ” inquired  the  man, 
with  an  expression  of  face  which  he  probably 
meant  to  be  very  cunning. 

“ I’ll  give  you  ten  shillings  for  it  at  once,” 
said  Mr.  Pickwick,  “ if  you  would  take  it  up  for 
me.” 

The  astonishment  of  the  village  may  be  easily 
imagined,  when  (the  little  stone  having  been 
raised  with  one  wrench  of  a spade),  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, by  dint  of  great  personal  exertion  bore  it 
with  his  own  hands  to  the  inn,  and  after  having 
carefully  washed  it,  deposited  it  on  the  table. 

The  exultation  and  joy  of  the  Pickwickian?, 
knew  no  bounds,  when  their  patience  and  assi- 
duity, their  washing  and  scraping,  were  crowned 
with  success.  The  stone  was  uneven  and  bro- 
ken, and  the  letters  were  straggling  and  irregu- 
lar, but  the  following  fragment  of  an  inscription 
was  clearly  to  be  deciphered  : 

* 

B I L S T 
U M 
P S H I 
S.  M. 

ARK 

Mr.  Pickwick’s  eyes  sparkled  with  delight,  as 
he  sat  and  gloated  over  the  treasure  he  had  dis- 
covered. He  had  attained  one  of  the  greatest 
objects  of  his  ambition.  In  a county  known 
to  abound  in  remains  of  the  early  ages  ; in  a 
village  in  which  there  still  existed  some  memo- 
rials of  the  olden  time,  he — he,  the  Chairman 
of  the  Pickwick  Club — had  discovered  a strange 
and  curious  inscription  of  unquestionable  an- 
tiquity, which  had  wholly  escaped  the  observa- 
tion of  the  many  learned  men  who  had  preced- 
ed him.  He  could  hardly  trust  the  evidence  of 
his  senses. — Pickwick , Chap.  n. 

PICKWICK— The  antiquarian  controversy. 

It  appears  from  the  Transactions  of  the  Club, 
then,  that  Mr.  Pickwick  lectured  upon  the  dis- 
covery at  a General  Club  Meeting,  convened  on 
the  night  succeeding  their  return,  and  entered 
into  a variety  of  ingenious  and  erudite  specula- 
tions on  the  meaning  of  the  inscription.  It  also 
appears  that  a skillful  artist  executed  a faithful 
delineation  of  the  curiosity,  which  was  engraven 
on  stone,  and  presented  to  the  Royal  Antiquarian 
Society,  and  other  learned  bodies  ; that  heart- 
burnings and  jealousies  without  number,  were 
created  by  rival  controversies  which  were  penned 
upon  the  subject  ; and  that  Mr.  Pickwick  himself 
wrote  a Pamphlet,  containing  ninety-six  pages  of 
very  small  print,  and  twenty-seven  different  read- 
ings of  the  inscription.  That  three  old  gentlemen 
cut  off  their  eldest  sons  with  a shilling  a-piece  for 
presuming  to  doubt  the  antiquity  of  the  fragment; 
and  that  one  enthusiastic  individual  cut  him- 
self off  prematurely,  in  despair  at  being  unable 
to  fathom  its  meaning.  That  Mr.  Pickwick  was 
elected  an  honorary  member  of  seventeen  native 
and  foreign  societies,  for  making  the  discovery  ; 
that  none  of  the  seventeen  could  make  anything 
of  it ; but  that  all  the  seventeen  agreed  it  was 
very  extraordinary. 

Mr.  Blotton,  indeed — and  the  name  will  be 
doomed  to  the  undying  contempt  of  those  who 


pickwici; 


cultivate  the  mysterious  and  the  sublime  — Mr. 
Blotton,  we  say,  with  the  doubt  and  cavilling 
peculiar  to  vulgar  minds,  presumed  to  state  a 
view  of  the  case,  as  degrading  as  ridiculous. 
Mr.  Blotton,  with  a mean  desire  to  tarnish  the 
lustre  of  the  immortal  name  of  Pickwick,  actu- 
ally undertook  a journey  to  Cobham  in  person, 
ana  on  his  return,  sarcastically  observed  in  an 
oration  at  the  club,  that  he, had  seen  the  man 
from  whom  the  stone  was  purchased  ; that  the 
man  presumed  the  stone  to  be  ancient,  but  sol- 
emnly denied  die  antiquity  of  the  inscription — 
inasmuch  as  he  represented  it  to  have  been 
rudely  carved  by  himself  in  an  idle  mood,  and 
to  display  letters  intended  to  bear  neither  more 
nor  less  than  the  simple  construction  of — “ BILL 
STUMPS,  HIS  MARK  ; ” and  that  Mr.  Stumps, 
being  little  in  the  habit  of  original  composition, 
and  more  accustomed  to  be  guided  by  the  sound 
of  words  than  by  the  strict  rules  of  orthography, 
had  omitted  the  concluding  “ L ” of  his  Chris- 
tian name. 

The  Pickwick  Club  (as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected from  so  enlightened  an  Institution),  re- 
ceived this  statement  with  the  contempt  it  de- 
served, expelled  the  presumptuous  and  ill-con- 
ditioned Blotton,  and  voted  Mr.  Pickwick  a pair 
of  gold  spectacles,  in  token  of  their  confidence 
and  approbation  ; in  return  for  which,  Mr.  Pick- 
wick caused  a portrait  of  himself  to  be  painted, 
and  hung  up  in  the  club-room. 

Mr.  Blotton,  though  ejected,  was  hot  conquered. 
He  also  wrote  a pamphlet,  addressed  to  the  sev- 
enteen learned  societies,  native  and  foreign,  con- 
taining a repetition  of  the  statement  he  had  al- 
ready made,  and  rather  more  than  half  intimating 
his  opinion  that  the  seventeen  learned  societies 
were  so  many  “humbugs.”  Hereupon  the  virtu- 
ous indignation  of  the  seventeen  learned  socie- 
ties, native  and  foreign,  being  roused,  several 
fresh  pamphlets  appeared  ; the  foreign  learned 
societies  corresponded  with  the  native  learned 
societies  ; the  native  learned  societies  translated 
the  pamphlets  of  the  foreign  learned  societies 
into  English  ; the  foreign  learned  societies  trans- 
lated the  pamphlets  of  the  native  learned  socie- 
ties into  all  sorts  of  languages  ; and  thus  com- 
menced that  celebrated  scientific  discussion  so 
well  known  to  all  men,  as  the  Pickwick  contro- 
versy. 

But  this  base  attempt  to  injure  Mr.  Pickwick 
recoiled  upon  the  head  of  its  calumnious  author. 
The  seventeen  learned  societies  unanimously 
voted  the  presumptuous  Blotton  an  ignorant 
meddler,  and  forthwith  set  to  work  upon  more 
treatises  than  ever.  And  to  this  day  the  stone 
remains,  an  illegible  monument  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick’s greatness,  and  a lasting  trophy  to  the  lit- 
tleness of  his  enemies. — Pickwick,  Chap.  u. 

PICKWICK— In  a rage. 

If  any  dispassionate  spectator  could  have 
beheld  the  countenance  of  the  illustrious  man 
whose  name  forms  the  leading  feature  of  the 
title  of  this  work,  during  the  latter  part  of  this 
conversation,  he  would  have  been  almost  in- 
duced to  wonder  that  the  indignant  fire  which 
flashed  from  his  eyes  did  not  melt  the  glasses 
of  his  spectacles — so  majestic  was  his  wrath. 
His  nostrils  dilated,  and  his  fists  clenched  in- 
voluntarily, as  he  heard  himself  addressed  by 
the  villain.  But  he  restrained  himself  again — • 
he  did  not  pulverize  him. 


PIG 


302 


PIONEER 


“ Here,”  continued  the  hardened  traitor,  toss- 
ing the  license  at  Mr.  Pickwick's  feet  : “get  the 
name  altered — take  home  the  lady — do  for 
Tuppy.” 

Mr.  Pickwick  was  a philosopher,  but  philoso- 
phers are  only  men  in  armor,  after  all.  The 
shaft  had  reached  him,  penetrated  through  his 
philosophical  harness,  to  his  very  heart.  In  the 
frenzy  of  his  rage,  he  hurled  the  inkstand  madly 
forward,  and  followed  it  up  himself.  But  Mr. 
Jingle  had  disappeared,  and  he  found  himself 
caught  in  the  arms  of  Sam. 

“ Hallo,”  said  that  eccentric  functionary,  “ fur- 
niter’s  cheap  where  you  come  from,  sir.  Self- 
acting ink,  that  ’ere  ; it's  wrote  your  mark  upon 
the  wall,  old  gen’lm’n.  Hold  still,  sir  ; wot’s 
the  use  o’  runnin’  arter  a man  as  has  made  his 
lucky,  and  got  to  t’other  end  of  the  Borough  by 
this  time  ? Pickwick , Chap.  io. 

PIG— An  American. 

Once  more  in  Broadway  ! Here  are  the  same 
ladies  in  bright  colors  walking  to  and  fro,  in 
pairs  and  singly;  yonder  the  very  same  light 
blue  parasol  which  passed  and  repassed  the 
hotel  window  twenty  times  while  we  were  sit- 
ting there.  We  are  going  to  cross  here.  Take 
care  of  the  pigs.  Two  portly  sows  are  trotting 
up  behind  this  carriage,  and  a select  party  of 
half-a-dozen  gentlemen  hogs  have  just  now 
turned  the  corner. 

Here  is  a solitary  swine  lounging  homeward 
by  himself.  He  has  only  one  ear,  having  parted 
with  the  other  to  vagrant  dogs  in  the  course  of 
his  city  rambles.  But  he  gets  on  very  weil 
without  it,  and  leads  a roving,  gentlemanly, 
vagabond  kind  of  life,  somewhat  answering  to 
that  of  our  club  men  at  home.  He  leaves  his 
lodgings  every  morning  at  a certain  hour,  throws 
himself  upon  the  town,  gets  through  his  day  in 
some  manner  quite  satisfactory  to  himself,  and 
regularly  appears  at  the  door  of  his  own  house 
again  at  night  like  the  mysterious  master  of  Gil 
Bias.  He  is  a free-and-easy,  careless,  indifferent 
kind  of  pig,  having  a very  large  acquaintance 
among  other  pigs  of  the  same  character,  whom 
he  rather  knows  by  sight  than  conversation,  as 
he  seldom  troubles  himself  to  stop  and  exchange 
civilities,  but  goes  grunting  down  the  kennel, 
turning  up  the  news  and  small  talk  of  the  city 
in  the  shape  of  cabbage-stalks  and  offal,  and 
bearing  no  tails  but  his  own,  which  is  a very 
short  one,  for  his  old  enemies,  the  dogs,  have 
been  at  that,  too,  and  have  left  him  hardly 
enough  to  swear  by.  He  is  in  every  respect  a 
republican  pig,  going  wherever  he  pleases,  and 
mingling  with  the  best  society  on  an  equal  if  not 
superior  footing,  for  everyone  makes  way  when 
he  appears,  and  the  haughtiest  give  him  the 
wall  if  he  prefer  it.  He  is  a great  philosopher, 
and  seldom  moved  unless  by  the  dogs  before 
mentioned.  Sometimes,  indeed,  you  may  see 
his  small  eye  twinkling  on  a slaughtered  friend, 
whose  carcass  garnishes  a butcher’s  door-post  ; 
but  he  grunts  out,  “ Such  is  life;  all  flesh  is 
pork!”  buries  his  nose  in  the  mire  again,  and 
waddles  down  the  gutter,  comforting  himself 
with  the  reflection  that  there  is  one  snout  the 
less  to  anticipate  stray  cabbage-stalks,  at  any 
rate. 

They  arc  the  city  scavengers,  these  pigs. 

1 i!i  / are  ; having  for  the  most  part 

scanty,  brown  backs,  like  the  lids  of  old  horse 


hair  trunks,  spotted  with  unwholesome  black 
blotches.  They  have  long,  gaunt  legs  too,  and 
such  peaked  snouts  that  if  one  of  them  could 
be  persuaded  to  sit  for  his  profile  nobody 
would  recognize  it  for  a pig’s  likeness.  They 
are  never  attended  upon,  or  fed,  or  driven,  or 
caught,  but  arc  thrown  upon  their  own  re 
sources  in  early  life,  and  become  preternaturally 
knowing  in  consequence.  Every  pig  knows 
where  he  lives  much  better  than  anybody  could 
tell  him.  At  this  hour,  just  as  evening  is  closing 
in,  you  will  see  them  roaming  towards  bed  by 
scores,  eating  their  way  to  the  last.  Occasion- 
ally some  youth  among  them  who  has  over- 
eaten himself,  or  has  been  much  worried  by 
dogs,  trots  shrinkingly  homeward,  like  a prodi- 
gal son  ; but  this  is  a rare  case  : perfect  self- 
possession  and  self-reliance  and  immovable 
composure  being  their  foremost  attributes. 

American  Notes , Chap.  6. 

PIGS. 

Here,  as  elsewhere  in  these  parts,  the  road 
was  perfectly  alive  with  pigs  of  all  ages  ; lying 
about  in  every  direction,  fast  asleep  ; or  grunt- 
ing along  in  quest  of  hidden  dainties.  I had 
always  a sneaking  kindness  for  these  odd  ani- 
mals, and  found  a constant  source  of  amuse- 
ment, when  all  others  failed,  in  watching  their 
proceedings.  As  we  were  riding  along  this 
morning,  I observed  a little  incident  between 
two  youthful  pigs,  which  was  so  very  human  as 
to  be  inexpressibly  comical  and  grotesque  at  the 
time,  though  I dare  say,  in  telling,  it  is  tame 
enough. 

One  young  gentleman  (a  very  delicate  porker, 
with  several  straws  sticking  about  his  nose,  be- 
tokening recent  investigations  in  a dunghill) 
was  walking  deliberately  on,  profoundly  think- 
ing, when  suddenly  his  brother,  who  was  lying 
in  a miry  hole  unseen  by  him,  rose  up  immedi- 
ately before  his  startled  eyes,  ghostly  with  damp 
mud.  Never  was  pig’s  whole  mass  of  blood  so 
turned.  He  started  back  at  least  three  feet, 
gazed  for  a moment,  and  then  shot  off  as  hard 
as  he  could  go  ; his  excessive  little  tail  vibra- 
ting with  speed  and  terror,  like  a distracted 
pendulum.  But  before  he  had  gone  very  far, 
he  began  to  reason  with  himself  as  to  the  na- 
ture of  this  frightful  appearance  ; and  as  he  rea- 
soned, he  relaxed  his  speed  by  gradual  degrees 
until  at  last  he  stopped,  and  faced  about.  There 
was  his  brother,  with  the  mud  upon  him  glazing 
in  the  sun,  yet  staring  out  of  the  very  same 
hole,  perfectly  amazed  at  his  proceedings!  He 
was  no  sooner  assured  of  this — and  he  assured 
himself  so  carefully  that  one  may  almost  say  he 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  to  see  the  better 
— than  he  came  back  at  a round  trot,  pounced 
upon  him,  and  summarily  took  off  a piece  of  his 
tail,  as  a caution  to  him  to  be  careful  what  he 
was  about  for  the  future,  and  never  to  play 
tricks  with  his  family  any  more. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  12. 

PIONEER -A  Western. 

The  track  of  to-day  had  the  same  features  as 
the  track  of  yesterday.  There  was  the  swamp, 
the  bush,  the  perpetual  chorus  of  frogs,  the  rank 
unseemly  growth,  the  unwholesome  steaming 
earth.  Here  and  there,  and,  frequently  too,  we 
encountered  a solitary  broken-down  wagon,  full 
of  some  new  settler’s  goods.  It  was  a pitiful 


PIPE -FILLING 


333 


PLAGIARISM 


sight  to  see  one  of  these  vehicles  deep  in  the 
mire,  the  axle-tree  broken,  the  wheel  lying  idly 
by  its  side,  the  man  gone  miles  away  to  look  for 
assistance,  the  woman  seated  among  their  wan- 
dering household  gods,  with  a baby  at  her  breast, 
a picture  of  forlorn,  dejected  patience,  the  team 
of  oxen  crouching  down  mournfully  in  the  mud, 
and  breathing  forth  such  clouds  of  vapor  from 
their  mouths  and  nostrils,  that  all  the  damp 
mist  and  fog  around  seemed  to  have  come  direct 
from  them. — American  Notes,  Chap.  13. 

The  landlord  was  a dry,  tough,  hard-faced 
old  fellow  (not  so  very  old,  either,  for  he  was  but 
just  turned  sixty,  I should  think),  who  had  been 
out  with  the  militia  in  the  last  war  with  Eng- 
land, and  had  seen  all  kinds  of  service — except 
a battle  ; and  he  had  been  very  near  seeing  that, 
he  added — very  near.  He  had  all  his  life  been 
restless  and  locomotive,  with  an  irresistible  de- 
sire for  change,  and  was  still  the  son  of  his  old 
self,  for  if  he  had  nothing  to  keep  him  at  home, 
he  said  (slightly  jerking  his  hat  and  his  thumb 
towards  the  window  of  the  room  in  which  the 
old  lady  sat,  as  we  stood  talking  in  front  of  the 
house),  he  would  clean  up  his  musket,  and  be 
off  to  Texas  to-morrow  morning.  He  was  one 
of  the  very  many  descendants  of  Cain,  proper  to 
this  continent,  who  seem  destined  from  their 
birth  to  serve  as  pioneers  in  the  great  human 
army,  who  gladly  go  on  from  year  to  year  ex- 
tending its  outposts,  and  leaving  home  after 
home  behind  them,  and  die  at  last,  utterly  re- 
gardless of  their  graves  being  left  thousands  of 
miles  behind  by  the  wandering  generation  who 
succeed. 

His  wife  was  a domesticated,  kind-hearted  old 
soul,  who  had  come  with  him  “from  the  queen 
city  of  the  world,”  which,  it  seemed,  was  Phila- 
delphia ; but  had  no  love  for  this  Western  coun- 
try, and  indeed  had  little  reason  to  bear  it  any, 
having  seen  her  children,  one  by  one,  die  here 
of  fever,  in  the  full  prime  and  beauty  of  their 
youth.  Her  heart  was  sore,  she  said,  to  think 
of  them,  and  to  talk  on  this  theme,  even  to 
strangers,  in  that  blighted  place,  so  far  from  her 
old  home,  eased  it  somewhat,  and  became  a me- 
lancholy pleasure. — American  Notes , Chap.  14. 

PIPE-FILLING— A fine  art. 

She  was,  out  and  out,  the  very  best  filler  of  a 
pipe,  I should  say,  in  the  four  quarters  of  the 
globe.  To  see  her  put  that  chubby  little  finger 
in  the  bowl,  and  then  blow  down  the  pipe  to 
clear  the  tube,  and,  when  she  had  done  so,  affect 
to  think  that  there  was  really  something  in  the 
tube,  and  blow  a dozen  times,  and  hold  it  to  her 
eye  like  a telescope,  with  a most  provoking 
twist  in  her  capital  little  face,-  as  she  looked 
down  it,  was  quite  a brilliant  thing.  As  to  the 
tobacco,  she  was  perfect  mistress  of  the  subject ; 
and  her  lighting  of  the  pipe,  with  a wisp  of  pa- 
per, when  the  Carrier  had  it  in  his  mouth — going 
so  very  near  his  nose,  and  yet  not  scorching  it — 
was  Art,  high  Art. 

And  the  Cricket  and  the  Kettle,  tuning  up 
again,  acknowledged  it  ! The  bright  fire,  blaz- 
ing up  again,  acknowledged  it ! The  little  Mow- 
er on  the  clock,  in  his  unheeded  work,  acknow- 
ledged it  ! The  Carrier,  in  his  smoothing  fore- 
head and  expanding  face,  acknowledged  it, 
the  readiest  of  all. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chirp  1. 


PIPE— The  pictures  in  the  smoke. 

And  as  he  soberly  and  thoughtfully  puffed  at  his 
old  pipe,  and  as  the  Dutch  clock  ticked,  and  as 
the  red  fire  gleamed,  and  as  the  Cricket  chirped  ; 
that  Genius  of  his  Hearth  and  Home  (for  such 
the  Cricket  was)  came  out,  in  fairy  shape,  into 
the  room,  and  summoned  many  forms  of  Home 
about  him.  Dots  of  all  ages  and  all  sizes, 
filled  the  chamber.  Dots  who  were  merry  chil- 
dren, running  on  before  him,  gathering  flowers 
in  the  fields  ; coy  Dots,  half  shrinking  from, 
half  yielding  to,  the  pleading  of  his  own  rough 
image  ; newly-married  Dots,  alighting  at  the 
door,  and  taking  wonderful  possession  of  the 
household  keys  ; motherly  little  Dots,  attended 
by  fictitious  Slowboys,  bearing  babies  to  be 
christened ; matronly  Dots,  still  young  and 
blooming,  watching  Dots  of  daughters,  as  they 
danced  at  rustic  balls  ; fat  Dots,  encircled  and 
beset  by  troops  of  rosy  grand-children  ; wither- 
ed Dots,  who  leaned  on  sticks,  and  tottered  as 
they  crept  along.  Old  Carriers  too,  appeared, 
with  blind  old  Boxers  lying  at  their  feet ; and 
newer  carts  with  younger  drivers  (“  Peerybingle 
Brothers,”  on  the  tilt)  ; and  sick  old  Carriers, 
tended  by  the  gentlest  hands  ; and  graves  of 
dead  and  gone  old  Carriers,  green  in  the  church- 
yard. And  as  the  Cricket  showed  him  all  these 
things—  he  saw  them  plainly,  though  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  fire — the  Carrier’s  heart 
grew  light  and  happy,  and  he  thanked  his  House- 
hold Gods  with  all  his  might,  and  cared  no  more 
for  Gruff  and  Tackleton  than  you  do. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chirp  1. 

PLAGIAPISM— Dramatic. 

“You’re  quite  right,  sir,”  interrupted  the 
literary  gentleman,  leaning  back  in  his  chair 
and  exercising  his  toothpick.  “ Human  intel- 
lect, sir,  has  progressed  since  his  time,  is  pro- 
gressing, will  progress.” 

“ Shot  beyond  him,  I mean,”  resumed  Nich- 
olas, “ in  quite  another  respect,  for,  whereas  he 
brought  within  the  magic  circle  of  his  genius, 
traditions  peculiarly  adapted  for  his  purpose, 
and  turned  familiar  things  into  constellations 
which  should  enlighten  the  world  for  ages,  you 
drag  within  the  magic  circle  of  your  dullness, 
subjects  not  at  all  adapted  to  the  purposes  of 
the  stage,  and  debase  as  he  exalted.  For  in- 
stance, you  take  the  uncompleted  books  of  liv- 
ing authors,  fresh  from  their  hands,  wet  from 
the  press,  cut,  hack,  and  carve  them  to  the  pow- 
ers and  capacities  of  your  actors,  and  the  capa- 
bility of  your  theatres,  finish  unfinished 
works,  hastily  and  crudely  vamp  up  ideas  not 
yet  worked  out  by  their  original  projector,  but 
which  have  doubtless  cost  him  many  thoughtful 
days  and  sleepless  nights  ; by  a comparison  of 
incidents  and  dialogue,  down  to  the  very  last 
word  he  may  have  written  a fortnight  before, 
do  your  utmost  to  anticipate  his  plot — all  this 
without  his  permission,  and  against  his  will  ; 
and  then,  to  crown  the  whole  proceeding,  pub- 
lish in  some  mean  pamphlet,  an  unmeaning  far- 
rago of  garbled  extracts  from  his  work,  to  which 
you  put  your  name  as  author,  with  the  honor- 
able distinction  annexed,  of  having  perpetrated 
a hundred  other  outrages  of  the  same  description. 
Now,  show  me  the  distinction  between  such  pil- 
fering as  this,  and  picking  a man’s  pocket  in 
the  street : unless,  indeed,  it  be,  that  the  legis- 
lature has  a regard  for  pocket-handkerchiefs, 


PLATE-MAKING 


304 


POETICAL  OBITUARY 


and  leaves  men’s  brains  (except  when  they  are 
knocked  out  by  violence)  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves.”— Nicholas  Nicklcby , Chap.  48. 

PLATE-MAKING. 

Shall  I break  the  plate  ? First  let  me  look  at 
the  back,  and  see  who  made  it.  Copeland. 

Copeland  ! Stop  a moment.  Was  it  yester- 
day I visited  Copeland’s  works,  and  saw  them 
making  plates?  In  the  confusion  of  travelling 
about,  it  might  be  yesterday  or  it  might  be  yes- 
terday month  ; but  I think  it  was  yesterday.  I 
appeal  to  the  plate.  The  plate  says,  decidedly, 
yesterday.  I find  the  plate,  as  I look  at  it, 
growing  into  a companion. 

Don’t  you  remember  (says  the  plate)  how  you 
steamed  away,  yesterday  morning,  in  the  bright 
sun  and  the  east  wind,  along  the  valley  of  the 
sparkling  Trent  ? Don’t  you  recollect  how  many 
kilns  you  flew  past,  looking  like  the  bowls  of  gi- 
gantic tobacco  pipes,  cut  short  off  from  the  stem 
and  turned  upside  down?  And  the  fires — and 
the  smoke — and  the  roads  made  with  bits  of 
crockery,  as  if  all  the  plates  and  dishes  in 
the  civilized  world  had  been  Macadamised,  ex- 
pressly for  the  laming  of  all  the  horses  ? Of 
course  I do  ! 

And  don’t  you  remember  (says  the  plate)  how 
you  alighted  at  Stoke — a picturesque  heap  of 
houses,  kilns,  smoke,  wharfs,  canals,  and  river, 
lying  (as  was  most  appropriate)  in  a basin — and 
how,  after  climbing  up  the  sides  of  the  basin  to 
look  at  the  prospect,  you  trundled  down  again  at 
a walking-match- pace,  and  straight  proceeded  to 
my  father’s,  Copeland’s,  where  the  whole  of  my 
family,  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  are  turned 
out  upon  the  world  from  our  nursery  and  semi- 
nary, covering  some  fourteen  acres  of  ground? 
And  don’t  you  remember  what  we  spring  from  ; 
heaps  of  lumps  of  clay,  partially  prepared  and 
cleaned  in  Devonshire  and  Dorsetshire — whence 
said  clay  principally  comes — and  hills  of  flint, 
without  which  we  should  want  our  ringingsound, 
and  should  never  be  musical  ? And  as  to  the 
flint,  don’t  you  recollect  that  it  is  first  burnt  in  j 
kilns,  and  is  then  laid  under  the  four  iron  feet  of 
a demon  slave,  subject  to  violent  stamping  fits, 
who,  when  they  come  on,  stamps  away  insanely 
with  his  four  iron  legs,  and  would  crush  all  the 
flint  in  the  Isle  of  Thaiiet  to  powder,  without 
leaving  off?  And  as  to  the  clay,  don’t  you  recollect 
how  it  is  put  into  mills  or  teazers,  and  is  sliced, 
and  dug,  and  cut  at,  by  endless  knives,  clogged 
and  sticky,  but  persistent — and  is  pressed  out  of 
that  machine  through  a square  trough,  whose 
form  it  takes — and  is  cut  off  in  square  lumps 
and  thrown  into  a vat,  and  there  mixed  with 
water,  and  beaten  to  a pulp  by  paddle-wheels — 
and  is  then  run  into  a rough  house,  all  rugged 
beams  and  ladders  splashed  with  white, — super- 
intended by  Grin  doff,  the  Miller,  in  his  working 
clothes,  all  splashed  with  white — where  it  passes 
through  no  end  of  machinery-moved  sieves  all 
splashed  with  white,  arranged  in  an  ascending 
scale  of  fineness  (some  so  line,  that  three  hun- 
dred silk  threads  cross  each  other  in  a single 
square  inch  of  their  surface),  and  all  in  a violent 
state  of  ague,  with  their  teeth  for  ever  chattering, 
and  their  bodies  for  ever  shivering?  And  as  to 
the  flint  again,  isn't  it  mashed  and  mollified  and 
troubled  and  soothed,  exactly  as  rags  arc  in  a 
paper-mill,  until  it  is  reduced  to  a pap  so  fine 
that  it  contains  no  atom  of  “ grit  ” perceptible 


to  the  nicest  taste?  And  as  to  the  flint  and  the 
clay  together,  are  they  not,  after  all  this,  mixed 
in  the  proportion  of  five  of  clay  to  one  of  flint? 
and  isn’t  the  compound — known  as  “ slip  ” — run 
into  oblong  troughs,  where  its  superfluous  mois- 
ture may  evaporate  ? and  finally,  isn’t  it  slapped 
and  banged  and  beaten  and  patted  and  kneaded 
and  wedged  and  knocked  about  like  butter,  un- 
til it  becomes  a beautiful  gray  dough,  ready  for 
the  potter’s  use  ? 

In  regard  of  the  potter,  popularly  so-called 
(says  the  plate),  you  don’t  mean  to  say  you  have 
forgotten  that  a workman  called  a Thrower  is 
the  man  under  whose  hand  this  gray  dough  takes 
the  shapes  of  the  simpler  household  vessels  as 
quickly  as  the  eye  can  follow?  You  don’t  mean 
to  say  you  cannot  call  him  up  before  you,  sitting 
with  his  attendant  woman,  at  his  potter’s  wheel 
— a disc  about  the  size  of  a dinner-plate,  revolv- 
ing on  two  drums  slowly  or  quickly  as  he  wills 
— who  made  you  a complete  breakfast  set  for  a 
bachelor,  as  a good-humored  little  off-hand  joke  ? 
You  remember  how  he  took  up  as  much  dough 
as  he  wanted,  and,  throwing  it  on  his  wheel,  in 
a moment  fashioned  it  into  a tea-cup — caught 
up  more  clay  and  made  a saucer — a larger  dab 
and  whirled  it  into  a teapot — winked  at  a small- 
er dab  and  converted  it  into  the  lid  of  the  tea- 
pot, accurately  fitting  by  the  measurement  of  his 
eye  alone — coaxed  a middle-sized  dab  for  two 
seconds,  broke  it,  turned  it  over  at  the  rim,  and 
made  a milk-pot — laughed,  and  turned  out  a 
slop-basin  — coughed,  and  provided  for  the 
sugar? — A Plated  Article.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

POETRY  Its  weakening- effect  on  the  mind. 

“ Half-a-crown,”  said  Wegg,  meditating. 
“Yes.  (It  ain’t  mud?,  sir.)  Half-a-crown.” 

“ Per  week,  you  know.” 

“ Per  week.  Yes.  As  to  the  amount  of  strain 
upon  the  intellect  now.  Was  you  thinking  at 
all  of  poetry?”  Mr.  Wegg  inquired,  musing. 

“Would  it  come  dearer?”  Mr.  Boffin  asked. 

“ It  would  come  dearer,”  Mr.  Wegg  returned, 
j “ For  when  a person  comes  to  grind  off  poetry 
night  after  night,  it  is  but  right  he  should  ex- 
pect to  be  paid  for  its  weakening  effect  on  his 
mind.” 

“ To  tell  you  the  truth,  Wegg,”  said  Boffin, 
“ I wasn’t  thinking  of  poetry,  except  in  so  far  as 
this : — If  you  was  to  happen  now  and  then  to 
feel  yourself  in  the  mind  to  tip  me  and  Mrs. 
Boffin  one  of  your  ballads,  why  then  we  should 
drop  into  poetry.” 

“ I follow  you,  sir,”  said  Wegg.  “ But  not 
being  a regular  musical  professional,  I should 
be  loth  to  engage  myself  for  that ; and  therefore, 
when  I dropped  into  poetry,  I should  ask  to  be 
considered  so  fur,  in  the  light  of  a friend.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Booh  /.,  Chap.  5. 

POETICAL  OBITUARY-By  Joe. 

“ Well ! ” Joe  pursued,  “ somebody  must  keep 
the  pot  a-bilmg,  Pip,  or  the  pot  won’t  bile,  don’t 
you  know  ? ” 

1 saw  that,  and  said  so. 

“ ’Consequence,  my  father  didn’t  make  objec- 
tions to  my  going  to  work  ; so  I went  to  work 
at  my  present  calling,  which  were  his  too,  if  he 
would  have  followed  it,  and  I worked  tolerable 
hard,  I assure  you,  Pip.  In  time  I were  able  to 
keep  him,  and  I kep  him  till  he  went  olf  in  a 
purple  leptic  fit.  And  it  were  my  intentions  to 


POLICE 


365 


POLITICIAN 


have  had  put  upon  his  tombstc  ne  that  What- 
sume’er  the  failings  on  his  part,  Remember  rea- 
der he  were  that  good  in  his  hart.” 

Joe  recited  this  couplet  with  such  manifest 
pride  and  careful  perspicuity,  that  I asked  him 
if  he  had  made  it  himself? 

I made  it,”  said  Joe,  “ my  own  self.  I made 
it  in  a moment.  It  was  like  striking  out  a horse- 
shoe complete,  in  a single  blow.  I never  was  so 
much  surprised  in  all  my  life — couldn’t  credit 
my  own  ed — to  tell  you  the  truth,  hardly  believed 
it  were  my  own  ed.  As  I was  saying,  Pip,  it 
were  my  intentions  to  have  had  it  cut  over  him  ; 
but  poetry  costs  money,  cut  it  how  you  will,  small 
or  large,  and  it  were  not  done.” 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  7. 

POLICE— The  English  detective. 

Just  at  dusk,  Inspectors  Wield  and  Stalker  are 
announced  ; but  we  do  not  undertake  to  war- 
rant the  orthography  of  any  of  the  names  here 
mentioned.  Inspector  Wield  presents  Inspector 
Stalker.  Inspector  Wield  is  a middle-aged  man 
of  a portly  presence,  with  a large,  moist,  know- 
ing eye,  a husky  voice,  and  a habit  of  empha- 
sizing his  conversation  by  the  aid  of  a corpulent 
fore-tinger,  which  is  constantly  in  juxtaposition 
with  his  eyes  or  nose.  Inspector  Stalker  is  a 
shrewd,  hard-headed  Scotchman — in  appearance 
not  at  all  unlike  a very  acute,  thoroughly-trained 
schoolmaster,  from  the  Normal  Establishment 
at  Glasgow.  Inspector  Wield  one  might  have 
known,  perhaps,  for  what  he  is — Inspector 
Stalker,  never. 

The  ceremonies  of  reception  over,  Inspectors 
Wield  and  Stalker  observe  that  they  have 
brought  some  sergeants  with  them.  The  ser- 
geants are  presented — five  in  number,  Sergeant 
Dornton,  Sergeant  Witchem,  Sergeant  Mith, 
Sergeant  Fendall,  and  Sergeant  Straw.  We 
have  the  whole  Detective  force  from  Scotland 
Yard,  with  one  exception.  They  sit  down  in  a 
semi-circle  (the  two  Inspectors  at  the  two  ends) 
at  a little  distance  from  the  round  table,  facing 
the  editorial  sofa.  Every  man  of  them,  in  a 
glance,  immediately  takes  an  inventory  of  the 
furniture  and  an  accurate  sketch  of  the  edito- 
rial presence.  The  Editor  feels  that  any  gen- 
tleman in  company  could  take  him  up,  if  need 
should  be,  without  the  smallest  hesitation,  twen- 
ty years  hence. 

The  whole  party  are  in  plain  clothes.  Ser- 
geant Dornton,  about  fifty  years  of  age,  with  a 
ruddy  face  and  a high,  sun- burnt  forehead,  has 
the  air  of  one  who  has  been  a Sergeant  in  the 
army — he  might  have  sat  to  Wilkie  for  the 
Soldier  in  the  Reading  of  the  Will.  He  is 
famous  for  steadily  pursuing  the  inductive  pro- 
cess, and,  from  small  beginnings,  working  on 
from  clue  to  clue  until  he  bags  his  man.  Ser- 
geant Witchem,  shorter  and  thicker-set,  and 
marked  with  the  small-pox,  has  something  of  a 
reserved  and  thoughtful  air,  as  if  he  were  en- 
gaged in  deep  arithmetical  c;  lculations.  He  is 
renowned  for  his  acquaintance  with  the  swell 
mob.  Sergeant  Mith,  a smooth-faced  man  with 
a fresh  bright  complexion,  and  a strange  air  of 
simplicity,  is  a dab  at  housebreakers.  Sergeant 
Fendall,  a light-haired,  well-spoken,  polite  per- 
son, is  a prodigious  hand  at  pursuing  private  in- 
quiries of  a delicate  nature.  Straw,  a little  wiry 
Sergeant  of  meek  demeanor  and  strong  sense, 
would  knock  at  a door  and  ask  a series  of  ques- 


tions in  any  mild  character  you  choose  to  pres- 
cribe to  him,  from  a charity-boy  upwards,  and 
seem  as  innocent  as  an  infant.  They  are,  one 
and  all,  respectable-looking  men  ; of  perfectly 
good  deportment  and  unusual  intelligence  ; with 
nothing  lounging  or  slinking  in  their  manners  ; 
with  an  air  of  keen  observation  and  quick  per- 
ception when  addressed;  and  generally  present- 
ing in  their  faces,  traces  more  or  less  marked 
of  habitually  leading  lives  of  strong  mental  ex- 
citement. They  have  all  good  eyes  ; and  they  all 
can,  and  they  all  do,  look  full  at  whomsoever 
they  speak  to. 

'S'  v ^ ^ ^ 

Forever  on  the  watch,  with  their  wits  stretched 
to  the  utmost,  these  officers  have,  from  day  to 
day  and  year  to  year,  to  set  themselves  against 
every  novelty  of  trickery  and  dexterity  that  the 
combined  imaginations  of  all  the  lawless  rascals 
in  England  can  devise,  and  to  keep  pace  with 
every  such  invention  that  comes  out.  In  the 
Courts  of  Justice,  the  materials  of  thousands  of 
such  stories  as  we  have  narrated — often  elevated 
into  the  marvellous  and  romantic,  by  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case — are  dryly  compressed  into 
the  set  phrase,  “ in  consequence  of  information 
I received,  I did  so  and  so.”  Suspicion  was  to 
be  directed,  by  careful  inference  and  deduction, 
npon  the  right  person  ; the  right  person  was  to 
be  taken,  wherever  he  had  gone,  or  whatever  he 
was  doing  to  avoid  detection  ; he  is  taken  ; there 
he  is  at  the  bar  ; that  is  enough.  From  infor- 
mation I,  the  officer,  received,  I did  it  ; and,  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  in  these  cases,  I say  no 
more. 

These  games  of  chess,  played  with  live  pieces, 
are  played  before  small  audiences,  and  are 
chronicled  nowhere.  The  interest  of  the  game 
supports  the  player.  Its  results  are  enough  fur 
Justice.  To  compare  great'  things  with  small, 
suppose  Leverrier  or  Adams  informing  the 
public  that  from  information  he  had  received  he 
had  discovered  a new  planet ; or  COLUMBUS  in- 
forming the  public  of  his  day  that  from  informa- 
tion he  had  received  he  had  discovered  a new 
continent ; so  the  Detectives  inform  it  that  they 
have  discovered  a new  fraud  or  an  old  offender, 
and  the  process  is  unknown. 

The  Detective  Police.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

POLICE-OFFICE— A. 

The  whitewashed  room  was  pure  white  as  of 
old,  the  methodical  book-keeping  was  in  peace- 
ful progress  as  of  old,  and  some  distant  howler 
was  banging  against  a cell  door  as  of  old.  The 
sanctuary  was  not  a permanent  abiding-place, 
but  a kind  of  criminal  Pickford’s.  The  lower 
passions  and  vices  were  regularly  ticked  off  in 
the  books,  warehoused  in  the  cells,  carted  away 
as  per  accompanying  invoice,  and  left  little 
mark  upon  it. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  IV.,  Chap.  12. 

POLITICIAN— His  sentiments. 

He  was  a great  politician,  of  course,  and  ex- 
plained his  opinion  at  some  length  to  one  of  our 
company  ; but  I only  remember  that  he  conclud- 
ed with  two  sentiments,  one  of  which  was, 
Somebody  for  ever,  and  the  other,  Blast  every- 
body else  ! ’which  is  by  no  means  a bad  abstract 
of  the  general  creed  in  these  matters. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  13. 


POLITICIANS 


300 


POOR  AND  UNFORTUNATE 


POLITICIANS. 

These  are  the  great  actors  for  whom  the 
stage  is  reserved.  A People  there  are,  no 
doubt — a certain  large  number  of  supernumer- 
aries, who  are  to  be  occasionally  addressed,  and 
relied  upon  for  shouts  and  choruses,  as  on  the 
theatrical  stage;  but  Boodle  and  Puffy,  their 
followers  and  families,  their  heirs,  executors, 
administrators,  and  assigns,  are  the  born  first- 
actors,  managers,  and  leaders,  and  no  others  can 
appear  upon  the  scene  for  ever  and  ever. 

Bleak  House , Chap,  12. 

POLITICAL  ECONOMY-Toots’s  idea  of. 

Mr.  Baps  was  a very  grave  gentleman,  with  a 
slow  and  measured  manner  of  speaking  ; and 
before  he  had  stood  under  the  lamp  five 
minutes,  he  began  to  talk  to  Toots  (who  had 
been  silently  comparing  pumps  with  him)  about 
Mdiat  you  were  to  do  with  your  raw  materials 
when  they  came  into  your  ports  in  return  for 
your  drain  of  gold.  Mr.  Toots,  to  whom  the 
question  seemed  perplexing,  suggested  “ Cook 
’em.” — Dombey  er5  Co/i,  Chap.  14. 

POMPOSITY— Mr.  Sapsea  as  a type  of. 

Accepting  the  jackass  as  the  type  of  self-suf- 
ficient stupidity  and  conceit,  — a custom,  per- 
haps, like  some  few  other  customs,  more  con- 
ventional than  fair, — then  the  purest  jackass  in 
Cloisterham  is  Mr.  Thomas  Sapsea,  Auctioneer. 

Mr.  Sapsea  has  many  admirers  ; indeed, 
the  proposition  is  carried  by  a large  local  ma- 
jority, even  including  non-believers  in  his 
wisdom,  that  he  is  a credit  to  Cloisterham. 
He  possesses  the  great  qualities  of  being  por- 
tentous and  dull,  and  of  having  a roll  in 
his  speech,  and  another  roll  in  his  gait ; 
not  to  mention  a certain  gravely  flowing 
action  with  his  hands,  as  if  he  were  presently 
going  to  Confirm  the  individual  with  whom  he 
holds  discourse.  Much  nearer  sixty  years  of 
age  than  fifty,  with  a flowing  outline  of  stomach, 
and  horizontal  creases  in  his  waistcoat ; reputed 
to  be  rich  ; voting  at  elections  in  the  strictly 
respectable  interest ; morally  satisfied  that 
nothing  but  he  himself  has  grown  since  he  was 
a baby  ; how  can  dunder-headed  Mr.  Sapsea  be 
otherwise  than  a credit  to  Cloisterham,  and 
society  ? — Edwin  Drood , Chap.  4. 

POMPOSITY— Its  influence. 

“ Well  ! ” said  Wemmick,  “ that’s  over!  He’s 
a wonderful  man,  without  his  living  likeness  ; 
but  I feel  that  I have  to  screw  myself  up  when 
I dine  with  him — and  I dine  more  comfortably 
unscrewed.” — Great  Expectations , Chap.  48. 

PONY -A  theatrical. 

“ He’s  a good  pony  at  bottom,”  said  Mr. 
Crummies,  turning  to  Nicholas. 

He  might  have  been  at  bottom,  but  he  cer- 
tainly was  not  at  top,  seeing  that  his  coat  was 
of  the  roughest  and  most  ill-favored  kind.  So, 
Nicholas  merely  observed  that  he  shouldn’t 
wonder  if  he  was. 

“ Many  and  many  is  the  circuit  this  pony 
lias  gone,”  said  Mr.  Crummies,  flicking  him 
skillfully  on  the  eyelid  for  old  acquaintance  sake. 
“ He  is  quite  one  of  us.  II is  mother  was  on 
the  stage.” 

“ Was  she?”  rejoined  Nicholas. 

“ She  ate  apple-pic  at  a circus  for  upwards  of 


fourteen  years,”  said  the  manager;  “fired  pis- 
tols, and  went  to  bed  in  a night-cap  ; and,  in 
short,  took  the  low  comedy  entirely.  His 
father  was  a dancer.” 

“ Was  he  at  all  distinguished?” 

“ Not  very,”  said  the  manager.  “ He  was 
rather  a low  sort  of  pony.  The  fact  is,  he  had 
been  originally  jobbed  out  by  the  • lay,  and  he 
never  quite  got  over  his  old  habits.  He  was 
clever  in  melodrama  too,  but  too  broad — too 
broad.  When  the  mother  died,  he  took  the 
port-wine  business.” 

“The  port-wine  business  !”  cried  Nicholas. 

“Drinking  port-wine  with  the  clown,”  said 
the  manager  ; “ but  he  was  greedy,  and  one 
night  bit  off  the  bowl  of  the  glass  and  choked 
himself,  so  his  vulgarity  was  the  death  of  him  at 
last  ” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  23. 

POOR— Their  characteristics. 

There  was  a string  of  people  already  strag- 
gling in,  whom  it  was  not  difficult  to  identify  as 
the  nondescript  messengers,  go-betweens,  and 
errand-bearers  of  the  place.  Some  of  them  had 
been  lounging  in  the  rain  until  the  gate  should 
open  ; others,  who  had  timed  their  arrival  with 
greater  nicety,  were  coming  up  now,  and  passing 
in  with  damp  whitey-brown  paper  bags  from  the 
grocers,  loaves  of  bread,  lumps  of  butter,  eggs, 
milk,  and  the  like.  The  shabbiness  of  these  at- 
tendants upon  shabbiness,  the  poverty  of  these 
insolvent  waiters  upon  insolvency,  was  a sight 
to  see.  Such  threadbare  coats  and  trousers,  such 
fusty  gowns  and  shawls,  such  squashed  hats  and 
bonnets,  such  boots  and  shoes,  such  umbrellas 
and  walking-sticks,  never  were  seen  in  Rag 
Fair.  All  of  them  wore  the  cast-off  clothes  of 
other  men  and  women  ; were  made  up  of  patches 
and  pieces  of  other  people’s  individuality,  and 
had  no  sartorial  existence  of  their  own  proper. 
Their  walk  was  the  walk  of  a race  apart.  They 
had  a peculiar  way  of  doggedly  slinking  round 
the  corner,  as  if  they  were  eternally  going  to  the 
pawnbroker’s.  When  they  coughed,  they  coughed 
like  people  accustomed  to  be  forgotten  on  door- 
steps and  in  draughty  passages,  waiting  for  an- 
swers to  letters  in  faded  ink,  which  gave  the 
recipients  of  those  manuscripts  great  mental 
disturbance,  and  no  satisfaction.  As  they  eyed 
the  stranger  in  passing,  they  eyed  him  with  bor- 
rowing eyes — hungry,  sharp,  speculative  as  to 
his  softness  if  they  were  accredited  to  him,  and 
the  likelihood  of  his  standing  something  hand- 
some. Mendicity  on  commission  stooped  in 
their  high  shoulders,  shambled  in  their  unsteady 
legs,  buttoned  and  pinned  and  darned  and  drag- 
ged their  clothes,  frayed  their  button-holes, 
leaked  out  of  their  figures  in  dirty  little  ends  of 
tape,  and  issued  from  their  mouths  in  alcoholic 
breathings. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  9. 

POOR  AND  UNFORTUNATE -The  voice 
of  the. 

Oliver  told  them  all  his  simple  history,  and  was 
often  compelled  to  stop,  by  pain  and  want  of 
strength.  It  was  a solemn  thing,  to  hear,  in 
the  darkened  room,  the  feeble  voice  of  the  sick 
child  recounting  a weary  catalogue  of  evils  and 
calamities  which  hard  men  had  brought  upon 
him.  Oh  ! if,  when  we  oppress  and  grind  our 
fellow-creatures,  we  bestowed  but  one  thought 
on  the  dark  evidences  of  human  error,  which, 
like  dense  ind  heavy  clouds,  are  rising,  slowly, 


POOH 


367 


POOH 


it  is  true,  but  not  less  surely,  to  Heaven,  to  pour 
their  after-vengeance  on  our  heads  ; if  we  heard 
but  one  instant,  in  imagination,  the  deep  testi- 
mony of  dead  men’s  voices,  which  no  power 
can  stifle,  and  no  pride  shut  out ; where  would 
be  the  injury  and  injustice,  the  suffering,  misery, 
cruelty,  and  wrong,  that  each  day’s  life  brings 
with  it ! — Oliver  Twist , Chap.  30. 

POOR— The  plea  of  the. 

“Now,  gentlemen,”  said  Will  Fern,  holding 
out  his  hands,  and  flushing  for  an  instant  in  his 
haggard  face.  “ See  how  your  laws  are  made  to 
trap  and  hunt  us  when  we’re  brought  to  this.  I 
tries  to  live  elsewhere.  And  I’m  a vagabond. 
To  jail  with  him  ! I comes  back  here.  I goes 
a-nutting  in  your  woods,  and  breaks — who 
don’t? — a limber  branch  or  two.  To  jail  with 
him  ! One  of  your  keepers  sees  me  in  the  broad 
day,  near  my  own  patch  of  garden,  with  a gun. 
To  jail  with  him  ! I has  a nat’ral  angry  word 
with  that  man,  when  I’m  free  again.  To  jail 
with  him  ! I cut  a stick.  To  jail  with  him  ! 
I eats  a rotten  apple  or  a turnip.  To  jail  with 
him  ! It’s  twenty  mile  away  ; and  coming  back, 
I begs  a trifle  on  the  road.  To  jail  with  him  ! 
At  last  the  constable,  the  keeper — anybody — 
finds  me  anywhere,  a-doing  anything.  To  jail 
with  him,  for  he’s  a vagrant,  and  a jail-bird 
known  ; and  jail’s  the  only  home  he’s  got.” 

The  Alderman  nodded  sagaciously,  as  who 
should  say,  “ A very  good  home  too  ! ” 

“ Do  I say  this  to  serve  my  cause  ? ” cried 
Fern.  “ Who  can  give  me  back  my  liberty,  who 
can  give  me  back  my  good  name,  who  can  give 
me  back  my  innocent  niece?  Not  all  the  Lords 
and  Ladies  in  wide  England.  But,  gentlemen, 
gentlemen,  dealing  with  other  men  like  me,  be- 
gin at  the  right  end.  Give  us,  in  mercy,  better 
homes  when  we’re  a-lying  in  our  craoles;  give 
us  better  food  when  we’re  a-working  for  our 
lives  ; give  us  kinder  laws  to  bring  us  back  when 
we’re  a-going  wrong  ; and  don’t  set  Jail,  Jail, 
Jail,  afore  us,  everywhere  wre  turn.  There  aivt 
a condescension  you  can  show  the  Laborer  then, 
that  he  won’t  take,  as  ready  and  as  grateful  as  a 
man  can  be  ; for  he  has  a patient,  peaceful,  will- 
ing heart.  But  you  must  put  his  rightful  spirit 
in  him  first ; for,  whether  he’s  a wreck  and  ruin 
such  as  me,  or  is  like  one  of  them  that  stand 
here  now,  his  spirit  is  divided  from  you  at  this 
time.  Bring  it  back,  gentlefolks,  bring  it  back  ! 
Bring  it  back,  afore  the  day  comes  when  even 
his  Bible  changes  in  his  altered  mind,  and  the 
words  seem  to  him  to  read,  as  they  have  some- 
times read  in  my  own  eyes — in  Jail,  ‘Whither 
thou  goest,  I can  Not  go  ; where  thou  lodgest, 
I do  Not  lodge;  thy  people  are  Not  my  peo- 
ple ; Nor  thy  God  my  Gocl  ! ’ ” 

Chimes , 2>d  quarter. 

POOR— Ths  homes  of  the. 

Great  heaps  of  ashes  ; stagnant  pools,  over- 
grown with  rank  grass  and  duckweed  ; broken 
turnstiles  ; and  the  upright  posts  of  palings  long 
since  carried  off  for  firewood,  which  menaced  all 
heedless  walkers  with  their  jagged  and  rusty 
nails,  were  the  leading  features  of  the  land- 
scape ; while  here  and  there  a donkey,  or  a rag- 
ged horse,  tethered  to  a stake,  and  cropping  oft' 
a wretched  meal  from  the  coarse,  stunted  turf, 
were  quite  in  keeping  with  the  scene,  and  would 
have  suggested  (if  the  houses  had  not  done  so 


sufficiently,  of  themselves)  how  very  poor  the 
people  were  who  lived  in  the  crazy  huts  adja- 
cent, and  how  foolhardy  it  might  prove  for  one 
who  carried  money,  or  wore  decent  clothes,  to 
walk  that  way  alone,  unless  by  daylight. 

Poverty  has  its  whims  and  shows  of  taste,  as 
wealth  has.  Some  of  these  cabins  were  turreted, 
some  had  false  windows  painted  on  their  rotten 
walls ; one  had  a mimic  clock,  upon  a crazy 
tower  of  four  feet  high,  which  screened  the  chim- 
ney ; each  in  its  little  patch  of  ground  had  a rude 
seat  or  arbor.  The  population  dealt  in  bones, 
in  rags,  in  broken  glass,  in  old  wheels,  in  birds, 
and  dogs.  These,  in  their  several  ways  of  stow- 
age, filled  the  gardens  ; and  shedding  a perfume, 
not  of  the  most  delicious  nature,  in  the  air,  filled 
it  besides  with  yells,  and  screams,  and  howling. 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  44. 

POOR— Hospital  scones  among1  the. 

Among  this  congregation  were  some  evil-look- 
ing young  women,  and  beetle-browed  young 
men  ; but  not  many — perhaps  that  kind  of 
characters  kept  away.  Generally,  the  faces 
(those  of  the  children  excepted)  were  depressed 
and  subdued,  and  wanted  color.  Aged  people 
were  there  in  every  variety.  Mumbling,  blear- 
eyed,  spectacled,  stupid,  deaf,  lame  ; vacantly 
winking  in  the  gleams  of  sun  that  now  and  then 
crept  in  through  the  open  doors  from  the  paved 
yard  ; shading  their  listening  ears  or  blinking 
eyes  with  their  withered  hands ; poring  over 
their  books,  leering  at  nothing,  going  to  sleep, 
crouching  and  drooping  in  coiners.  There  were 
weird  old  women,  all  skeleton  within,  all  bon- 
net and  cloak  without,  continually  wiping  their 
eyes  with  dirty  dusters  of  pocket-handkerchiefs  ; 
and  there  were  ugly  old  crones,  both  male  and 
female,  with  a ghastly  kind  of  contentment  upon 
them  which  was  not  at  all  comforting  to  see. 
Upon  the  whole,  it  was  the  dragon,  Pauperism, 
in  a very  weak  and  impotent  condition  ; tooth- 
less, fangless,  drawing  his  breath  heavily  enough, 
and  hardly  worth  chaining  up. 

& % % % * 

In  a room  opening  from  a squalid  yard,  where 
a number  of  listless  women  were  lounging  to 
and  fro,  trying  to  get  warm  in  the  ineffectual 
sunshine  of  the  tardy  May  morning — in  the 
“ Itch  Ward,”  not  to  compromise  the  truth — a 
woman  such  as  Hogarth  has  often  drawn,  was 
hurriedly  getting  on  her  gown  before  a dusty 
fire.  She  was  the  nurse,  or  wardswoman,  of 
that  insalubrious  department — herself  a pauper 
—flabby,  raw-boned,  untidy,  unpromising,  and 
coarse  of  aspect  as  need  be.  But,  on  being 
spoken  to  about  the  patients  whom  she  had  in 
charge,  she  turned  round,  with  her  shabby  gown 
half  on,  half  off,  and  fell  a-crying  with  all  her 
might.  Not  for  show,  not  querulously,  not  in 
any  mawkish  sentiment,  but  in  the  deep  grief 
and  affliction  of  her  heart ; turning  away  her 
dishevelled  head  : sobbing  most  bitterly,  wring- 
ing her  hands,  and  letting  fall  abundance  of 
great  tears,  that  choked  her  utterance.  What 
was  the  matter  with  the  nurse  of  the  itch-ward  ? 
Oh,  the  “dropped  child”  was  dead!  Oh,  the 
child  that  was  found  in  the  street,  and  she  had 
brought  up  ever  since,  had  died  an  hour  ago  ; 
and  see  where  the  little  creature  lay,  beneath 
this  cloth  ! The  dear,  the  pretty  dear  ! 

The  dropped  child  seemed  too  small  and  poor 
a thing  for  Death  to  be  in  earnest  with,  but 


POOR 


308 


POOR 


Death  had  taken  it  ; and  already  its  diminutive 
form  was  neatly  washed,  composed,  and  stretched 
as  if  in  sleep  upon  a box.  I thought  I heard  a 
voice  from  Heaven  saying,  It  shall  be  well  for 
thee,  O nurse  of  the  itch-ward,  when  som?  less 
gentle  pauper  does  those  offices  to  thy  -cold 
form,  that  such  as  the  dropped  child  are  the 
angels  who  behold  my  Father’s  face  ! 

* * * * * 

Groves  of  babies  in  arms  ; groves  of  mothers 
and  other  sick  women  in  bed  ; groves  of  luna- 
tics ; jungles  of  men  in  stone-paved  down-stairs 
day-rooms,  waiting  for  their  dinners  ; longer  and 
longer  groves  of  old  people,  in  up-stairs  Infirm- 
ary wards,  wearing  out  life,  God  knows  how — 
this  was  the  scenery  through  which  the  walk  lay, 
for  two  hours.  In  some  of  these  latter  cham- 
bers, there  were  pictures  stuck  against  the  wall, 
and  a neat  display  of  crockery  and  pewter  on  a 
kind  of  sideboard  ; now  and  then  it  was  a treat 
to  see  a plant  or  two  : in  almost  every  ward 
there  was  a cat. 

In  all  of  these  Long  Walks  of  aged  and  infirm, 
some  old  people  were  bed-ridden,  and  had  been 
for  a long  time  ; some  were  sitting  on  their  beds 
half-naked  ; some  dying  in  their  beds  ; some  out 
of  bed,  and  sitting  at  a table  near  the  fire.  A 
sullen  or  lethargic  indifference  to  what  was  ask- 
ed, a blunted  sensibility  to  everything  but  warmth 
and  food,  a moody  absence- of  complaint  as  be- 
ing of  no  use,  a dogged  silence  and  resentful 
desire  to  be  left  alone  again,  I thought  were 
generallv  apparent. 

* ' * * x x 

Who  could  wonder,  looking  through  those 
weary  vistas  of  bed  and  infirmity,  that  it  should 
do  him  good  to  meet  with  some  other  scenes, 
and  assure  himself  that  there  was  something 
else  on  earth?  Who  could  help  wondering  why 
the  old  men  lived  on  as  they  did  ; what  grasp 
they  had  on  life  ; what  crumbs  of  interest  or  oc- 
cupation they  could  pick  up  from  its  bare  board  ; 
whether  Charley  Walters  had  ever  described  to 
them  the  days  when  he  kept  company  with  some 
old  pauper  woman  in  the  bud,  or  Billy  Stevens 
ever  told  them  of  the  time  when  he  was  a 
dweller  in  the  far-off  foreign  land  called 
Home  ! 

The  morsel  of  burnt  child,  lying  in  another 
room,  so  patiently,  in  bed,  wrapped  in  lint,  and 
looking  steadfastly  at  us  with  his  bright,  quiet 
eyes  when  we  spoke  to  him  kindly,  looked  as  if 
the  knowledge  of  these  things,  and  of  all  the 
tender  things  there  are  to  think  about,  might 
have  been  in  his  mind — as  if  he  thought,  with 
us,  that  there  was  a fellow-feeling  in  the  pauper 
nurses,  which  appeared  to  make  them  more 
kind  to  their  charges  than  the  race  of  common 
nurses  in  the  hospitals — as  if  he  mused  upon 
the  Future  of  some  older  children  lying  around 
him  in  the  same  place,  and  thought  it  best,  per- 
haps, all  things  considered,  that  he  should  die 
— as  if  he  knew,  without  fear,  of  those  many 
coffins,  made  and  unmade,  piled  up  in  the  store 
below — and  of  his  unknown  friend,  “ the  drop- 
ped child,”  calm  upon  the  box-lid,  covered  with 
a cloth.  But  there  was  something  wistful  and 
appealing,  too,  in  his  liny  face,  as  if,  in  the 
midst  of  the  hard  necessities  and  incongruities 
he  pondered  on,  he  pleaded,  in  behalf  of  the 
helpless  and  the  aged  poor,  for  a little  more 
liberty — and  a little  more  bread. 

A ll'a/k  in  a Workhouse.  Reprinted  Pieces. 


POOR  Public  duty  to  the. 

My  Lords  and  Gentlemen  and  Honorable 
Boards,  when  you,  in  the  course  of  your  dust- 
shovelling and  cinder-raking,  have  piled  up  a 
mountain  of  pretentious  failure,  you  must  off 
with  your  honorable  coats  for  the  removal  of  it, 
and  fall  to  the  work  with  the  power  of  all  the 
queen’s  horses  and  all  the  queen’s  men,  or  it 
will  come  rushing  down  and  bury  us  alive. 

Yes,  verily,  my  Lords  and  Gentlemen  and 
Honorable  Boards,  adapting  your  Catechism  to 
the  occasion,  and  by  God’s  help  so  you  must. 
For  when  we  have  got  things  to  the  pass  that 
with  an  enormous  treasure  at  disposal  to  relieve 
the  poor,  the  best  of  the  poor  detest  our  mer- 
cies, hide  their  heads  from  us,  and  shame  us  by 
starving  to  death  in  the  midst  of  us,  it  is  a pass 
impossible  of  prosperity,  impossible  of  contin- 
uance. It  may  not  be  so  written  in  the  Gospel 
according  to  l’odsnappery  ; you  may  not  “ find 
these  words”  for  the  text  of  a sermon,  in  the 
Returns  of  the  Board  of  Trade  ; but  they  have 
been  the  truth  since  the  foundations  of  the 
universe  were  laid,  and  they  will  be  the  truth 
until  the  foundations  of  the  universe  are  shaken 
by  the  Builder.  This  boastful  handiwork  of 
ours,  which  fails  in  its  terrors  for  the  professional 
pauper,  the  sturdy  breaker  of  windows,  and  the 
rampant  tearcr  of  clothes,  strikes  with  a cruel 
and  a wicked  stab  at  the  stricken  sufferer,  and  is 
a horror  to  the  deserving  and  unfortunate.  We 
must  mend  it,  Lords  and  Gentlemen  and  Hon- 
orable Boards,  or  in  its  own  evil  hour  it  will 
mar  every  one  of  us. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  III.,  Chap.  8. 

POOR-  To  be  cultivated. 

It  was  but  a hurried  parting  in  a common 
street,  yet  it  was  a sacred  remembrance  to  these 
two  common  people.  Utilitarian  economists, 
skeletons  of  schoolmasters,  Commissioners  of 
Fact,  genteel  and  used-up  infidels,  gabblers  of 
many  little  dog’s-eared  creeds,  the  poor  you  will 
have  always  with  you.  Cultivate  in  them,  while 
there  is  yet  time,  the  utmost  graces  of  the  fan- 
cies and  affections,  to  adorn  their  lives,  so  much 
in  need  of  ornament  ; or,  in  the  day  of  your 
triumph,  when  romance  is  utterly  driven  out  of 
their  souls,  and  they  and  a bare  existence  stand 
face  to  face,  Reality  will  take  a wolfish  turn, 
and  make  an  end  of  you. 

Hard  Times , Book  //.,  Chap.  6. 

POOR— The  parish. 

How  much  is  conveyed  in  those  two  short 
words — “The  Parish!”  And  with  how  many 
tales  of  distress  and  misery,  of  broken  fortune 
and  ruined  hopes,  too  often  of  unrelieved  wretch- 
edness and  successful  knavery,  are  they  associated. 
A poor  man  with  small  earnings,  and  a large 
family,  just  manages  to  live  on  from  hand  to 
mouth,  and  to  procure  food  from  day  to  day;  he 
has  barely  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  present  crav- 
ings of  nature,  and  can  take  no  heed  of  the  future. 
II is  taxes  are  in  arrear,  quarter-day  passes  by,  ano- 
ther quarter-day  arrives  ; he  can  procure  no  more 
quarter  for  himself,  and  is  summoned  by — the 
parish.  1 1 is  goods  are  distrained,  his  children  are 
crying  with  cold  and  hunger,  and  the  very  bed 
on  which  his  sick  wife  is  lying,  is  dragged  from 
beneath  her.  What  can  he  do  ? To  whom  is 
he  to  apply  for  relief ? To  private  charity  ? To 
benevolent  individuals?  Certainly  not — there 


POOR  PATIENTS 


309 


PORTER 


is  his  parish.  There  are  the  parish  vestry,  the 
parish  infirmary,  the  parish  surgeon,  the  parish 
officers,  the  parish  beadle.  Excellent  institu- 
tions, and  gentle,  kind-hearted  men.  The  wo- 
man dies — she  is  buried  by  the  parish.  The 
children  have  no  protector— they  are  taken 
care  of  by  the  parish.  The  man  first  neglects, 
and  afterwards  cannot  obtain,  work — he  is  re- 
lieved by  the  parish:  and  when  distress  and 
drunkenness  have  done  their  work  upon  him, 
he  is  maintained,  a harmless,  babbling  idiot,  in 
the  parish  asylum.— Sketches  (Scenes),  Chap.  i. 

POOR  PATIENTS— Their  patronage. 

“ It’s  wonderful  how  the  poor  people  patron- 
ize me,”  said  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer,  reflectively. 
“They  knock  me  up,  at  all  hours  of  the  night  ; 
they  take  medicine  to  an  extent  which  I should 
have  conceived  impossible  ; they  put  on  blisters 
and  leeches  with  a perseverance  worthy  of  a 
better  cause  ; they  make  additions  to  their  fam- 
ilies, in  a manner  which  is  quite  awful.  Six  of 
those  last-named  little  promissory  notes,  all  due 
on  the  same  day,  Ben,  and  all  entrusted  to 
me ! ” 

“ It>s  very  gratifying,  isn’t  it?”  said  Mr.  Ben 
Allen,  holding  his  plate  for  some  more  minced 
veal. 

Oh,  very,  replied  Bob  ; “ only  not  quite  so 
much  so,  as  the  confidence  of  patients  with  a 
shilling  or  two  to  spare,  would  be.  This  busi- 
ness was  capitally  described  in  the  advertise- 
ment, Ben.  It  is  a practice,  a very  extensive 
practice— and  that’s  all.”— Pickwick,  Chap.  48. 


POOR-The  tenderness  of  the. 

Cant  as  we  may,  and  as  we  shall  to  the  end 
of  all  things,  it  is  very  much  harder  for  the  poor 
to  be  virtuous  than  it  is  for  the  rich  ; and  the 
good  that  is  in  them  shines  the  brighter  for  it. 
In  many  a noble  mansion  lives  a man,  the  best 
of  husoands  and  of  fathers,  whose  private  worth 
in  both  capacities  is  justly  lauded  to  the  skies. 
But  bring  him  here,  upon  this  crowded  deck, 
strip  from  his  fair  young  wife  her  silken  dress 
and  jewels,  unbind  her  braided  hair,  stamp  early 
wrinkles  on  her  brow,  pinch  her  pale  cheek 
with  care  and  much  privation,  array  her  faded 
form  in  coarsely  patched  attire,  let  there  be 
nothing  but  his  love  to  set  her  forth  or  deck 
her  out,  and  you  shall  put  it  to  the  proof  in- 
deed. So  change  his  station  in  the  world,  that 
he  shall  see  in  those  young  things  who  climb 
about  his  knee,  not  records  of  his  wealth  and 
name,  but  little  wrestlers  with  him  for  his  daily 
bread,  so  many  poachers  on  his  scanty  meal,  so 
many  units  to  divide  his  every  sum  of  comfort, 
and  further  to  reduce  its  small  amount.  In  lieu 
of  the  endearments  of  childhood  in  its  sweetest 
aspect,  heap  upon  him  all  its  pains  and  wants, 
its  sicknesses  and  ills,  its  fretfulness,  caprice, 
and  querulous  endurance  ; let  its  prattle  be,  not 
af  engaging  infant  fancies,  but  of  cold  and  thirst 
*11  j1!11^Ser  ! and  if  his  fatherly  affection  outlive 
ill  this,  and  he  be  patient,  watchful,  tender, 

I -aieful  of  his  children’s  lives,  and  mindful  al- 
[ .vays  of  their  joys  and  sorrows,  then  send  him 
'aack.  to  Parliament,  and  Pulpit,  and  to  Quarter 
1 sessions,  and  when  he  hears  fine  talk  of  the  de- 
! cavity  of  those  who  live  from  hand  to  mouth, 

! , labor  hard  to  do  it,  let  him  speak  up,  as  one 
| vbo  knows,  and  tell  those  holders  forth  that  they, 
i iy  parallel  with  such  a class,  should  be  High 


Angels  in  their  daily  lives,  and  lay  but  humble 
siege  to  Heaven  at  last. 

Which  of  us  shall  say  what  he  would  be,  if 
such  realities,  with  small  relief  or  change’all 
through  his  days,  were  his?  Looking  round 
upon  these  people,  far  from  home,  houseless,  in- 
digent, wandering,  weary  with  travel  and  hard 
living,  and  seeing  how  patiently  they  nursed 
and  tended  their  young  children  ; how  they 
consulted  over  their  wants  first,  then  half  sup- 
plied their  own  ; what  gentle  ministers  of  hope 
and  faith  the  women  were  ; how  the  men  prof- 
ited by  their  example  ; and  how  very,  very  sel- 
dom even  a moment’s  petulance  or  harsh  com- 
plaint broke  out  among  them — I felt  a stronger 
love  and  honor  of  my  kind  come  glowing  on  my 
heart,  and  wished  to  God  there  had  been  many 
Atheists  in  the  better  part  of  human  nature 
there  to  read  this  simple  lesson  in  the  book  of 
Life. — American  Notes,  Chap.  15. 

POOR— The— Their  kindness  to  each  other. 

How  the  heart  of  each  to  each  was  softened 
by  the  hard  trials  of  their  lives  ! I think  the 
best  side  of  such  people  is  almost  hidden  from 
us.  What  the  poor  are  to  the  poor  is  little 
known,  excepting  to  themselves  and  God. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  8. 


POPULARITY  (Slurk,  the  Editor). 

Are  you  the  landlord  ? ” inquired  the  gen- 
tleman. 

“ I am,  sir,”  replied  the  landlord. 

“Do  you  know  me?”  demanded  the  gentle- 
man. 

“ I have  not  that  pleasure,  sir,”  rejoined  the 
landlord. 

“ My  name  is  Slurk,”  said  the  gentleman. 

The  landlord  slightly  inclined  his  head. 

“ Slurk,  sir,”  repeated  the  gentleman,  haugh- 
tily. “ Do  you  know  me  now,  man  ?” 

The  landlord  scratched  his  head,  looked  at 
the  ceiling  and  at  the  stranger,  and  smiled 
feebly. 

“Do  you  know  me,  man?”  inquired  the 
stranger,  angrily. 

I he  landlord  made  a strong  effort,  and  at 
length  replied  : « Well,  sir,  I do  not  know  you.” 

“ Great  Heaven  ! ” said  the  stranger,  dashing 
his  clenched  fist  upon  the  table.  “ And  this  is 
popularity  ! ” 

I he  landlord  took  a step  or  two  towards  the 
door  ; the  stranger,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  him,  re- 
sumed. 

“ This,”  said  the  stranger,  “ this  is  gratitude 
for  years  of  labor  and  study  in  behalf  of  the 
masses.  I alight  wet  and  weary  ; no  enthusiastic 
crowds  press  forward  to  greet  their  champion  ; 
the  church-bells  are  silent  ; the  very  name  elicits 
no  responsive  feeling  in  their  torpid  bosoms.  It 
is  enough,  said  the  agitated  Mr.  Slurk,  pacing 
to  and  fro,  “to  curdle  the  ink  in  one’s  pen,  and 
induce  one  to  abandon  their  cause  forever.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  51. 

PORTER— Toby  Veck,  the. 

They  called  him  Trotty  from  his  pace,  which 
meant  speed  if  it  didn’t  make  it.  He  could  have 
walked  faster  perhaps  ; most  likely  ; but  rob  him 
of  his  trot,  and  Toby  would  have  taken  to  his 
bed  and  died.  It  bespattered  him  with  mud  in 
dirty  weather  ; it  cost  him  a world  of  trouble  ; 
he  could  have  walked  with  infinitely  greatei 


PORTER 


370 


POST-BOYS  AND  D0NKEY3 


ease  ; but  that  was  one  reason  for  his  clinging 
to  it  so  tenaciously.  A weak,  small,  spare  old 
man,  he  was  a very  Hercules,  this  Toby,  in  his 
good  intentions.  Me  loved  to  earn  his  money. 
He  delighted  to  believe — Toby  was  very  poor, 
and  couldn’t  well  afford  to  part  with  a delight — 
that  he  was  worth  his  salt.  With  a shilling  or 
an  eighteen-penny  message  or  small  parcel  in 
hand,  bis  courage,  always  high,  rose  higher.  As 
he  trotted  on,  he  would  call  out  to  fast  Postmen 
ahead  of  him,  to  get  out  of  the  way  ; devoutly 
believing  that  in  the' natural  course  of  things  he 
must  inevitably  overtake  and  run  them  down  ; 
and  he  had  perfect  faith — not  often  tested — in 
his  being  able  to  carry  anything  that  man  could 
lift. 

Thus,  even  when  he  came  out  of  his  nook  to 
warm  himself  on  a wet  day,  Toby  trotted.  Mak- 
ing, with  his  leaky  shoes,  a crooked  line  of  slushy 
footprints  in  the  mire  ; and  blowing  on  his  chilly 
hands  and  rubbing  them  against  each  other, 
poorly  defended  from  the  searching  cold  by 
threadbare  mufflers  of  gray  worsted,  with  a pri- 
vate apartment  only  for  the  thumb,  and  a com- 
mon room  or  tap  for  the  rest  of  the  fingers  ; 
Toby,  with  his  knees  bent  and  his  cane  beneath 
his  arm,  still  trotted.  Falling  out  into  the  road 
to  look  up  at  the  belfry  when  the  Chimes  re- 
sounded, Toby  trotted  still. 

Chimes , 1st  Quarter. 

POUTER— A solemn. 

Lest,  with  all  these  proofs  and  confirmations, 
any  man  should  be  suspicious  of  the  Anglo-Ben- 
galee  Disinterested  Loan  and  Life  Assurance 
Company  ; should  doubt  in  tiger,  cab,  or  person, 
Tigg  Montague,  Esquire  (of  Pall  Mall  and 
Bengal),  or  any  other  name  in  the  imaginative 
List  of  Directors  : there  was  a porter  on  the 
premises — a wonderful  creature,  in  a vast  red 
waistcoat  and  a short-tailed  pepper-and-salt  coat 
— who  carried  more  conviction  to  the  minds  of 
sceptics  than  the  whole  establishment  without 
him.  No  confidences  existed  between  him 
and  the  Directorship;  nobody  knew  where  he 
had  served  last ; no  character  or  explanation 
had  been  given  or  required.  No  questions  had 
been  asked  on  either  side.  This  mysterious 
being,  relying  solely  on  his  figure,  had  applied 
for  the  situation,  and  had  been  instantly  engaged 
on  his  own  terms.  They  were  high  ; but  he 
knew,  doubtless,  that  no  man  could  carry  such 
an  extent  of  waistcoat  as  himself,  and  felt  the 
full  value  of  his  capacity  to  such  an  institution. 
"When  he  sat  upon  a seat  erected  for  him  in  a 
corner  of  the  office,  with  his  glazed  hat  hang- 
ing on  a peg  over  his  head,  it  was  impossible  to 
doubt  the  respectability  of  the  concern.  It 
went  on  doubling  itself  with  every  square  inch 
of  his  red  waistcoat,  until,  like  the  problem  of 
the  nails  in  the  horse’s  shoes,  the  total  became 
enormous  People  had  been  known  to  apply  to 
effect  an  insurance  on  their  lives  for  a thousand 
pounds,  and  looking  at  him,  to  beg,  before  the 
form  of  proposal  was  filled  up,  that  it  might  be 
made  two.  And  yet  he  was  not  a giant.  His 
coat  was  rather  small  than  otherwise.  I he 
whole  charm  was  in  his  waistcoat.  Respecta- 
bility, competence,  property  in  Bengal  or  any- 
where else,  responsibility  to  any  amount  on  the 
part  r , f the  < ompany  that  employed  him,  were 
all  expressed  in  that  one  garment. . 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  27. 


POSITIVENESS -Mra.  Pratchett's. 

" For  instance,”  I says,  to  give  her  a little 
encouragement,  “ who  is  Somebody?” 

“ I give  you  my  sacred  honor,  Mr.  Christo- 
pher,” answers  Pratchett,  “ that  I haven’t  the 
faintest  notion.” 

But  for  the  manner  in  which  she  settled  her 
cap-strings,  I should  have  doubted  this ; but  in 
respect  of  positiveness  it  was  hardly  to  be  dis-  j 
criminated  from  an  affidavit. 

“ Then  you  never  saw  him?”  I followed  her 
up  with. 

“ Nor  yet,”  said  Mrs.  Pratchett,  shutting  her 
eyes  and  making  as  if  she  had  just  took  a pill 
of  unusual  circumference — which  gave  a re- 
markable force  to  her  denial — “ nor  yet  any 
servant  in  this  house.  All  have  been  changed,  I 
Mr.  Christopher,  within  five  year,  and^  Some- 
body left  his  Luggage  here  before  then.” 

Somebody's  Luggage , Chap.  1. 

POST-BOYS  AND  DONKEYS-Sam  Wel- 
ler’s idea  of. 

“ This  is  pleasant,”  said  Bob  Sawyer,  turning 
up  his  coat  collar,  and  pulling  the  shawl  over 
his  mouth  to  concentrate  the  fumes  of  a glass  | 
of  brandy  just  swallowed. 

“ Wery,”  replied  Sam,  composedly. 

“ You  don’t  seem  to  mind  it,”  observed  Bob.^  | 
“ Vy,  I don’t  exactly  see  no  good  my  mindin’ 
on  it  ’ud  do,  sir,”  replied  Sam.  m 

“ That’s  an  unanswerable  reason,  anyhow, 
said  Bob. 

“Yes,  sir,”  rejoined  Mr.  Weller.  “Wotever 
is,  is  right,  as  the  young  nobleman  sveetly  re- 
marked wen  they  put  him  down  in  the  pension 
list  ’cos  his  mother’s  uncle’s  vife’s  grandfather 
vunce  lit  the  king’s  pipe  with  a portable  tinder- 
box.” 

“ Not  a bad  notion  that,  Sam,  said  Mr.  bob 
Sawyer  approvingly.  4 

“Just  wot  the  young  nobleman  said  ev  ry 
quarter-day  afterwards  for  the  rest  of  his  life,” 
replied  Mr.  Weller.  # . 

“ Wos  you  ever  called  in,”  inquired  Sam, 
glancing  at  the  driver,  after  a short  silence,  and 
lowering  his  voice  to  a mysterious  whisper:  | 
“ wos  you  ever  called  in,  ven  you  wos  prentice 
to  a sawbones,  to  wisit  a postboy?  ” j] 

“ I don’t  remember  that  I ever  was,  replied 

Bob  Sawyer.  . , , .11 

“ You  never  see  a postboy  in  that  ere  hospital 
as  you  walked  (as  they  says  o’  the  ghosts),  did  J 
you?”  demanded  Sam. 

“ No,”  replied  Bob  Sawyer.  “ I don  t think 
I ever  did.” 

“ Never  know’d  a churchyard  were  there  wos 
a postboy’s  tombstone,  or  see  a dead  postboy, 
did  you?”  inquired  Sam,  pursuing  his  catechism,  j 

“ No,”  rejoined  Bob,  “ I never  did. 

“No!”  rejoined  Sam  triumphantly.  “Nor 
never  vill ; and  there’s  another  thing  that  no  : 
man  ever  see,  and  that’s  a dead  donkey.  No 
man  never  see  a dead  donkey,  cept  *{1C 
o-en’l’m’n  in  the  black  silk  smalls  as  know  d the 
young  ’oonjan  as  kep  a goat  ; and  that  wos  a 1 
French  donkey,  so  wery  likely  he  warn  t wun  o 
the  reg’lar  breed.”  . j ft  I 

“ Well,  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  the  post- , 
boys?”  asked  Bob  Sawyer.  IJ 

“This  here,”  replied  Sam.  “Without  goin 
so  far  as  to  as-sert,  as  some  wery  sensible  people 
do,  that  postboys  and  donkeys  is  both  immortal, 


POVERTY 


371 


PRAYER 


wot  I say  is  this  ; that  wenever  they  feels  their- 
selves  gettin’  stiff  and  past  their  work,  they  just 
rides  off  together,  wun  postboy  to  a pair  in  the 
usual  way  ; wot  becomes  on  ’em  nobody  knows, 
but  it’s  wery  probable  as  they  starts  avay  to  take 
their  pleasure  in  some  other  vorld,  for  there  ain’t 
a man  alive  as  ever  see  either  a donkey  or  a 
postboy  a-takin’  his  pleasure  in  this  ! ” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  51. 

POVERTY—  The  clutch  of. 

Mother  had  the  gripe  and  clutch  of  Poverty 
upon  her  face,  upon  her  figure,  and  not  least  of 
all,  upon  her  voice.  Her  sharp  and  high-pitched 
words  were  squeezed  out  of  her,  as  by  the  com- 
pression of  bony  fingers  on  a leathern  bag ; 
and  she  had  a way  of  rolling  her  eyes  about 
and  about  the  cellar,  as  she  scolded,  that  was 
gaunt  and  hungry. 

George  Silverman's  Explanation. 

POVERTY— The  pride  of. 

When  this  spirited  young  man,  and  his  sister, 
had  begun  systematically  to  produce  the  family 
skeleton  for  the  overawing  of  the  College,  this 
narrative  cannot  precisely  state.  Probably  at 
about  the  period  when  they  began  to  dine  on 
the  College  charity.  It  is  certain  that  the  more 
reduced  and  necessitous  they  were,  the  more 
pompously  the  skeleton  emerged  from  its  tomb  ; 
and  that  when  there  was  anything  particularly 
shabby  in  the  wind,  the  skeleton  always  came 
out  with  the  ghastliest  flourish. 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  20. 

POVERTY— And  wrinkles. 

Mrs.  Plornish  was  a young  woman,  made 
somewhat  slatternly  in  herself  and  her  belong- 
ings by  poverty  ; and  so  dragged  at  by  poverty 
and  the  children  together,  that  their  united 
forces  had  already  dragged  her  face  into  wrin- 
kles.— little  Dorr  it.  Book  I,  Chap.  12. 

POVERTY  AND  OYSTERS- Sam  Weller 
on. 

“It’s  a wery  remarkable  circumstance,  sir,” 
said  Sam,  “ that  poverty  and  oysters  always 
seems  to  go  together.”  , 

“I  don’t  understand  you,  Sam,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“ What  I mean,  sir,”  said  Sam,  “ is,  that  the 
poorer  a place  is,  the  greater  call  there  seems  to 
be  for  oysters.  Look  here,  sir;  here’s  a oyster 
stall  to  every  half-dozen  houses.  The  street’s 
lined  vith  ’em.  Blessed  if  I don’t  think  that  ven 
a man’s  wery  poor,  he  rushes  out  of  his  lodg- 
ings, and  eats  oysters  in  reg’lar  desperation.” 

: “ To  be  sure  he  does,”  said  Mr.  Weller 

senior ; “ and  it’s  just  the  same  vith  pickled 
salmon  ! ” 

“ Those  are  two  very  remarkable  facts,  which 
in  ever  occurred  to  me  before,”  said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick.— Pickwick , Chap.  22. 

POWER— Its  attraction  for  low  natures. 

Power  (unless  it  be  the  power  of  intellect  or 
virtue)  has  ever  the  greatest  attraction  for  the 
lowest  natures  ; and  the  mere  defiance  of  the 
unconscious  house-front,  with  his  power  to  strip 
I he  roof  off  the  inhabiting  family  like  the  roof 
bf  a house  of  cards,  was  a treat  which  had  a 
bharm  for  Silas  Wegg. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  III.,  Chap.  7. 


POWER  AND  WILL. 

“ T he  power  to  serve  is  as  seldom  joined  with 
the  will,  as  the  will  is  with  the  power,  I think.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  20. 

POWER — The  insolence  of  newly  acquired. 

If  Wegg  had  been  worse  paid  for  his  office, 
or  better  qualified  to  discharge  it,  he  would  have 
considered  these  visits  complimentary  and  agree 
able  ; but,  holding  the  position  of  a handsomely- 
remunerated  humbug,  he  resented  them.  This 
was  quite  according  to  rule,  for  the  incompetent: 
servant,  by  whomsoever  employed,  is  always, 
against  his  employer.  Even  those  born  gov- 
ernors, noble  and  right  honorable  creatures,  who 
have  been  the  most  imbecile  in  high  places, 
have  uniformly  shown  themselves  the  most  op*l 
posed  (sometimes  in  belying  distrust,  sometime? 
in  vapid  insolence)  to  their  employer.  What  is 
in  such  wise  true  of  the  public  master  and  ser- 
vant, is  equally  true  of  the  private  master  and 
servant  all  the  world  over. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  II.,  Chap.  7. 

PRAYER— Cruncher  on. 

“ Bust  me,  if  she  ain’t  at  it  again  ! ’* 

A woman  of  orderly  and  industrious  appear- 
ance rose  from  her  knees  in  a corner,  with  suffi- 
cient haste  and  trepidation  to  show  that  she  was 
the  person  referred  to. 

“What!”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  out  of 
bed  for  a boot.  “ You’re  at  it  agin,  are  you?” 

After  hailing  the  morn  with  this  second  salu- 
tation, he  threw  a boot  at  the  woman  as  a third. 
It  was  a very  muddy  boot,  and  may  introduce  the 
odd  circumstance  connected  with  Mr.  Crunch- 
er’s domestic  economy,  that,  whereas  he  often 
came  home  after  banking  hours  with  clean  boots* 
he  often  got  up  next  morning  to  find  the  same 
boots  covered  with  clay. 

“ What,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  varying  his  apos- 
trophe after  missing  his  mark — “what  are  you 
up  to,  Aggerawayter  ? ” 

“ I was  only  saying  my  prayers.” 

“ Saying  your  prayers  ! You’re  a nice  woman  ! 
What  do  you  mean  by  flopping  yourself  down 
and  praying  agin  me  ? ” 

“ I was  not  praying  against  you  ; I was  pray- 
ing for  you.” 

“You  weren’t.  And  if  you  were,  I won’t  be 
took  the  liberty  with.  Here  ! your  mother’s  a 
nice  woman,  young  Jerry,  going  a praying  agin 
your  father’s  prosperity.  You’ve  got  a dutiful 
mother,  you  have,  my  son.  You’ve  got  a relig- 
ious mother,  you  have,  my  boy  : going  and  flop- 
ping herself  down,  and  praying  that  the  bread- 
and-butter  may  be  snatched  out  of  the  mouth  of 
her  only  child  ! ” 

* * * * * 

“ Bu-u-ust  me  ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  all 
this  time  had  been  putting  on  his  clothes,  “ if  I 
ain  t,  what  with  piety  and  one  blowed  thing 
and  another,  been  choused  this  last  week  into 
as  bad  luck  as  ever  a poor  devil  of  a honest 
tradesman  met  with  ! Young  Jerry,  dress  your- 
self, my  boy,  and  while  I clean  my  boots,  keep 
a eye  upon  your  mother  now  and  then,  and  if 
you  see  any  signs  of  more  flopping,  give  me  a 
call.  For,  I tell  you,”  here  he  addressed  his 
wife  once  more,  “ I won’t  be  gone  agin,  in  this 
manner.  I am  as  rickety  as  a hackney-coach, 
I’m  as  sleepy  as  laudanum,  my  lines  is  strained 
to  that  degree  that  I shouldn’t  know,  if  it  wasn’t 


PRACTICAL  MAN 


372 


PRIDE 


for  the  pain ‘in  ’em,  which  was  me  and  which 
somebody  else,  yet  I’m  none  the  better  for  it  in 
pocket ; and  it’s  my  suspicion  that  you’ve  been 
at  it  from  morning  to  night  to  prevent  me  from 
being  the  better  for  it  in  pocket,  and  I won’t 
put  up  With  it,  Aggerawayter,  and  what  do  you 
say  now  ? ” 

Tale  of  Tivo  Cities , Book  II.,  Chap.  I. 

PRACTICAL  MAN-A. 

He  was  an  affectionate  father,  after  his  man- 
ner ; but  he  would  probably  have  described  him- 
self (if  he  had  been  put,  like  Sissy  Jupe,  upon  a 
definition)  as  “an  eminently  practical’’  father. 
He  had  a particular  pride  in  the  phrase  emi- 
nently practical,  which  was  considered  to  have 
a special  application  to  him.  Whatsoever  the 
public  meeting  held  in  Coketown,  and  whatso- 
ever the  subject  of  such  meeting,  some  Coke- 
towner  was  sure  to  seize  the  occasion  of  allud- 
ing to  his  eminently  practical  friend  Gradgrind. 
This  always  pleased  the  eminently  practical 
friend.  He  knew  it  to  be  his  due,  but  his  due 
was  acceptable. — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  3- 

PRECEPTS— Of  married  ladies. 

And  to  do  Mrs.  Nickleby  justice,  she  never 
had  lost — and  to  do  married  ladies,  as  a body, 
justice,  they  seldom  do  lose — any  occasion  of  in- 
, culcating  similar  golden  precepts,  whose  only 
blemish  is  the  slight  degree  of  vagueness  and 
uncertainty  in  which  they  are  usually  enveloped. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  19. 

PREDICAMENT. 

It  is  always  the  person  not  in  the  predicament 
who  knows  what  ought  to  have  been  done  in  it, 
and  would  unquestionably  have  done  it  too. 

Christmas  Carol , Stave  3. 

PRESS— The  American. 

Schools  may  be  erected,  East,  West,  North, 
and  South  ; pupils  be  taught,  and  masters  reared, 
by  scores  upon  scores  of  thousands  ; colleges 
may  thrive,  churches  may  be  crammed,  temper- 
ance may  be  diffused,  and  advancing  knowledge 
in  all  other  forms  walk  through  the  land  with 
giant  strides  ; but  while  the  newspaper  press  of 
America  is  in,  or  near,  its  present  abject  state, 
high  moral  improvement  in  that  country  is  hope- 
less. Year  by  year  it  must  and  will  go  back  ; 
year  by  year  the  tone  of  public  feeling  must  sink 
lower  down  ; year  by  year  the  Congress  and  the 
Senate  must  become  of  less  account  before  all 
decent  men  ; and  year  by  year  the  memory  of 
the  Great  Fathers  of  the  Revolution  must  be  out- 
raged more  and  more  in  the  bad  life  of  their 
degenerate  child. 

Among  the  herd  of  journals  which  are  pub- 
lished in  the  States  there  are  some,  the  reader 
scarcely  need  be  told,  of  character  and  credit. 
From  personal  intercourse  with  accomplished 
gentlemen  connected  with  publications  of  this 
class,  I have  derived  both  pleasure  and  profit. 
Hut  the  name  of  these  is  Few,  and  of  the  others 
Legion  ; and  the  influence  of  the  good  is  power- 
less to  counteract  the  mortal  poison  of  the  bad. 

* * >i«  * * 

Among  the  gentry  of  America,  among  the 
well  informed  and  moderate,  in  the  learned  pro- 
fessions, at  the  bar  and  on  the  bench,  thgrc  is, 
as  there  can  be,  but  one  opinion,  in  reference  to 
the  vicious  character  of  these  infamous  journals. 


It  is  sometimes  contended — I will  not  say 
strangely,  for  it  is  natural  to  seek  excuses  for 
such  a disgrace — that  their  influence  is  not  so 
great  as  a visitor  would  suppose.  I must  be 
pardoned  for  saying  that  there  is  no  warrant  for 
this  plea,  and  that  every  fact  and  circumstance 
tends  directly  to  the  opposite  conclusion. 

When  any  man,  of  any  grade  of  desert  in  in- 
tellect or  character,  can  climb  to  any  public  dis- 
tinction, no  matter  what,  in  America,  without 
first  grovelling  down  upon  the  earth,  and  bend- 
ing the  knee  before  this  monster  of  depravity  ; 
when  any  private  excellence  is  safe  from  its  at- 
tacks ; when  any  social  confidence  is  left  un- 
broken by  it,  or  any  tie  of  social  decency  and 
honor  is  held  in  the  least  regard  ; when  any 
man  in  that  Free  Country  has  freedom  of  opin- 
ion, and  presumes  to  think  for  himself,  and 
speak  for  himself,  without  humble  reference  to 
a censorship  which,  for  its  rampant  ignorance 
and  base  dishonesty,  he  utterly  loathes  and  de- 
spises in  his  heart  ; when  those  who  most  acute- 
ly feel  its  infamy  and  the  reproach  it  casts  upon 
the  nation,  and  who  most  denounce  it  to  each 
other,  dare  to  set  their  heels  upon,  and  crush  it 
openly,  in  the  sight  of  all  men  ; then  I will  be- 
lieve that  its  influence  is  lessening,  and  men 
are  returning  to  their  manly  senses.  But  while 
that  Press  has  its  evil  eye  in  every  house,  and 
its  black  hand  in  every  appointment  in  the  state, 
from  a president  to  a postman  ; while,  with  ri- 
bald slander  for  its  only  stock  in  trade,  it  is  the 
standard  literature  of  an  enormous  class,  who 
must  find  their  reading  in  a newspaper,  or  they 
will  not  read  at  all ; so  long  must  its  odium  be 
upon  the  country’s  head,  and  so  long  must  the 
evil  it  works  be  plainly  visible  in  the  Republic. 

To  those  Avho  are  accustomed  to  the  leading 
English  journals,  or  to  the  respectable  journals 
of  the  Continent  of  Europe— to  those  who  are 
accustomed  to  anything  else  in  print  and  paper 
—it  would  be  impossible,  without  an  amount 
of  extract  for  which  I have  neither  space  nor 
inclination,  to  convey  an  adequate  idea  of  this 
frightful  engine  in  America. 

American  Notes , Chap.  18. 

PRIDE— The  arrogance  of. 

“His  presence!  His  dignity!  No  portrait  , 
that  I have  ever  seen  of  any  one  has  been  half 
so  replete  with  those  qualities.  Something  so 
stately,  you  know  ; so  uncompromising  ; so  very 
wide  across  the  chest ; so  upright ! A pecuniary 
Duke  of  York,  my  love(  and  nothing  short  of 
it ! ” said  Miss  Tox.  “ That’s  what  / should 
designate  him.” — Dombey  Sf  Son , Chap.  1. 

* * * * * 

Towards  his  first  wife,  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his 
cold  and  lofty  arrogance,  had  borne  himself  like 
the  removed  Being  he  almost  conceived  him- 
self to  be.  He  had  been  “ Mr.  Dombey  ” with 
her  when  she  first  saw  him,  and  he  was  “Mr. 
Dombey  ” when  she  died.  He  had  asserted  his 
greatness  during  their  whole  married  life,  and 
she  had  meekly  recognized  it.  He  had  kept  his 
distant  seat  of  state  on  the  top  of  his  throne,  and  i 
she  her  humble  station  on  its  lowest  step  ; and 
much  good  it  had  done  him,  so  to  live  in  solitary 
bondage  to  his  one  idea  ! He  had  imagined  that 
the  proud  character  of  his  second  wife  would 
have  been  added  to  his  own— would  have  I 
merged  into  it,  and  exalted  his  greatness.  He 
had  pictured  himself  haughtier  than  ever,  with: 


PRIDE 


373 


PRIDE 


Edith’s  haughtiness  subservient  to  his.  He  had 
never  entertained  the  possibility  of  its  arraying 
! itself  against  him.  And  now,  when  he  found  it 
; rising  in  his  path  at  every  step  and  turn  of  his 
daily  life,  fixing  its  cold,  defiant,  and  contempt- 
uous face  upon  him,  this  pride  of  his,  instead  of 
withering,  or  hanging  down  its  head  beneath 
the  shock,  put  forth  new  shoots,  became  more 
concentrated  and  intense,  more  gloomy,  sullen, 
irksome,  and  unyielding,  than  it  had  ever  been 
before. 

Who  wears  such  armor,  too,  bears  with  him 
ever  another  heavy  retribution.  It  is  of  proof 
against  conciliation,  love,  and  confidence ! 
against  all  gentle  sympathy  from  without,  all 
trust,  all  tenderness,  all  soft  emotion  ; but  to 
deep  stabs  in  the  self-love  it  is  as  vulnerable  as 
the  bare  breast  to  steel  ; and  such  tormenting 
| festers  rankle  there,  as  follow  on  no  other 
wounds,  no,  though  dealt  with  the  mailed  hand 
of  Pride  itself,  on  weaker  pride,  disarmed  and 
thrown  clow  n— Dombey  & Son , Chap.  40. 

PRIDE— A duty. 

1 heie  is  a kind  of  pride,  Sir,”  she  returned 
after  a moment  s silence,  “ or  what  may  be  sup- 
posed to  be  pride,  which  is  mere  duty  ; I hope  I 
cherish  no  other.” — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  33. 


PRIDE — It3  eg-otism. 

“ He  1S>  if  I may  say  so,  the  slave  of  his  own 
[ greatness,  and  goes  yoked  to  his  own  triumphal 
cai  like  a beast  of  burden,  with  no  idea  on  earth 
but  that  it  is  behind  him  and  is  to  be  drawn  on 
over  everything  and  through  everything.” 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  45. 

x’RIDE— Its  characteristics. 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things  that  a man 
„of  Mr.  Dombey ’s  mood,  opposed  to  such  a spirit 
as  he  had  raised  against  himself,  should  be  soft- 
ened in  the  imperious  asperity  of  his  temper  ; or 
tnat  the  cold  hard  armor  of  pride  in  which  he 
lived  encased,  should  be  made  more  flexible  bv 
constant  collision  with  haughty  scorn  and  de- 
fiance. It  is  the  curse  of  such  a nature — it  is  a 
main  part  of  the  heavy  retribution  on  itself  it 
bears  within  itself— that  while  deference  and  con- 
cession swell  its  evil  qualities,  and  are  the  food 
it  grows  upon,  resistance  and  a questioning  of 
its  exacting  claims,  foster  it  too  no  less.  The 
evi  that  is  in  it  finds  equally  its  means  of  growth 
and  propagation  in  opposites.  It  draws  support 
and  life  from  sweets  and  bitters  ; bowed  down 
before,  or  unacknowledged,  it  still  enslaves  the 
breast  in  which  it  has  its  throne  ; and  worshipped 
or  rejected,  13  as  hard  a master  as  the  Devil  in 
dark  fables— Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  40. 

PRIDE— Controlling-  power  of. 

. He  silenced  the  distant  thunder  with  the  roll- 
ing of  lus  sea  of  pride.  He  would  bear  noth- 
ing but  his  pride.  And  in  his  pride,  a heap  of 
inconsistency,  and  misery,  and  self-inflicted  tor- 
ment, he  hated  her  .—Dombey  6-  Son,  Chap.  40. 

PRIDE— Its  rag-e. 

. Pj7]nS  and  tormenting  as  the  world  was 
it  did  Mr.  Dombey  the  service  of  nerving 
hun  fo  pursuit  and  revenge.  It  roused  his  pas- 
sion stung  his  pride,  twisted  the  one  idea  of 
his  life  into  a new  shape,  and  made  some 
gratification  of  his  wrath,  the  object  into 


which  his  whole  intellectual  existence  re- 
solyecl  itself.  AH  the  stubbornness  and  impla- 
cability of  his  nature,  all  its  hard  impenetrable 
quality  all  its  gloom  and  moroseness,  all  its  exag- 
gerated sense  of  personal  importance,  all  its  jeal- 
ous disposition  to  resent  the  least  flaw  in  the 
ample  recognition  of  his  importance  by  others 
set  this  way  like  many  streams  united  into  one! 
and  bore  him  on  upon  their  tide.  Thefnost  im- 
petuously passionate  and  violently  impulsive  of 
mankind  would  have  been  a milder  enemy  to 
encounter  than  the  sullen  Mr.  Dombey  wrought 
to  this.  A wild  beast  would  have  been  easier 
turned  or  soothed  than  the  grave  gentleman 
without  a wrinkle  in  his  starched  cravat. 

But  the  very  intensity  of  his  purpose  became 
almost  a substitute  for  action  in  it.  While  he 
was  yet  uninformed  of  the  traitor’s  retreat  it 
served  to  divert  his  mind  from  his  own  calamity 
and  to  entertain  it  with  another  prospect.  The 
brother  and  sister  of  his  false  favorite  had  no 
such  relief;  everything  in  their  history,  past  and 
piesent,  gave  his  delinquency  a more  afflicting 
meaning  to  them  .—Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  53. 

PRIDE— Its  fall. 

.Jff'  Y YlS  SUYnge’  very  strailSe>  even  to  him- 
self to  find,  how  by  quick,  though  almost  imper- 
ceptible degrees  he  lost  his  delicacy  and  self- 
respect,  and  gradually  came  to  do  that  as  a 
matter  of  course,  without  the  least  compunction, 
which,  out  a few  short  days  before,  had  galled 
him  to  the  quick.  The  first  lime  he  visited  the 
pawnbrokers,  he  felt  on  his  way  there  as  if  every 
person  whom  he  passed  suspected  whither  he  was 
going  ; and  on  his  way  back  again  as  if  the  whole 
human  tide  he  stemmed  knew  well  where  he 
had  come  from.  When  did  he  care  to  think  of 
their  discernment  now?  In  his  first  wanderings 
up  and  down  the  weary  streets,  he  counterfeited 
the  walk  of  one  who  had  an  object  in  his  view  • 
but  soon  there  came  upon  him  the  sauntering’ 
slipshod  gait  of  listless  idleness,  and  the  loung- 
ing at  street-corners,  and  plucking  and  bitino- 
of  stray  bits  of  straw,  and  strolling  up  and 
down  the  same  place,  and  looking  into  the  same 
shop-windows,  with  a miserable  indifference, 
fifty  times  a day.  At  first,  lie  came  out  from 
fits  lodging  with  an  uneasy  sense  of  being  ob- 
served-even by  those  chance  passers-by,  on 
whom  he  had  never  looked  before,  and  hundreds 
o one  would  never  see  again — issuing  in  the 
morning  from  a public-house;  but  now,  in  his 
comings-out  and  goings-in  he  did  not  mind  to 
ounge  a lout  the  door,  or  to  stand  sunning  him- 
selt  m careless  thought  beside  the  wooden  stem, 
studded  from  head  to  heel  with  pegs,  on  which 
the  beer-pots  dangled  like  so  many  boughs  upon 
a pewter-tree  And  yet  it  took  but  five  weeks 
to  leach  the  lowest  round  of  this  tall  ladder. 

Oh,  moralists,  who  treat  of  happiness  and 
selMespect,  innate  in  every  sphere  of  life,  and 
shedding  light  on  every  grain  of  dust  in  God’s 
highway,  so  smooth  below  your  carriage-wheels 
so  rough  beneath  the  tread  of  naked  feet,  be- 
think yourselves,  in  looking  on  the  swift  descent 
of  men  who  have  lived  in  their  own  esteem,  that 
there  are  scores  of  thousands  breathing  now, 
and  breathing  thick  with  painful  toil,  who  in 
that  high  respect  have  never  lived  at  all,  nor 
had  a chance  of  life  ! Go  ye,  who  rest  so  pla- 
cid y upon  the  sacred  Bard  who  had  been  young, 
and  when  he  strung  his  harp  was  old,  and  had 


PRINCIPLE 


374 


PRISON 


never  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  or  his  seed 
'•begging  their  bread  ; go,  Teachers  of  content 
and  honest  pride,  into  the  mine,  the  mill,  the 
forge,  the  squalid  depths  of  deepest  ignorance, 
and  uttermost  abyss  of  man’s  neglect,  and  say 
can  any  hopeful  plant  spring  up  in  air  so  foul 
that  it  extinguishes  the  soul’s  bright  torch  as 
fast  as  it  is  kindled  ! And,  oh  ! ye  Pharisees  of 
the  nineteen  huixlredth  year  of  Christian  Know- 
ledge, who  soundingly  appeal  to  human  nature, 
see  first  that  it  be  human.  Take  heed  it  has 
not  been  transformed,  during  your  slumber  and 
the  sleep  of  generations,  into  the  nature  of  the 
Beasts. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  13. 

PRINCIPLE— Skimpole’s  idea  of. 

“ And  he  would  probably  add,  * Is  there  such 
a thing  as  principle,  Mr.  Harold  Skimpole?’  ” 

“To  which  Harold  Skimpole  would  reply, 
you  know,”  he  returned  in  his  gayest  manner, 
and  with  his  most  ingenuous  smile,  “ ‘ Upon  my 
life  I have  not  the  least  idea!  I don’t  know 
what  it  is  you  call  by  that  name,  or  where  it  is, 
or  who  possesses  it.  If  you  possess  it,  and  find 
it  comfortable,  I am  quite  delighted,  and  con- 
gratulate you  heartily.  But  I know  nothing 
about  it,  I assure  you,  for  I am  a mere  child, 
and  I lay  no  claim  to  it,  and  I don’t  want  it ! ’ 
So,  you  see,  excellent  Boythorn  and  I would  go 
to  dinner  after  all ! ” — Bleak  IIous-\  Chap.  18. 

PRINCIPLE  - A man  of  (Weller). 

“The  fame  of  the  gentleman  in  question 
never  reached  my  ears.” 

“No,  sir!”  exclaimed  Mr.  Weller.  “You 
astonish  me,  sir  ; he  wos  a clerk  in  a gov’ment 
office,  sir.” 

“ Was  he?”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Yes,  he  wos,  sir,”  rejoined  Mr.  Weller , “ and 
a wery  pleasant  genTm’n  too — one  o’  the  precise 
and  tidy  sort,  as  puts  their  feet  in  little  india- 
rubber  fire-buckets  wen  it’s  wet  weather,  and 
never  has  no  other  bosom  friends  but  hare- 
skins  ; he  saved  up  his  money  on  principle,  wore 
a clean  shirt  ev’ry  day  on  principle  ; never  spoke 
to  none  of  his  relations  on  principle,  ’fear  they 
shou’d  want  to  borrow  money  of  him  ; and  wos 
altogether,  in  fact,  an  uncommon  agreeable 
character.  He  had  his  hair  cut  on  principle 
vunce  a fortnight,  and  contracted  for  his  clothes 
on  the  economic  principle — three  suits  a year, 
and  send  back  the  old  uns.  Being  a wery 
reg’lar  gen’lm’n,  he  din’d  ev’ry  day  at  the  same 
place,  were  it  was  one  and  nine  to  cut  off  the 
joint,  and  a wery  good  one  and  nine’s  worth  he 
used  to  cut.  as  the  landlord  often  said,  with  the 
tears  a tricklin’  down  his  face  ; let  alone  the 
way  he  used  to  poke  the  fire  in  the  vinter  time, 
which  wos  a dead  loss  o’  four-pence  ha’ -penny  a 
day  ; to  say  nothin’  at  all  o’  the  aggrawation  o’ 
seein’  him  do  it.  So  uncommon  grand  with  it 
too  ! 1 Post  arter  the  next  gen’lm’n,’  he  sings 

out  ev’ry  day  ven  he  comes  in.  ‘ See  arter  the 
'l  imes,  Thomas ; let  me  look  at  the  Mornin’ 
Ilerald,  wen  it’s  out  o’  hand  ; don’t  forget  to  be- 
speak the  Chronicle  ; and  just  bring  the  ’Tizer, 
vill  you  ; ’ and  then  he’d  set  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  clock,  and  rush  out,  just  a quarter  of  a 
niinit  afore  the  time,  to  waylay  the  boy  as  was  a 
coinin’  in  with  the  evenin’  paper,  wieh  he’d  read 
with  sich  intense  interest  and  persevverance  as 
worked  the  other  customers  up  to  the  wery  con- 
fines o’  desperation  and  insanity,  'specially  one 


i-rascible  old  genTm’n  as  the  vaiter  wos  always 
obliged  to  keep  a sharp  eye  on,  at  sich  times, 
fear  lie  should  be  tempted  to  commit  some  rash 
act  with  the  carving-knife.  Veil,  sir,  here  he’d 
stop,  occupyin’  the  best  place  for  three  hours, 
and  never  takin’  nothin’  arter  his  dinner,  but 
sleep,  and  then  he’d  go  away  to  a coffee-house  a 
few  streets  off,  and  have  a small  pot  o’  coffee 
and  four  crumpets,  arter  wich  he’d  walk  home 
to  Kensington  and  go  to  bed.” 

Pickwick , Chap,  44. 

PRISON-Newg-ate. 

“ The  force  of  habit  ” is  a trite  phrase  in 
everybody’s  mouth  ; and  it  is  not  a little  remark- 
able that  those  who  use  it  most  as  applied  to 
others,  unconsciously  afford  in  their  own  per- 
sons singular  examples  of  the  power  which  habit 
and  custom  exercise  over  the  minds  of  men,  and 
of  the  little  reflection  they  are  apt  to  bestow 
on  subjects  with  which  every  day’s  experience 
has  rendered  them  familiar.  If  Bedlam  could 
be  suddenly  removed,  like  another  Aladdin’s 
palace,  and  set  down  on  the  space  now  occupied 
by  Newgate,  scarcely  one  man  out  of  a hundred 
whose  road  to  business  every  morning  lies  through 
Newgate  Street,  or  the  Old  Bailey,  w ould  pass  the 
building  without  bestowing  a hasty  glance  on  its 
small,  grated  windows,  and  a transient  thought 
upon  the  condition  of  the  unhappy  beings  im- 
mured in  its  dismal  cells  ; and  yet  these  same 
men,  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  pass  and 
repass  this  gloomy  depository  of  the  guilt  and 
misery  of  London,  in  one  perpetual  stream  of 
life  and  bustle,  utterly  unmindful  of  the  throng 
of  wretched  creatures  pent  up  within  it — nay, 
not  even  knowing,  or  if  they  do,  not  heeding 
the  fact,  that  as  they  pass  one  particular  angle 
of  the  massive  wall,  with  a light  laugh  or  a 
merry  whistle,  they  stand  within  one  yard  of  a, 
fellow-creature,  bound  and  helpless,  whose  hours 
are  numbered,  from  whom  the  last  feeble  ray  of 
hope  has  fled  forever,  and  whose  miserable  ca- 
reer will  shortly  terminate  in  a violent  and 
shameful  death.  Contact  with  death,  even  in 
its  least  terrible  shape,  is  solemn  and  appalling. 
How  much  more  awful  is  it  to  reflect  on  this 
near  vicinity  to  the  dying — to  men  in  full  health 
and  vigor,  in  the  flower  of  youth  or  the  prime 
of  life,  with  all  their  faculties  and  perceptions 
as  acute  and  perfect  as  your  own  ; but  dying, 
nevertheless — dying  as  surely — with  the  hand 
of  death  imprinted  upon  them  as  indelibly — as 
if  mortal  disease  had  wasted  their  frames  to 
shadows,  and  corruption  had  already  begun  ! 

Sketches  ( Scenes J,  Chap.  25. 

PRISON— Sunrise  in. 

When  she  had  stolen  down  stairs,  and  along 
the  empty  yard,  and  had  crept  up  to  her  own 
high  garret,  the  smokeless  housetops  and  the 
distant  country  hills  were  discernible  over  the 
wall  in  the  clear  morning.  As  she  gently  open- 
ed the  window,  and  looked  eastward  down  the 
prison-yard,  the  spikes  upon  the  walls  were  tip- 
ped with  red,  then  made  a sullen  purple  pattern 
on  the  sun  as  it  came  flaming  up  into  the  heav- 
ens. The  spikes  had  never  looked  so  sharp 
and  cruel,  nor  the  bars  so  heavy,  nor  the  prison 
space  so  gloomy  and  contracted.  .She  thought 
of  the  sunrise  on  rolling  rivers,  of  the  sunrise 
on  wide  seas,  of  the  sunrise  on  rich  landscapes, 
of  the  sunrise  on  great  forests  where  the  birds 


PRISON 


375 


PRISON  DISCIPLINE 


were  waking  and  the  trees  were  rustling  ; and 
she  looked  down  into  the  living  grave  on  which 
the  sun  had  risen,  with  her  father  in  it,  three- 
and-twenty  years,  and  said,  in  a burst  of  sorrow 
and  compassion,  “ No,  no,  I have  never  seen 
him  in  my  life." 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  I.,  Chap.  19. 

PRISON — In  the  French  Revolution. 

1 he  prison  of  La  Force  was  a gloomy  prison, 
dark  and  filthy,  and  with  a horrible  smell  of  foul 
sleep  in  it.  Extraordinary  how  soon  the  noisome 
flavor  of  imprisoned  sleep  becomes  manifest  in 
all  such  places  that  are  ill  cared  for  ! 

. “ Come  ! ” said  the  chief,  at  length,  taking  up 
his  keys,  “come  with  me,  emigrant." 

Through  the  dismal  prison  twilight,  his  new 
charge  accompanied  him  by  corridor  and  stair- 
case, many  doors  clanging  and  locking  behind 
them,  until  they  came  into  a large,  low,  vaulted 
chamber,  crowded  with  prisoners  of  both  sexes. 
1 he  women  were  seated  at  a long  table,  reading 
and  writing,  knitting,  sewing,  and  embroider- 
ing ; the  men  were  for  the  most  part,  standing 
behind  their  chairs,  or  lingering  up  and  down 
the  room. 

In  the  instinctive  association  of  prisoners 
with  shameful  crime  and  disgrace,  the  new-comer 
lecoiled  from  this  company.  But  the  crowning 
unreality  of  his  long  unreal  ride,  was,  their  all 
at  once  rising  to  receive  him,  with  every  refine- 
ment of  manner  known  to  the  time,  and  with 
all  the  engaging  graces  and  courtesies  of  life. 

So  strangely  clouded  were  these  refinements 
by  the  prison  manners  and  gloom,  so  spectral 
did  they  become  in  the  inappropriate  squalor 
and  misery  through  which  they  were  seen,  that 
Charles  Darnay  seemed  to  stand  in  a company 
of  the  dead.  Ghosts  all ! The  ghost  of  beauty, 
the  ghost  of  stateliness,  the  ghost  of  elegance, 
the  ghost  of  pride,  the  ghost  of  frivolity,  the 
ghost  of  wit,  the  ghost  of  youth,  the  ghost  of 
age,  all  waiting  their  dismissal  from  the  desolate 
shore,  all  turning  on  him  eyes  that  were  chang- 
ed by  the  death  they  had  died  in  coming  there. 

It  stiuck  him  motionless.  The  gaoler  stand- 
ing  at  his  side,  and  the  other  gaolers  moving 
about,  who  would  have  been  well  enough  as  to 
appearance  in  the  ordinary  exercise  of  their  func- 
tions, looked  so  extravagantly  coarse  contrasted 
with  sorrowing  mothers  and  blooming  daughters 
who  were  there— with  the  apparitions  of  the  co- 
quette, the  young  beauty,  and  the  mature  woman, 
delicately  bred — that  the  inversion  of  all  experi- 
ence and  likelihood  which  the  scene  of  shadows 
presented,  was  heightened  to  its  utmost.  Surely, 
ghosts  all  ! Surely,  the  long  unreal  ride  some 
progress  of  disease  that  had  brought  him  to 
these  gloomy  shades  ! 

In  the  name  of  the  assembled  companions 
ip.  misfortune,”  said  a gentleman  of  courtly  ap- 
pearance and  address,  coming  forward,  “ I have 
the  honor  of  giving  you  welcome  to  La  Force, 
and  of  condoling  with  you  on  the  calamity  that 
has  brought  you  among  us.  May  it  soon  termi- 
nate happily  ! " 

Tale  of  Tzuo  Cities , Book  III.,  Chap.  1. 

PRISON. 

A prison  taint  was  on  everything  there.  The 
imprisoned  air,  the  imprisoned  light,  the  impris- 
oned damps,  the  imprisoned  men,  were  all  de- 
teriorated by  confinement.  As  the  captive 


men  were  faded  and  haggard,  so  the  iron  was 
rusty,  the  stone  was  slimy,  the  wood  was  rotten, 
the  air  was  faint,  the  light  was  dim.  Like  a 
well,  like  a vault,  like  a tomb,  the  prison  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  brightness  outside  ; and  would 
have  kept  its  polluted  atmosphere  intact,  in  one 
of  the  spice  islands  of  the  Indian  Ocean. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  1. 

PRISON— Old  Bailey. 

They  hanged  at  Tyburn,  in  those  days,  so  the 
street  outside  Newgate  hacl  not  obtained  one  in- 
famous notoriety  that  has  since  attached  to  it. 
But  the  gaol  was  a vile  place,  in  which  most 
kinds  of  debauchery  and  villany  were  practised, 
and  where  dire  diseases  were  bred,  that  came 
into  court  with  the  prisoners,  and  sometimes 
rushed  straight  from  the  dock  at  my  Lord  Chief 
Justice  himself;  and  pulled  him  off  the  bench. 
It  had  more  than  once  happened,  that  the  judge 
in  the  black  cap  pronounced  his  own  doom  as 
certainly  as  the  prisoner’s,  and  even  died  before 
him.  For  the  rest,  the  Old  Bailey  was  famous 
as  a kind  of  deadly  inn-yard,  from  which  pale 
travellers  set  out  continually,  in  carts  and 
coaches,  on  a violent  passage  into  the  other 
world  : traversing  some  two  miles  and  a half  of 
public  street  and  road,  and  shaming  few  good 
citizens,  if  any.  So  powerful  is  use,  and  so  de- 
sirable to  be  good  use  in  the  beginning.  It  was 
famous,  too,  for  the  pillory,  a wise  old  institu- 
tion, that  inflicted  a punishment  of  which  no 
one  could  foresee  the  extent  ; also,  for  the  whip- 
ping-post,  another  dear  old  institution,  very 
humanising  and  softening  to  behold  in  action  ; 
also,  for  extensive  transactions  in  blood-money, 
another  fragment  of  ancestral  wisdom,  system- 
atically leading  to  the  most  frightful  mercen- 
ary crimes  that  could  be  committed  under 
Heaven.  Altogether,  the  Old  Bailey,  at  that 
date,  was  a choice  illustration  of  the  precept, 
that  “Whatever  is,  is  right;”  an  aphorism  that 
would  be  as  final  as  it  is  lazy,  did  it  not  include 
the  troublesome  consequence,  that  nothing  that 
ever  was,  was  wrong. 

Making  his  way  through  the  tainted  crowd, 
dispersed  up  and  down  this  hideous  scene  of 
action,  with  the  skill  of  a man  accustomed  to 
make  his  way  quietly,  the  messenger  found  out 
the  door  he  sought,  and  handed  in  his  letter 
through  a trap  in  it.  For  people  then  paid,  to 
see  the  play  at  the  Old  Bailey,  just  as  they  paid 
to  see  the  play  in  Bedlam^— only  the  former  en- 
tertainment was  much  the  dearer. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  II.,  Chap.  2. 

PRISON  DISCIPLINE. 

The  whip  is  a very  contagious  kind  of  thing, 
and  difficult  to  confine  within  one  set  of  bounds. 
Utterly  abolish  punishment  by  fine — a barbarous 
device,  quite  as  much  out  of  date  as  wager  by 
battle,  but  particularly  connected  in  the  vulgar 
mind  with  this  class  of  offence — at  least  quadru- 
ple the  term  of  imprisonment  for  aggravated  as- 
saults— and,  above  all,  let  us,  in  such  cases, 
have  no  Pet  Prisoning,  vain  glorifying,  strong 
soup,  and  roasted  meats,  but  hard  work,  and  one 
unchanging  and  uncompromising  dietary  of 
bread  and  water,  well  or  ill  ; and  we  shall  do 
much  better  than  by  going  down  into  the  dark 
to  grope  for  the  whip  among  the  rusty  fragments 
of  the  rack,  and  the  branding-iron,  and  the 
chains  and  gibbet  from  the  public  roads,  and 


PRISON 


373 


PRISON 


the  weights  that  pressed  men  to  death  in  the 
Gells  of  Newgate. 

Lying  A wake.  Reprint’d  Pieces. 

PRISON— The  peace  of  a. 

“ That  a child  would  be  born  to  you  in  a place 
like  this?”  said  the  doctor.  “Ball,  bah,  sir, 
what  does  it  signify?  A little  more  elbow-room 
is  all  we  want  here.  We  are  quiet  here  ; we 
don’t  get  badgered  here  ; there’s  no  knocker 
here,  sir,  to  be  hammered  at  by  creditors  and 
bring  a man’s  heart  into  his  mouth.  Nobody 
comes  here  to  ask  if  a man’s  at  home,  and  to  say 
he’ll  stand  on  the  door-mat  till  he  is.  Nobody 
writes  threatening  letters  about  money,  to  this 
place.  It’s  freedom,  sir,  it’s  freedom  ! I have 
had  to-day’s  practice  at  home  and  abroad,  on  a 
march,  and  aboard  ship,  and  I’ll  tell  you  this: 
I don’t  know  that  I have  ever  pursued  it  under 
such  quiet  circumstances,  as  here  this  day. 
Elsewhere,  people  are  restless,  worried,  hurried 
about,  anxious  respecting  one  tiling,  anxious 
respecting  another.  Nothing  of  the  kind  here, 
sir.  We  have  done  all  that— we  know  the  worst 
of  it ; we  have  got  to  the  bottom,  we  can’t  fall, 
and  what  have  we  found  ? Peace.  That’s  the 
word  for  it.  Peace.”  With  this  profession  of 
faith,  the  doctor,  who  was  an  old  jail-bird,  and 
was  more  sodden  than  usual,  and  had  the  addi- 
tional and  unusual  stimulus  of  money  in  his 
pocket,  returned  to  his  associate  and  chum  in 
hoarseness,  puffiness,  red-facedness,  all-fours,  to- 
bacco, dirt,  and  brandy. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  /.,  Chap.  6. 

PRISON— Solitary  confinement  in  an  Amer- 
ican. 

In  the  outskirts  stands  a great  prison,  called 
the  Eastern  Penitentiary,  conducted  on  a plan 
peculiar  to  the  State  of  Pennsylvania.  The  sys- 
tem here  is  rigid,  strict,  and  hopeless  solitary 
confinement.  I believe  it,  in  its  effects,  to  be 
cruel  and  wrong. 

In  its  intention,  I am  well  convinced  that  it  is 
kind,  humane,  and  meant  for  reformation  ; but  I 
am  persuaded  that  those  who  devised  this  sys- 
tem of  Prison  Discipline,  and  those  benevolent 
gentlemen  who  carry  it  into  execution,  do  not 
know  what  it  is  that  they  are  doing.  I believe 
that  very  few  men  are  capable  of  estimating  the 
immense  amount  of  torture  and  agony  which 
this  dreadful  punishment,  prolonged  for  years, 
inflicts  upon  the  sufferers  ; and  in  guessing  at  it 
myself,  and  in  reasoning  from  what  I have  seen 
written  upon  their  faces,  and  what  to  my  certain 
knowledge  they  feel  within,  I am  only  the  more 
convinced  that  there  is  a depth  of  terrible  en- 
durance in  it  which  none  but  the  sufferers  them- 
selves can  fathom,  and  which  no  man  has  a 
right  to  inflict  upon  his  fellow-creature.  I hold 
this  slow  and  daily  tampering  with  the  mysteries 
of  the  brain  to  be  immeasurably  worse  than  any 
torture  of  the  body  ; and  because  its  ghastly 
signs  and  tokens  are  not  so  palpable  to  the  eye 
and  sense  of  touch  as  scars  upon  the  flesh, — be- 
cause its  wounds  are  not  upon  the  surface,  and 
it  extorts  few  cries  that  human  ears  can  hear, — 
therefore  I the  more  denounce  it  as  a secret 
punishment  which  slumbering  humanity  is  not 
roused  up  to  stay.  I hesitated  once,  debating 
with  myself,  whether,  if  I had,  the  power  of  say- 
ing “ Yes,”  or  “ No,”  I would  allow  it  to  be 
tried  in  certain  cases,  where  the  terms  of  im- 


prisonment were  short  ; but  now  I solemnly  de- 
clare, that  with  no  rewards  or  honors  could  I 
walk  a happy  man  beneath  the  open  sky  bv  day, 
or  lie  me  down  upon  my  bee:  at  night,  wiih  the 
consciousness  that  one  human  creature,  for  any 
length  of  time,  no  mattei  what,  lay  suffering 
this  unknown  punishment  in  his  silent  cell,  and 
I the  cause,  or  I consenting  to  it  in  the  least 
degree. 

***** 

Over  the  head  and  face  of  every  prisoner  who 
comes  into  this  melancholy  house  a black  hood 
is  drawn  ; and  in  this  dark  shroud,  an  emblem 
of  the  curtain  dropped  between  him  and  the 
living  world,  he  is  led  to  the  cell  from  which  he 
never  again  comes  forth,  until  his  whole  term 
of  imprisonment  has  expired.  lie  never  hears 
of  wife  or  children,  home  or  friends,  the  life  or 
death  of  any  single  creature.  He  sees  the 
prison  officers,  but,  with  that  exception,  he  never 
looks  upon  a human  countenance  or  hears  a 
human  voice.  lie  is  a man  buried  alive, — to  be 
dug  out  in  the  slow  round  of  years  ; and  in  the 
mean  time,  dead  to  everything  but  torturing 
anxieties  and  horrible  despair. 

His  name,  and  crime,  and  term  of  suffering 
are  unknown,  even  to  the  officer  who  delivers 
him  his  daily  food.  There  is  a number  over  his 
cell  door,  and  in  a book  of  which  the  governor 
of  the  prison  has  one  copy,  and  the  moral  in- 
structor another — this  is  the  index  to  his  history. 
Beyond  these  pages  the  prison  has  no  record  of 
his  existence  ; and,  though  he  live  to  be  in  the 
same  cell  ten  weary  years,  he  has  no  means  of 
knowing,  down  to  the  very  last  hour,  in  what 
part  of  the  building  it  is  situated  ; what  kind 
of  men  there  are  about  him  ; whether  in  the 
long  winter  nights  there  are  living  people  near, 
or  he  is  in  some  lonely  corner  of  the  great  jail, 
with  walls  and  passages  and  iron  doors  between 
him  and  the  nearest  sharer  in  its  solitary  hor- 
rors.— American  Notes,  Chap.  7. 

PRISON— Solitary  confinement  in. 

As  I walked  among  these  solitary  cells,  and 
looked  at  the  faces  of  the  men  within  them,  I 
tried  to  picture  to  myself  the  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings natural  to  their  condition.  I imagined  the 
hood  just  taken  off,  and  the  scene  of  their  cap- 
tivity disclosed  to  them  in  all  its  dismal  mono- 
tony. 

At  first,  the  man  is  stunned.  His  confine- 
ment is  a hideous  vision  ; and  his  old  life  a 
reality.  He  throws  himself  upon  his  bed,  and  lies 
there,  abandoned  to  despair.  By  degrees  the 
insupportable  solitude  and  barrenness  of  the 
place  rouse  him  from  this  stupor,  and  when  the 
trap  in  his  grated  door  is  opened,  he  humbly 
begs  and  prays  for  work.  “Give  me  some  work 
to  do,  or  I shall  go  raving  mad  ! ” 

He  has  it,  and  by  fits  and  starts  applies  him- 
self to  labor  ; but  every  now'  and  then  there 
comes  upon  him  a burning  sense  of  the  years 
that  must  be  wasted  in  that  stone  coffin,  and  an 
agony  so  piercing  in  the  recollection  of  those 
who  are  hidden  from  his  view  and  knowledge, 
that  he  starts  from  his  seat,  and,  striding  up  and 
down  the  narrow  room  with  both  hands  clasped 
on  his  uplifted  head,  hears  spirits  tempting  him 
to  beat  his  brains  out  on  the  wall. 

Again  he  falls  upon  his  bed,  and  lies  there 
moaning.  Suddenly  he  starts  up,  wondering 
whether  any  other  man  is  near ; whether  there 


PRISON 


377 


PRISONER 


is  another  cell  like  that  on  either  side  of  him  ; 
and  listens  keenly. 

There  is  no  sound  ; but  other  prisoners  may 
be  near,  for  all  that.  He  remembers  to  have 
heard  once,  when  he  little  thought  of'  coming 
here  himself,  that  the  cells  were  so  constructed 
that  the  prisoners  could  not  hear  each  other, 
though  the  officers  could  hear  them.  Where  is 
the  nearest  man — upon  the  right,  or  on  the  left? 
or  is  there  one  in  both  directions  ? Where  is  he 
sitting  now— with  his  face  to  the  light?  or  is 
he  walking  to  and  fro?  How  is  he  dressed? 
H as  he  been  here  long?  Is  he  much  worn 
away?  Is  he  very  white  and  spectre -like ? 
Does  he  think  of  his  neighbor  too? 

Scarcely  venturing  to  breathe,  and  listening 
while  he  thinks,  he  conjures  up  a figure  with  his 
back  towards  him,  and  imagines  it  moving 
about  in  this  next  cell.  He  has  no  idea  of  the 
face,  but  he  is  certain  of  the  dark  form  of  a 
stooping  man.  In  the  cell  upon  the  other  side 
he  puts  another  figure,  whose  face  is  hidden  from 
him  also. . Day  after  day,  and  often  when  he 
wakes  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  he  thinks 
of  these  two  men  until  he  is  almost  distracted. 
He  never  changes  them.  There  they  are 
always,  as  he  first  imagined  them — an  old  man 
on  the  right  ; a younger  man  upon  the  left— 
whose  hidden  features  torture  him  to  death,  and 
have  a mystery  that  makes  him  tremble. 

The  weary  days  pass  on  with  solemn  pace, 
like  mourners  at  a funeral  ; and  slowly  he 
begins  to  feel  that  the  white  walls  of  the  cell 
have  something  dreadful  in  them  ; that  their 
color  is  horrible  ; that  their  smooth  surface 
chills  his  blood  ; that  there  is  one  hateful  corner 
which  torments  him.  Every  morning  when  he 
awakes,  he  hides  his  head  beneath  the  coverlet, 
and  shudders  to  see  the  ghastly  ceiling  looking 
down  upon  him.  The  blessed  light  of  day  itself 
peeps  in,  an  ugly  phantom  face,  through  the 
unchangeable  crevice  which  is  his  prison 
window. 

By  slow  but  sure  degrees,  the  terrors  of  that 
hateful  corner  swell  until  they  beset  him  at  all 
times,  invade  his  rest,  make  his  dreams  hide- 
ous, and  his  nights  dreadful.  At  first,  he  took 
a strange  dislike  to  it ; feeling  as  though  it  gave 
birth  in  his  brain  to  something  of  correspond- 
ing shape  which  ought  not  to  be  there,  and 
racked  his  head  with  pains.  Then  he  began  to 
fear  it,  then  to  dream  of  it,  and  of  men  whis- 
pering its  name  and  pointing  to  it.  Then  he 
could  not  bear  to  look  at  it,  nor  yet  to  turn 
his  back  upon  it.  Now  it  is  every  night  the 
lurking-place  of  a ghost ; a shadow  ; a silent 
something,  horrible  to  see,  but  whether  bird  or 
beast,  or  muffled  human  shape,  he  cannot  tell. 

' When  he  is  in  his  cell  by  day,  he  fears  the 
little  yard  without.  When  he  is  in  the  yard,  he 
dreads  to  re-enter  the  cell.  When  night  comes, 

| there  stands  the  phantom  in  the  corner.  If  he 
; have  the  courage  to  stand  in  its  place,  and  drive 
1 it  out  (he  had  once,  being  desperate),  it  broods 
j upon  his  bed.  In  the  twilight,  and  always  at 
| the  same  hour,  a voice  calls  to  him  by  name  ; as 
\ the  darkness  thickens,  his  Loom  begins  to  live  ; 
I and  even  that,  his  comfort,  is  a hideous  figure, 
watching  him  till  daybreak. 

Again,  by  slow  degrees,  these  horrible  fancies 
depart  from  him  one  by  one  ; returning  some- 
times, unexpectedly,  but  at  longer  intervals,  and 
in  less  alarming  shapes.  He  has  talked  upon 


religious  matters  with  the  gentleman  who  visits 
him,  and  has  read  his  Bible,  and  has  written  a 
prayer  upon  his  slate,  and  hung  it  up  as  a kind 
of  protection,  and  an  assurance  of  Heavenly 
companionship.  He  dreams  now,  sometimes,  of 
his  children  or  his  wife,  but  is  sure  that  they  are 
dead,  or  have  deserted  him.  He  is  easily  moved 
to  tears;  is.  gentle,  submissive,  and  broken- 
spirited.  Occasionally,  the  old  agony  comes 
back  ; a very  little  thing  will  revive  it  ; even  a 
familiar  sound,  or  the  scent  of  summer  flowers 
in  the  air  ; but  it  does  not  last  long  now;  for 
the  world  without  has  come  to  be  the  vision, 
and  this  solitary  life  the  sad  reality. 

On  the  haggard  face  of  every  man  among 
these  prisoners  the  same  expression  sat.  I 
know  not  what  to  liken  it  to.  It  had  some- 
thing of  that  strained  attention  which  we  see 
upon  the  faces  of  the  blind  and  deaf,  mingled 
with  a kind  of  horror,  as  though  they  had  all 
been  secretly  terrified.  In  every  little  chamber 
that  I entered,  and  at  every  grate  through  which 
1 looked,  I seemed  to  see  the  same  appalling 
countenance.  It  lives  in  my  memory,  with  the 
fascination  of  a remarkable  picture.  Parade 
before  my  eyes  a hundred  men,  with  one  among 
them  newly  released  from  his  solitary  suffering, 
and  I would  point  him  out. 

The  faces  of  the  women,  as  I have  said,  it 
humanizes  and  refines.  Whether  this  be  because 
of  their  better  nature,  which  is  elicited  in  soli- 
tude, or  because  of  their  being  gentler  creatures, 
of  greater  patience  and  longer  suffering,  I do 
not  know;  but  so  it 'is.  That  the  punishment 
is,  nevertheless,  to  my  thinking,  fully  as  cruel 
and  as  wrong  in  their  case  as  in  that  of  the  men, 
I need  scarcely  add. 

My  firm  conviction  is  that,  independent  of  the 
mental  anguish  it  occasions — an  anguish  so 
acute  and  so  tremendous,  that  all  imagination 
of  it  must  fall  far  short  of  the  reality — it  wears 
the  mind  into  a morbid  state,  which  renders  it 
unfit  for  the  rough  contact  and  busy  action  of 
the  world.  It  is  my  fixed  opinion  that  those 
who  have  undergone  this  punishment  must  pass 
into  society  again  morally  unhealthy  and  dis- 
eased. There  are  many  instances  on  record  of 
men  who  are  chosen  or  have  been  condemned 
to  lives  of  perfect  solitude,  but  I scarcely  re- 
member one,  even  among  sages  of  strong  and 
vigorous  intellect,  where  its  effect  has  not  be- 
come apparent  in  some  disordered  train  of 
thought  or  some  gloomy  hallucination.  What 
monstrous  phantoms,  bred  of  despondency  and 
doubt,  and  born  and  reared  in  solitude,  have 
stalked  upon  the  earth,  making  creation  ugly, 
and  darkening  the  face  of  Heaven  ! 

American  Notes , Chap . 7. 

PRISONER— Before  execution. 

We  entered  the  first  cell.  It  was  a stone  dun- 
geon, eight  feet  long  by  six  wide,  with  a bench 
at  the  upper  end,  under  which  were  a common 
rug,  a Bible,  and  prayer-book.  An  iron  candle- 
stick was  fixed  into  the  wall  at  the  side  ; and  a 
small,  high  window  in  the  back  admitted  as 
much  air  and  light  as  could  struggle  in  between 
a double  row  of  heavy,  crossed  iron  bars.  It 
contained  no  other  furniture  of  any  description. 

Conceive  the  situation  of  a man,  spending  his 
last  night  on  earth  in  this  cell.  Buoyed  up  with 
some  van  tie  and  undefined  hope  of  reprieve,  he 
knew  not  why — indulging  in  some  wild  and 


PRISONER 


373 


PRISONER 


visionary  idea  of  escaping,  he  knew  not  how — 
hour  after  hour  of  the  three  preceding  days  al- 
lowed him  for  preparation,  has  fled  with  a speed 
which  no  man  living  would  deem  possible,  for 
none  but  this  dying  man  can  know.  He  has 
wearied  his  friends  with  entreaties,  exhausted 
the  attendants  with  importunities,  neglected  in 
his  feverish  restlessness  the  timely  warnings  of 
his  spiritual  consoler  ; and,  now  that  the  illu- 
sion is  at  last  dispelled,  now  that  eternity  is 
before  him  and  guilt  behind,  now  that  his  fears 
of  death  amount  almost  to  madness,  and  an 
overwhelming  sense  of  his  helpless,  hopeless 
state  rushes  upon  him,  he  is  lost  and  stupified, 
and  has  neither  thoughts  to  turn  to,  nor  power 
to  call  upon,  the  Almighty  Being,  from  whom 
alone  he  can  seek  mercy  and  forgiveness,  and 
before  whom  his  repentance  can  alone  avail. 

Hours  have  glided  by,  and  still  he  sits  upon 
the  same  stone  bench  with  folded  arms,  heed- 
less alike  of  the  fast-decreasing  time  before 
him,  and  the  urgent  entreaties  of  the  good  man 
at  his  side.  The  feeble  light  is  wasting  gradu- 
ally, and  the  deathlike  stillness  of  the  street 
without,  broken  only  by  the  rumbling  of  some 
passing  vehicle  which  echoes  mournfully  through 
the  empty  yards,  warns  him  that  the  night  is 
waning  fast  away.  The  deep  bell  of  St.  Paul’s 
strikes — one!  He  heard  it ; it  has  roused  him. 
Seven  hours  left  ! He  paces  the  narrow  limits 
of  his  cell  with  rapid  strides,  cold  drops  of  ter- 
ror starting  on  his  forehead,  and  every  muscle 
of  his  frame  quivering  with  agony.  Seven 
hours  ! He  suffers  himself  to  be  led  to  his  seat, 
mechanically  takes  the  Bible  which  is  placed  in 
his  hand,  and  tries  to  read  and  listen.  No : his 
thoughts  will  wander.  The  book  is  torn  and 
soiled  by  use — and  like  the  book  he  read  his 
lessons  in,  at  school,  just  forty  years  ago  ! He 
has  never  bestowed  a thought  upon  it,  perhaps, 
since  he  left  it  as  a child:  and  yet  the  place, 
the  time,  the  room — nay,  the  very  boys  he 
played  with,  crowd  as  vividly  before  him  as  if 
they  were  scenes  of  yesterday;  and  some  for- 
gotten phrase,  some  childish  word,  rings  in  his 
ears  like  the  echo  of  one  uttered  but  a minute 
since.  The  voice  of  the  clergyman  recalls  him 
to  himself.  He  is  reading  from  the  sacred  book 
its  solemn  promises  of  pardon  for  repentance, 
and  its  awful  denunciation  of  obdurate  men. 
He  falls  upon  his  knees  and  clasps  his  hands 
to  pray.  Hush  ! what  sound  was  that?  He 
starts  upon  his  feet.  It  cannot  be  two  yet. 
Hark  ! Two  quarters  have  struck — the  third 
— the  fourth.  It  is  ! Six  hours  left.  Tell  him 
not  of  repentance  ! Six  hours’  repentance  for 
eight  times  six  years  of  guilt  and  sin  ! He 
buries  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  throws  himself 
on  the  bench. 

Worn  with  watching  and  excitement,  he 
sleeps,  and  the  same  unsettled  state  of  mind 
pursues  him  in  his  dreams.  An  insupportable 
load  is  taken  from  his  breast ; he  is  walking 
with  his  wife  in  a pleasant  field,  with  the  bright 
sky  above  them,  and  a fresh  and  boundless  pros- 
pect on  every  side — how  different  from  the  stone 
walls  of  Newgate  ! She  is  looking — not  as  she 
did  when  he  saw  her  for  the  last  time  in  that 
dreadful  place,  but  as  she  used  when  lie  loved 
her — long,  long  ago,  before  misery  and  ill-treat- 
ment had  altered  her  looks,  and  vice  had  changed 
his  nature — and  she  is  leaning  upon  his  arm,  and 
looking  up  into  his  face  with  tenderness  and 


affection — and  he  does  not  strike  her  now,  nor 
rudely  shake  her  from  him.  And  oh  ! how  glad 
he  is  to  tell  her  all  he  had  forgotten  in  that  last 
hurried  interview,  and  to  fall  on  his  knees 
before  her  and  fervently  beseech  her  pardon  for 
all  the  unkindness  and  cruelty  that  wasted  her 
form  and  broke  her  heart  ! The  scene  suddenly 
changes.  He  is  on  his  trial  again  • there  arc 
the  judge  and  jury,  and  prosecutors,  and  wit- 
nesses, just  as  they  were  before.  How  full  the 
court  is— what  a sea  of  heads — with  a gallows, 
too,  and  a scaffold — and  how  all  those  people 
stare  at  him  / Verdict,  “ Guilty.”  No  matter  ; he 
will  escape. 

The  night  is  dark  and  cold,  the  gates  have 
been  left  open,  and  in  an  instant  he  is  in  the 
street,  flying  from  the  scene  of  his  imprisonment 
like  the  wind.  The  streets  are  cleared,  the 
open  fields  are  gained,  and  the  broad  wide  coun- 
try lies  before  him.  Onward  he  dashes  in  the 
midst  of  darkness,  over  hedge  and  ditch,  through 
mud  and  pool,  bounding  from  spot  to  spot  with  a 
speed  and  lightness  astonishing  even  to  himself. 
At  length  he  pauses  ; he  must  be  safe  from  pur- 
suit now  ; he  will  stretch  himself  on  that  bank 
and  sleep  till  sunrise. 

A period  of  unconsciousness  succeeds.  He 
wakes,  cold  and  wretched.  The  dull  gray  light 
of  morning  is  stealing  into  the  cell,  and  falls 
upon  the  form  of  the  attendant  turnkey.  Con- 
fused by  his  dreams,  he  starts  from  his  uneasy 
bed  in  momentary  uncertainty.  It  is  but  mo- 
mentary. Every  object  in  the  narrow  cell  is  too 
frightfully  real  to  admit  of  doubt  or  mistake. 
He  is  the  condemned  felon  again,  guilty  and 
despairing ; and  in  two  hours  more  will  be 
dead. — Sketches , Chap.  25. 

PRISONER-The  old. 

He  was  a sallow  man — all  cobblers  are  ; and 
had  a strong  bristly  beard — all  cobblers  have. 
His  face  was  a queer,  good-tempered,  crooked- 
featured  piece  of  workmanship,  ornamented 
with  a couple  of  eyes  that  must  have  worn  a 
very  joyous  expression  at  one  time,  for  they 
sparkled  yet.  The  man  was  sixty,  by  years,  and 
Heaven  knows  how  old  by  imprisonment,  so 
that  his  having  any  look  approaching  to  mirth 
or  contentment,  was  singular  enough.  He  was 
a little  man,  and  being  half  doubled  up  as  he 
lay  in  bed,  looked  about  as  long  as  he  ought  to 
have  been  without  his  legs.  He  had  a great  red 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  was  smoking,  and  staring 
at  the  rushlight,  in  a state  of  enviable  placidity. 

“ Have  you  been  here  long?  ” inquired  Sam, 
breaking  the  silence  which  had  lasted  for  some 
time. 

“ Twelve  year,”  replied  the  cobbler,  biting  the 
end  of  his  pipe  as  he  spoke. 

“ Contempt?  ” inquired  Sam. 

The  cobbler  nodded. 

“ Well,  then,”  said  Sam,  with  some  sternness, 
“ wot  do  you  persevere  in  bein’  obstinit  for, 
vastin’  your  precious  life  away,  in  this  here  mag- 
nified pound  ? Wy  don’t  you  give  in,  and  tell 
the  Chancellorship  that  you’re  wery  sorry  for 
makin’  his  court  contemptible,  and  you  won’t 
do  so  no  more  ? ” 

The  cobbler  put  his  pipe  in  the  corner  of  his 
mouth,  while  he  smiled,  and  then  brought  it  back 
to  its  old  place  again  ; but  said  nothing. 

“ Wy  don’t  you?  ” said  Sam,  urging  his  ques- 
tion strenuously. 


PRISONER 


379 


PRISONER 


“ Ah,”  said  the  cobbler,  “ you  don’t  quite  un- 
derstand these  matters.  What  do  you  suppose 
ruined  me,  now  ? ” 

“ Wy,”  said  Sam,  trimming  the  rush-light,  “ I 
s’pose  the  beginnin’  wos,  that  you  got  into  debt, 
eh  ? ” 

“ Never  owed  a farden,”  said  the  cobbler  ; 
“ try  again.” 

“Well,  perhaps,”  said  Sam,  “you  bought 
houses,  wich  is  delicate  English  forgoin’  mad  ; 
or  took  to  buildin’,  wich  is  a medical  term  for 
bein’  incurable.” 

The  cobbler  shook  his  head  and  said,  “ Try 
again.” 

“ You  didn’t  go  to  law,  I hope  ?.”  said  Sam, 
suspiciously. 

“ Never  in  my  life,”  replied  the  cobbler. 
“ The  fact  is,  I was  ruined  by  having  money 
left  me.” 

“ Come,  come,”  said  Sam,  “ that  von’t  do.  I 
wish  some  rich  enemy  ’ud  try  to  vork  my  de- 
struction in  that  ’ere  vay.  I’d  let  him.” 

Pickwick , Chap . 44. 

PRISONER— The  dead. 

All  was  noise  and  tumult — save  in  a little 
miserable  shed  a few  yards  off,  where  lay,  all 
quiet  and  ghastly,  the  body  of  the  Chancery 
prisoner  who  had  died  the  night  before,  await- 
ing the  mockery  of  an  inquest.  The  body  ! 
It  is  the  lawyer’s  term  for  the  restless,  whirling 
mass  of  cares  and  anxieties,  affections,  hopes, 
and  griefs,  that  make  up  the  living  man.  The 
law  had  his  body  ; and  there  it  lay,  clothed  in 
grave-clothes,  an  awful  witness  to  its  tender 
mercy. — Pickwick , Chap.  45. 

PRISONER— Tha  friendless. 

“ Friends  ! ” interposed  the  man,  in  a voice 
which  rattled  in  his  throat.  “ If  I lay  dead  at 
the  bottom  of  the  deepest  mine  in  the  world  ; 
tight  screwed  down  and  soldered  in  my  coffin  ; 
rotting  in  the  dark  and  filthy  ditch  that  drags 
its  slime  along,  beneath  the  foundations  of  this 
prison  ; I could  not  be  more  forgotten  or  un- 
heeded than  I am  here.  I am  a dead  man  ; 
dead  to  society,  without  the  pity  they  bestow 
on  those  whose  souls  have  passed  to  judgment. 
Friends  to  see  me!  My  God!  I have  sunk 
from  the  prime  of  life  into  old  age,  in  this  place, 
and  there  is  not  one  to  raise  his  hand  above 
my  bed,  when  I lie  dead  upon  it,  and  say, 
‘ It  is  a blessing  he  is  gone  ! ’ ” 

Pickwick , Chap.  42. 

PRISONER— Conviction  of  Sampson  Brass. 

Mr.  Sampson,  then,  being  detained,  as  already 
has  been  shown,  by  the  justice  upon  whom  he 
called,  and  being  so  strongly  pressed  to  protract 
his  stay  that  he  could  by  no  means  refuse,  re- 
mained under  his  protection  for  a considerable 
time,  during  which  the  great  attention  of  his  en- 
tertainer kept  him  so  extremely  close,  that  he  was 
quite  lost  to  society,  and  never  even  went  abroad 
for  exercise  saving  into  a small  paved  yard.  So 
well,  indeed,  was  his  modest  and  retiring 
temper  understood  by  those  with  whom  he  had 
to  deal,  and  so  jealous  were  they  of  his  absence, 
that  they  required  a kind  of  friendly  bond  to  be 
entered  into  by  two  substantial  housekeepers,  in 
the  sum  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a-piece,  before 
they  would  suffer  him  to  quit  their  hospitable 
roof — doubting,  it  appeared,  that  he  would  re- 


turn, if  once  let  loose,  on  any  other  terms.  Mr. 
Brass,  struck  with  the  humor  of  this  jest,  and 
carrying  out  its  spirit  to  the  utmost,  sought  from 
his  wide  connection  a pair  of  friends  whose 
joint  possessions  fell  some  halfpence  short  of 
fifteen  pence,  and  proffered  them  as  bail — for 
that  was  the  merry  word  agreed  upon  on  both 
sides.  These  gentlemen  being  rejected  after 
twenty-four  hours’  pleasantry,  Mr.  Brass  con- 
sented to  remain,  and  did  remain  until  a club  of 
choice  spirits  called  a Grand  Jury  (who  were  in 
the  joke)  summoned  him  to  a trial  before  twelve 
other  wags  for  perjury  and  fraud,  who  in  their 
turn  found  him  guilty  with  a most  facetious  joy 
— nay,  the  very  populace  entered  into  the  whim, 
and  when  Mr.  Brass  was  moving  in  a hackney- 
coach  towards  the  building  where  these  wags 
assembled,  saluted  him  with  rotten  eggs  and 
carcases  of  kittens,  and  feigned  to  wish  to  tear 
him  into  shreds,  which  greatly  increased  the  com- 
icality of  the  thing,  and  made  him  relish  it  the 
more,  no  doubt. 

* * ":5-  the  upshot  was,  that,  instead  of 

being  desired  to  travel  for  a time  in  foreign  parts, 
he  was  permitted  to  grace  the  mother  country, 
under  certain  insignificant  restrictions. 

These  were,  that  he  should,  for  a term  of 
yeai's,  reside  in  a spacious  mansion  where  sev 
eral  other  gentlemen  were  lodged  and  boarded 
at  the  public  charge,  who  went  clad  in  a sober 
uniform  of  grey  turned  up  with  yellow,  had 
their  hair  cut  extremely  short,  and  chiefly  lived 
on  gruel  and  light  soup.  It  was  also  required 
of  him  that  he  should  partake  of  their  exercise 
of  constantly  ascending  an  endless  flight  of 
stairs  ; and,  lest  his  legs,  unused  to  such  exer- 
tion, should  be  weakened  by  it,  that  he  should 
wear  upon  one  ankle  an  amulet  or  cliarm  of 
iron.  These  conditions  being  arranged,  he  was 
removed  one  evening  to  his  new  abode,  and  en- 
joyed, in  common  with  nine  other  gentlemen 
and  two  ladies,  the  privilege  of  being  taken 
to  his  place  of  retirement  in  one  of  Royalty’s 
own  carriages. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  73. 

PRISONER— For  debt  (Sam  Weller’s  story). 

“ It  strikes  me,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
leaning  over  the  iron  rail  at  the  stair-head,  “ It 
strikes  me,  Sam,  that  imprisonment  for  debt  is 
scarcely  any  punishment  at  all.” 

“ Think  not,  sir?  ” inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

“ You  see  how  these  fellows  drink,  and  smoke, 
and  roar,”  replied  Mr.  Pickwick.  “ It’s  quite 
impossible  that  they  can  mind  it  much.” 

“Ah,  that’s  just  the  wery  thing,  sir,”  rejoined 
Sam,  “ they  don’t  mind  it  ; it’s  a regular  holiday 
to  them — all  porter  and  skittles.  It’s  the  t’other 
vuns  as  gets  done  over,  vith  Lhis  sort  o’ thing  ; 
them  down-hearted  fellers  as  can’t  svig  avay  at 
the  beer,  nor  play  at  skittles  neither  ; them  as 
vould  pay  if  they  could,  and  gets  low  by  being 
boxed  up.  I’ll  tell  you  wot  it  is,  sir ; them  as 
is  always  a idlin’  in  public  houses  it  don’t  dam- 
age at  all,  and  them  as  is  alvays  a workin’  wen 
they  can,  it  damages  too  much.  ‘ It’s  unekal,’ 
as  my  father  used  to  say  when  his  grog  worn’t 
made  half-and-half : ‘It’s  unekal,  and  that’s  the 
fault  on  it.’  ” 

“ I think  you’re  right,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, after  a few  moments’  reflection,  “ quite 
right.” 

“ P’raps,  now  and  then,  there’s  some  .honest 
people  as  likes  it,”  observed  Mr.  Weller,  in  a 


PRISONER 


380  PROFESSIONAL  ENTHUSIAST! 


ruminative  tone,  “ but  1 never  heerd  o’  one  as  I 
can  call  to  mind,  ’cept  the  little  dirty-faced 
man  in  the  brown  coat:  and  that  was  force  of 
habit.” 

“And  who  was  he?  ” inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 
‘ “ Wy,  that’s  just  the  wery  point  as  nobody 
never  knovv’d,”  replied  Sam. 

“ But  what  did  he  do  ? ” 

“ Wy,  he  did  wot  many  men  as  has  been  much 
better  know’d  has  done  in  their  time,  sir,”  re- 
plied Sam,  “ he  run  a match  agin  the  constable, 
and  vun  it.” 

“ In  other  words,  I suppose,”  said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, “ he  got  into  debt.” 

“ Just  that,  sir,”  replied  Sam,  “ and  in  course 
o’  time  he  come  here  in  consekens.  It  warn’t 
much — execution  for  nine  pound  nothin’,  multi- 
plied by  five  for  costs  ; but  hows’ever  here  he 
stopped  for  seventeen  year.  If  he  got  any  wrin- 
kles in  his  face,  they  was  stopped  up  vith  the 
dirt,  for  both  the  dirty  face  and  the  brown  coat 
wos  just  the  same  at  the  end  o’  that  time  as  they 
wos  at  the  beginnin’.  He  wos  a wery  peaceful 
inoffendin’  little  creetur,  and  wos  alvays  a 
bustlin’  about  for  somebody,  or  playin’  rackets 
and  never  vinnin’  ; till  at  last  the  turnkeys  they 
got  quite  fond  on  him,  and  he  wos  in  the  lodge 
ev'ry  night,  a chattering  vith  ’em,  and  tellin’ 
stories,  and  all  that  ’ere.  Vun  night  he  wos  in 
there  as  usual,  along  vith  a wery  old  friend  of 
his,  as  wos  on  the  lock,  ven  he  says  all  of  a sud- 
den, ‘ I ain’t  seen  the  market  outside,  Bill,’  he 
says  (Fleet  Market  wos  there  at  that  time) — 
‘ I ain’t  seen  the  market  outside,  Bill,’  he  says, 
4 for  seventeen  year.’  4 I know  you  ain't,’  says 
the  turnkey,  smoking  his  pipe.  4 I should  like 
to  see  it  for  a minit,  Bill,’  he  says.  4 Wery  pro- 
bable,' says  the  turnkey,  smoking  his  pipe  wery 
fierce,  and  making  believe  he  warn’t  up  to  what 
the  little  man  wanted.  4 Bill,’  says  the  little  man 
more  abrupt  than  afore,  4 I’ve  got  the  fancy  in 
my  head.  Let  me  see  the  public  streets  once 
more  afore  I die  ; and  if  I ain’t  struck  with 
apoplexy,  I’ll  be  back  in  five  rainits  by  the  clock.’ 
4 And  wot  ’ud  become  o’  me  if  you  was  struck 
with  apoplexy  ?’ said  the  turnkey.  4Wy,’says 
the  little  creetur,  4 whoever  found  me  ’ud  bring 
me  home,  for  I have  got  my  card  in  my  pocket, 
Bill,’  he  says,  4 No.  20,  Coffee-room  Flight ; ’ ancl 
that  was  true,  sure  enough,  for  wen  he  wanted 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  any  new-comer,  he 
used  to  pull  out  a little  limp  card  vith  them 
words  on  it  and  nothin’  else  : in  consideration 
of  vich,  he  wos  alvays  called  Number  Tventy. 
The  turnkey  takes  a fixed  look  at  him,  and  at 
last  he  says  in  a solemn  manner,  ‘Tventy,’  he 
says,  4 I’ll  trust  you  ; you  won’t  get  your  old 
friend  into  trouble.’  4 No,  my  boy  ; I hope  I’ve 
somethin’  better  behind  here,’  says  the  little  man, 
and  as  lie  said  it  he  hit  his  little  veskit  wery  hard, 
and  then  a tear  started  out  o’  each  eye,  which 
wos  wery  extraordinary,  for  it  wos  supposed  as 
water  never  touched  his  face.  He  shook  the 
turnkey  by  the  hand  ; out  he  vent ” 

44  And  never  came  back  again,”  said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. 

44  Wrong  for  vunce,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller, 
“for  back  he  come,  two  minits  afore  the  time,  a 
bilin’  with  rage  ; sayin’  how  he’d  been  nearly 
run  over  by  a hackney  coach  ; that  he  warn’t 
used  to  it  : and  lie  was  blowcd  if  he  wouldn't 
u'rile  to  the  Lord  Mayor.  They  got  him  pnei li- 
ed at  last ; and  for  five  years  artcr  that,  he 


never  even  so  much  as  peeped  out  o’  the  lodge* 
gate.” 

“ At  the  expiration  of  that  time  he  died,  I sup- 
pose,” said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

44  No  he  didn’t,  sir,”  replied  Sam.  “ He  got  a 
curiosity  to  go  and  taste  the  beer  at  a new  public- 
house  over  the  way,  and  it  wos  such  a wery  nice 
parlor,  that  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  go  there 
every  night,  wich  he  did  for  a long  time,  always 
coinin’  back  reg’lar  about  a quarter  of  an  hour 
afore  the  gate  shut,  wich  wos  all  wery  snug  and 
comfortable.  At  last  he  began  to  get  so  precious 
jolly,  that  lie  used  to  forget  how  the  time  vent, 
or  care  nothin’  at  all  about  it,  and  he  vent  on 
gettin’  later  and  later,  till  vun  night  his  old 
friend  wds  just  a shuttin’  the  gate — had  turned 
the  key  in  fact — wen  he  come  up.  ‘Hold  hard, 
Bill,’  he  says.  4 Wot,  ain’t  you  come  home  yet, 
Tventy?’  says  the  turnkey,  4 1 thought  you  Wos 
in,  long  ago.’  4 No  I wasn’t,’  says  the  little  man, 
vith  a smile.  4 Well  then,  I’ll  tell  you  wot  it  is, 
my  friend,’  says  the  turnkey,  openin’  the  gate 
very  slow  and  sulky,  4 it’s  my ’pinion  as  you’ve 
got  into  bad  company  o’  late,  which  I’m  wery 
sorry  to  see.  Now,  I don’t  wish  to  do  nothing 
harsh,’  he  says,  4 but  if  you  can’t  confine  your- 
self to  steady  circles,  and  find  your  vav  back  at 
reglar  hours,  as  sure  as  you’re  a standin’  there, 
I’ll  shut  you  out  altogether!’  The  little  man 
was  seized  with  a wiolent  fit  o’  tremblin’,  and 
never  vent  outside  the  prison  walls  artervards  !” 

PicJnvicky  Chap.  41. 

PROFANITY. 

A variety  of  expletive  adjectives  let  loose  up- 
on society  without  any  substantive  to  accom- 
pany them. — Pickwick , Chap.  42. 

PROFANITY-Of  Old  Lobbs. 

44  Now  it  did  unfortunately  happen,  that  old 
Lobbs,  being  very  hungry,  was  monstrous  cross. 
Nathaniel  Pipkin  could  hear  him  growling  away 
like  an  old  mastiff  with  a sore  throat ; and  when-< 
ever  the  unfortunate  apprentice  with  the  thill 
legs  came  into  the  room,  so  surely  did  old  Lobbs 
commence  swearing  at  him  in  a most  Saracenic 
and  ferocious  manner,  though  apparently  with  no 
other  end  or  object  than  that  of  easing  his  bosom 
by  the  discharge  of  a few  superfluous  oaths.” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  17. 

PROFESSIONAL  ENTHUSIASM. 

44  It  was  a maxim  of  Captain  Swosser’s,”  said 
Mrs.  Badger,  “speaking  in  his  figurative  naval 
manner,  that  when  you  make  pitch  hot,  you  can- 
not make  it  too  hot ; and  that  if  you  only  have 
to  swab  a plank,  you  should  swab  it  as  if  Davy 
Jones  were  after  you.  It  appears  to  me  that  this 
maxim  is  applicable  to  the  medical,  as  well  as  to 
the  nautical  profession.” 

“ To  all  professions,”  observed  Mr.  Badger, 
44  it  was  admirably  said  by  Captain  Swosser. 
Beautifully  said.” 

“ People  objected  to  Professor  Dingo,  when 
we  were  staying  in  the  North  of  Devon,  after 
our  marriage,”  said  Mrs.  Badger,  44  that  lie  dis- 
figured some  of  the  houses  and  other  buildings, 
by  chipping  off  fragments  of  those  edifices  with 
his  little  geologicai  hammer.  But  the  Professor 
replied  that  he  knew  of  no  building,  save  the 
Temple  of  Science.  The  principle  is  the  same, 
I think  •” 

“ Precisely  the  same,”  said  Mr.  Badger. 


PROOFS 


381 


PUGILIST 


“ Finely  expressed  ! The  Professor  made  the 
same  remark,  Miss  Summerson,  in  his  last  ill- 
ness ; when  (his  mind  wandering)  he  insisted  on 
keeping  his  little  hammer  under  the  pillow,  and 
chipping  at  the  countenances  of  the  attendants. 
The  ruling  passion  !” — Bleak  House , Chap.  17. 

PROOFS-  Smeared. 

He  smeared  himself  and  he  smeared  the 
Proofs,  the  night  through,  to  that  degree  that 
when  Sol  gave  him  warning  to  depart  (in  a four- 
wheeler),  few  could  have  said  which  was  them, 
and  which  was  him,  and  which  was  blots.  His 
Inst  instructions  was,  that  I should  instantly  run 
and  take  his  corrections  to  the  office  of  the 
present  Journal.  I did  so.  They  most  likely 
will  not  appear  in  print,  for  I noticed  a message 
being  brought  round  from  Beauford  Printing 
Plouse,  while  I was  a throwing  this  concluding 
statement  on  paper,  that  the  ole  resources  of 
that  establishment  was  unable  to  make  out 
what  they  meant. — Somebody's  Luggage , Chap.  3. 

PROSPERITY— The  effect  of  (Mark  Tapley). 

There’s  a surprisin’  number  of  men,  sir,  who, 
as  long  as  they’ve  only  got  their  own  shoes  and 
stockings  to  depend  upon,  will  walk  down-hill, 
along  the  gutters,  quiet  enough,  and  by  them- 
selves, and  not  do  much  harm.  But  set  any  on 
’em  up  with  a coach  and  horses,  sir : and  it’s 
wonderful  what  a knowledge  of  drivin’  he’ll 
show,  and  how  he’ll  fill  his  vehicle  with  passen- 
gers, and  start  off  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
neck  or  nothing,  to  the  Devil ! 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  52. 

PROVERB— A flowing-bearded  and  patri- 
archal. 

“Stop!”  cried  Mr.  Tigg,  holding  out  his 
hand.  “ Hold  ! There  is  a most  remarkably 
long-headed,  flowing-bearded,  and  patriarchal 
proverb,  which  observes  that  it  is  the  duty  of  a 
man  to  be  just  before  he  is  generous.  Be  just 
now,  and  you  can  be  generous  presently.  Do 
not  confuse  me  with  the  man  Slyme.  Do  not 
distinguish  the  man  Slyme  as  a friend  of  mine, 
for  he  is  no  such  thing.  I have  been  compelled, 
sir,  to  abandon  the  party  whom  you  call  Slyme. 
I have  no  knowledge  of  the  party  whom  you 
call  Slyme.  I am,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Tigg,  striking 
himself  upon  the  breast,  “ a premium  tulip,  of  a 
very  different  growth  and  cultivation  from  the 
cabbage  Slyme,  sir.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  13. 

PUBLIC  MAN— His  self-importance. 

For  a gentleman  who  was  rejoiced  to  see  a 
body  of  visitors,  Mr.  Gregsbury  looked  as  un- 
comfortable as  might  be  ; but  perhaps  this  was 
occasioned  by  senatorial  gravity,  and  a states- 
manlike habit  of  keeping  his  feelings  under  con- 
trol. He  was  a tough,  burly,  thick-headed  gen- 
tleman, with  a loud  voice,  a pompous  manner,  a 
tolerable  command  of  sentences  with  no  mean- 
ing in  them,  and,  in  short,  every  requisite  for  a 
very  good  member  indeed. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  16. 

PUBLIC  MAN— The  duties  of  his  secretary. 

“ There  are  other  duties,  Mr.  Nickleby,  which 
a secretary  to  a parliamentary  gentleman  must 
never  lose  sight  of.  I should  require  to  be 
crammed,  sir.” 


“ I beg  your  pardon,”  interposed  Nicholas, 
doubtful  whether  he  had  heard  aright. 

“ — To  be  crammed,  sir,”  repeated  Mr.  Gregs- 
bury. 

“ May  I beg  your  pardon  again,  if  I inquire 
what  you  mean,  sir?”  said  Nicholas. 

“ My  meaning,  sir,  is  perfectly  plain,”  re- 
plied Mr.  Gregsbury,  with  a solemn  aspect. 
“ My  secretary  would  have  to  make  himself 
master  of  the  foreign  policy  of  the  world,  as  it  is 
mirrored  in  the  newspapers  ; to  run  his  eye  over 
all  accounts  of  public  meetings,  all  leading  arti- 
cles, and  accounts  of  the  proceedings  of  public 
bodies  ; and  to  make  notes  of  anything  which  it 
appeared  to  him  might  be  made  a point  of,  in 
any  little  speech  upon  the  question  of  some  pe- 
tition lying  on  the  table,  or  anything  of  that 
kind.  Do  you  understand  ? ” 

“ I think  I do,  sir,”  replied  Nicholas. 

“ Then,”  said  Mr.  Gregsbury,  “ it  would  be 
necessary  for  him  to  make  himself  acquainted, 
from  day  to  day,  with  newspaper  paragraphs  on 
passing  events  ; such  as  ‘ Mysterious  disappear- 
ance, and  supposed  suicide  of  a pot-bov,’  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort,  upon  which  I might  found  a 
question  to  the  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Home 
Department.  Then,  he  would  have  to  copy  the 
question,  and  as  much  as  I remembered  of  the 
answer  (including  a little  compliment  about  in- 
dependence and  good  sense) ; and  to  send  the 
manuscript  in  a frank  to  the  local  paper,  with 
perhaps  half  a dozen  lines  of  leader  to  the  effect, 
that  I was  always  to  be  found  in  my  place  in 
Parliament,  and  never  shrunk  from  the  respon- 
sible and  arduous  duties,  and  so  forth.  You  sec.” 

Nicholas  bowed. 

“ Besides  which,”  continued  Mr.  Gregsbury, 
“ I should  expect  him,  now  and  then,  to  go 
through  a few  figures  in  the  printed  tables,  and 
to  pick  out  a few  results,  so  that  I might  come 
out  pretty  well  on  timber  duty  questions,  and 
finance  questions,  and  so  on  ; and  I should  like 
him  to  get  up  a few  little  arguments  about  the 
disastrous  effects  of  a return  to  cash  payments 
and  a metallic  currency,  with  a touch  now  and 
then  about  the  exportation  of  bullion,  and  the 
Emperor  of  Russia,  and  bank  notes,  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing,  which  it’s  only  necessary  to  talk 
fluently  about,  because  nobody  understands  it. 
Do  you  take  me  ? ” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  16. 

PUDDING— A successful. 

I am  a neat  hand  at  cookery,  and  I’ll  tell  you 
what  I knocked  up  for  my  Christmas-eve  dinner 
in  the  Library  Cart.  I knocked  up  a beefsteak 
pudding  for  one,  with  two  kidneys,  a dozen  oys- 
ters, and  a couple  of  mushrooms,  thrown  in. 
It’s  a pudding  to  put  a man  in  good-humor  with 
everything,  except  the  two  bottom  buttons  of  his 
waistcoat. — Dr.  Marigold. 

PUGILIST-11  Chicken,”  the. 

With  that,  Mr.  Toots,  repairing  to  the  shop- 
door,  sent  a peculiar  whistle  into  the  night,  which 
produced  a stoical  gentleman  in  a shaggy  white 
great-coat  and  a flat-brimmed  hat,  with  very 
short  hair,  a broken  nose,  and  a considerable 
tract  of  bare  and  sterile  country  behind  each  ear. 

“Sit  down,  Chicken,”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

The  compliant  Chicken  spat  out  some  small 
pieces  of  straw  on  which  he  was  regaling  him- 
self, and  took  in  a fresh  supply  from  a reserve 
lie  carried  in  his  hand. 


PUNCH 


382 


PUNCH 


“ There  ain’t  no  drain  of  nothing  short  handy, 
is  there?”  said  the  Chicken,  generally.  “This 
here  sluicing  night  is  hard  lines  tj  a man  as  lives 
on  his  condition  ! " 

Captain  Cuttle  proffered  a glass  of  rum,  which 
the  Chicken,  throwing  back  his  head,  emptied 
into  himself,  as  into  a cask,  after  proposing  the 
brief  sentiment,  “ Towards  us  ! ” 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  32. 

This  gentleman  awakened  in  Miss  Nipper 
some  considerable  astonishment  ; for,  having 
been  defeated  by  the  Larkey  Boy,  his  visage 
was  in  a state  of  such  great  dilapidation,  as  to 
be  hardly  presentable  in  society  with  comfort 
to  the  beholders.  The  Chicken  himself  attrib- 
uted this  punishment  to  his  having  had  the 
misfortune  to  get  into  Chancery  early  in  the 
proceedings,  when  he  was  severely  fibbed  by 
the  Larkey  one,  and  heavily  grassed.  But  it 
appeared  from  the  published  records  of  that 
great  contest  that  the  Larkey  Boy  had  had  it 
all  his  own  way  from  the  beginning,  and  that 
the  Chicken  had  been  tapped,  and  bunged,  and 
had  received  pepper,  and  had  been  made  grog- 
gy, and  had  come  up  piping,  and  had  endured 
a complication  of  similar  strange  inconven- 
iences, until  he  had  been  gone  into  and  finished. 

Dombev  Son , Chap.  50. 

Mr.  Toots  informs  the  Chicken,  behind  his 
hand,  that  the  middle  gentleman,  he  in  the 
fawn-colored  pantaloons,  is  the  father  of  his 
love.  The  Chicken  hoarsely  whispers  Mr. 
Toots  that  he’s  as  stiff  a cove  as  ever  he  see, 
but  that  it  is  within  the  resources  of  science  to 
double  him  up,  with  one  blow  in  the  waist- 
coat.— Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  31. 

Not  being  able  quite  to  make  up  his  mind 
about  it,  he  consulted  the  Chicken — without 
taking  that  gentleman  into  his  confidence  ; 
merely  informing  him  that  a friend  in  York- 
shire had  written  to  him  (Mr.  Toots)  for  his  opin- 
ion on  such  a question.  The  Chicken  replying 
that  his  opinion  always  was,  “ Go  in  and  win,” 
and  further,  “ When  your  man’s. before  you  and 
your  work  cut  out,  go  in  and  do  it.” 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  23. 

PUNCH— Mr.  Micawbar’s. 

To  divert  his  thoughts  from  this  melancholy 
subject,  I informed  Mr.  Micawber  that  I 
reiied  upon  him  for  a bowl  of  punch,  and  led 
him  to  the  lemons.  His  recent  despondency, 
not  to  say  despair,  was  gone  in  a moment.  I 
never  saw  a man  so  thoroughly  enjoy  himself 
amid  the  fragrance  of  lemon-peel  and  sugar, 
the  odor  of  burning  rum,  and  the  steam  of 
boiling  water,  as  Mr.  Micawber  did  that  after- 
noon. It  was  wonderful  to  see  his  face  shin- 
ing at  us  out  of  a thin  cloud  of  these  delicate 
fumes,  as  he  stirred,  and  mixed,  and  tasted,  and 
looked  as  if  he  were  making,  instead  of  punch, 
a fortune  for  his  family  down  to  the  latest  pos- 
terity. As  to  Mrs.  Micawber,  I don’t  know 
whether  it  was  the  effect  of  the  cap,  or  the 
lavender-water,  or  the  pins,  or  the  fire,  or  the 
wax-candles,  but  she  came  out  of  my  room, 
comparatively  speaking,  lovely.  And  the  lark 
was  never  gayer  than  that  excellent  woman. 

* >h  * * * 

“ Punch,  my  dear  Copperfield,”  said  Mr. 


Micawber,  tasting  it,  “ like  time  and  tide,  waits 
for  no  man.  Ah  ! it  is  at  the  present  moment 
in  high  flavor.” — David  Copperfield , Chap.  28. 

PUNCH-  Bob  Sawyer’s. 

They  sat  down  to  dinner  ; the  beer  being 
served  up,  as  Mr.  Sawyer  remarked,  “ in  its  native 
pewter.” 

After  dinner,  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  ordered  in  the 
largest  mortar  in  the  shop,  and  proceeded  to 
brew  a reeking  jorum  of  ram-punch  therein  ; 
stirring  up  and  amalgamating  the  materials 
with  a pestle  in  a very  creditable  and  apothe- 
cary-like manner.  Mr.  Sawyer,  being  a bach- 
elor, had  only  one  tumbler  in  the  house,  which 
was  assigned  to  Mr.  Winkle  as  a compliment 
to  the  visitor  ; Mr.  Ben  Allen  being  accommo- 
dated with  a funnel  with  a cork  in  the  narrow 
end  ; and  Bob  Sawyer  contented  himself  with 
one  of  those  wide-lipped  crystal  vessels  in- 
scribed with  a variety  of  cabalistic  characters, 
in  which  chemists  are  wont  to  measure  out 
their  liquid  drugs  in  compounding  prescrip- 
tions. These  preliminaries  adjusted,  the  punch 
was  tasted,  and  pronounced  excellent  ; and  it 
having  been  arranged  that  Bob  Sawyer  and 
Ben  Allen  should  be  considered  at  liberty  to 
fill  twice  to  Mr.  Winkle’s  once,  they  started 
fair,  with  great  satisfaction  and  good-fellowship. 

Pickwick , Chap.  38. 

PUNCH— And  its  results. 

“ Well,  that  certainly  is  most  capital  cold 
punch.”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  looking  earnestly  at 
the  stone  bottle;  “and  the  day  is  extremely 
warm,  and — Tupman,my  dear  friend,  a glass  of 
punch  ? ” 

“With  the  greatest  delight,”  replied  Mr.  Tup- 
man  ; and  having  drank  that  glass,  Mr.  Pick- 
wick took  another,  just  to  see  whether  there 
was  any  orange  peel  in  the  punch,  because 
orange  peel  always  disagreed  with  him  ; and  find- 
ing that  there  was  not,  Mr.  Pickwick  took 
another  glass  to  the  health  of  their  absent  friend, 
and  then  felt  himself  imperatively  called  on  to 
propose  another  in  honor  of  the  punch-com- 
pounder, unknown. 

This  constant  succession  of  glasses  produced 
considerable  effect  upon  Mr.  Pickwick  ; his  coun- 
tenance beamed  with  the  most  sunny  smiles, 
laughter  played  around  his  lips,  and  good-hu- 
mored merriment  twinkled  in  his  eye.  Yield- 
ing  by  degrees  to  the  influence  of  the  exciting 
liquid,  rendered  more  so  by  the  heat,  Mr.  Pick- 
wick expressed  a strong  desire  to  recollect  a 
song  which  he  had  heard  in  his  infancy,  and 
the  attempt  proving  abortive,  sought  to  stimu- 
late his  memory  with  more  glasses  of  punch, 
which  appeared  to  have  quite  a contrary  effect ; 
for,  from  forgetting  the  words  of  the  song,  he 
began  to  forget  how  to  articulate  any  words  at 
all  ; and  finally,  after  rising  to  his  legs  to  address 
the  company  in  an  eloquent  speech,  he  fell  into 
,the  barrow  and  fast  asleep,  simultaneously. 

Pickwick , Chap.  19. 

PUNCH- Feeling-,  the  groundwork  of. 

“ Why,  you  smell  rather  comfortable  here  ! ** 
said  Wegg,  seeming  to  take  it  ill,  and  stopping 
and  sniffing  as  he  entered. 

“ I am  rather  comfortable,  sir ! ” said  Venus. 

“ You  don’t  use  lemon  in  your  business,  do 
you?”  asked  Wegg,  sniffing  again. 


PURSE 


383 


QUILP 


“ No,  Mr.  Wegg,”  said  Venus.  “ When  I use 
it  at  all,  I mostly  use  it  in  cobblers’  punch.” 

“ What  do  you  call  cobblers’  punch  ? ” de- 
manded Wegg,  in  a worse  humor  than  before. 

“ It’s  difficult  to  impart  the  receipt  for  it, 
sir,”  returned  Venus,  “because,  however  par- 
ticular you  may  be  in  allotting  your  materials, 
so  much  will  still  depend  upoij  the  individual 
gifts,  and  there  being  a feeling  thrown  into  it. 
But  the  groundwork  is  gin.” 

“In  a Dutch  bottle  ?”  said  Wegg,  gloomily, 
as  he  sat  himself  down. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  IV .,  Chap.  14. 

PURSE— An  empty. 

Joe  bought  a roll,  and  reduced  his  purse  to 
the  condition  (with  a difference)  of  that  cele- 
brated purse  of  Fortunatus,  which,  whatever 
were  its  favored  owner’s  necessities,  had  one 
unvarying  amount  in  it.  In  these  real  times, 
when  all  the  Fairies  are  dead  and  buried,  there 
are  still  a great  many  purses  which  possess  that 
quality.  The  sum  total  they  contain  is  expressed 
in  arithmetic  by  a circle,  and  whether  it  be 
added  to  or  multiplied  by  its  own  amount,  the 
result  of  the  problem  is  more  easily  stated  than 
any  known  in  figures. 

Barnaby  Budge , Chap.  31. 




Q 

QUILP— A post-mortem  examination  of. 

“ They  think  you’re — you’re  drowned,”  re- 
plied the  boy,  who  in  his  malicious  nature  had 
a sti'ong  infusion  of  his  master.  “ You  was  last 
seen  on  the  brink  of  the  wharf,  and  they  think 
you  tumbled  over.  Ha  ha  ! ” 

The  prospect  of  playing  the  spy  under  such 
delicious  circumstances,  and  of  disappointing 
them  all  by  walking  in  alive,  gave  more  delight 
to  Quilp  than  the  greatest  stroke  of  good  for- 
tune could  possibly  have  inspired  him  with.  He 
was  no  less  tickled  than  his  hopeful  assistant, 
and  they  both  stood  for  some  seconds,  grinning 
and  gasping  and  wagging  their  heads  at  each 
other,  on  either  side  of  the  post,  like  an  un- 
matchable  pair  of  Chinese  idols. 

* * * * * 

“ Ah ! ” said  Mr.  Brass,  breaking  the  silence, 
and  raising  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling  with  a sigh, 
“ Who  knows  but  he  may  be  looking  down  upon 
Us  now  ! Who  knows  but  he  may  be  surveying 
of  us  from — from  somewheres  or  another,  and 
contemplating  us  with  a watchful  eye ! Oh 
Lor!” 

Here  Mr.  Brass  stopped  to  drink  half  his 
punch,  and  then  resumed  ; looking  at  the  other 
half,  as  he  spoke,  with  a dejected  smile. 

“ I can  almost  fancy,”  said  the  lawyer,  shak- 
ing his  head,  “that  I see  his  eye  glistening 
down  at  the  very  bottom  of  my  liquor.  When 
shall  we  look  upon  his  like  again?  Never, 
never!  One  minute,  we  are  here” — holding 
his  tumbler  before  his  eyes — “ the  next  we  are 
there” — gulping  down  its  contents,  and  strik- 
ing himself  emphatically  a little  below  the  chest 
— “ in  the  tomb.  To  think  that  I should  be 
drinking  his  very  rum  ! It  seems  like  a dream.” 

With  the  view,  no  doubt,  of  testing  the  real- 


ity of  his  position,  Mr.  Brass  pushed  his  tum- 
bler as  he  spoke  towards  Mrs.  Jiniwin  for  the 
purpose  of  being  replenished ; and  turned  to- 
wards the  attendant  mariners. 

“ The  search  has  been  quite  unsuccessful 
then  ? ” 

“ Quite,  master.  But  I should  say  that  if  he 
turns  up  anywhere,  he’ll  come  ashore  some- 
where about  Grinidge  to-morrow,  at  ebb  tide, 
etl,  mate  ? ” 

The  other  gentleman  assented,  observing  that 
he  was  expected  at  the  Hospital,  and  that  sev- 
eral pensioners  would  be  ready  to  receive  him 
whenever  he  arrived. 

“ Then  we  have  nothing  for  it  but  resigna- 
tion,” said  Mr.  Brass  ; “ nothing  but  resigna- 
tion, and  expectation.  It  would  be  a comfort 
to  have  his  body  ; it  would  be  a dreary  com- 
fort.” 

“ Oh,  beyond  a doubt,”  assented  Mrs.  Jini- 
win, hastily  ; “ if  we  once  had  that,  we  should 
be  quite  sure.” 

“ With  regard  to  the  descriptive  advertise- 
ment,” said  Sampson  Brass,  taking  up  his  pen. 
“ It  is  a melancholy  pleasure  to  recall  his  traits. 
Respecting  his  legs  now — ? ” 

“Crooked,  certainly,”  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

“ Do  you  think  they  were  crooked  ? ” said 
Brass,  in  an  insinuating  tone.  “ I think  I see 
them  now  coming  up  the  street  very  wide  apart, 
in  nankeen  pantaloons  a little  shrunk  and  with- 
out straps.  Ah  ! what  a vale  of  tears  we  live 
in.  Do  we  say  crooked  ? ” 

“ 1 think  they  were  a little  so,”  observed  Mrs. 
Quilp  with  a sob. 

“ Legs  crooked,”  said  Brass,  writing  as  he 
spoke.  “ Large  head,  short  body,  legs  crook- 
ed— ” 

“ Very  crooked,”  suggested  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

“We’ll  not  say  very  crooked,  ma’am,”  said 
Brass,  piously.  “ Let  us  not  bear  hard  upon  the 
weaknesses  of  the  deceased.  He  is  gone,  ma’am, 
to  where  his  legs  will  never  come  in  question. 
We  will  content  ourselves  with  crooked,  Mrs. 
Jiniwin.” 

“ I thought  you  wanted  the  truth,”  said  the 
old  lady.  “ That’s  all.” 

“ Bless  your  eyes,  how  I love  you,”  muttered 
Quilp.  “ There  she  goes  again.  Nothing  but 
punch ! ” 

“ This  is  an  occupation,”  said  the  lawyer,  lay- 
ing down  his  pen  and  emptying  his  glass, 
“ which  seems  to  bring  him  before  ray  eyes  like 
the  Ghost  of  Hamlet’s  father,  in  the  very  clothes 
that  he  wore  on  work-a-days.  His  coat,  his 
waistcoat,  his  shoes  and  stockings,  his  trousers, 
his  hat,  his  wit  and  humor,  his  pathos  and  his 
umbrella,  all  come  before  me  like  visions  of  ray 
youth.  Ilis  linen!”  said  Mr.  Brass,  smiling 
fondly  at  the  wall,  “his  linen,  which  was  always 
of  a particular  color,  for  such  was  his  whim 
and  fancy — how  plain  I see  his  linen  now  !” 

“You  had  better  go  on,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Jini- 
win impatiently. 

“ True,  ma’am,  true,”  cried  Mr.  Brass.  “ Our 
faculties  must  not  freeze  with  grief.  I’ll  trou- 
ble you  for  a little  more  of  that,  ma’am.  A 
question  now  arises,  with  relation  to  his  nose.” 

“ Fiat,”  said  Mrs.  Jiniwin. 

“Aquiline!”  cried  Quilp,  thrusting  in  his 
head,  and  striking  the  feature  with  his  fist. 
“ Aquiline,  you  hag.  Do  you  see  it?  Do  you 
call  this  flat  ? Do  you  ? Eh  ? ” 


QUILP 


384 


RACKS 


“Oh  capital,  capital ! ”*  shouted  Brass,  from 
the  mere  force  of  habit.  “Excellent!  Ilow 
very  good  he  is  ! He’s  a most  remarkable  man 
— so  extremely  whimsical ! Such  an  amazing 
power  of  taking  people  by  surprise  !” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  49. 

QUILP- At  home. 

“ Mrs.  Quilp  ! ” 

“Yes,  Quilp.” 

“Am  I nice  to  look  at?  Should  I be  the 
handsomest  creature  in  the  world  if  I had  but 
whiskers?  Am  I quite  a lady’s  man  as  it  is?- — 
am  I,  Mrs.  Quilp  ? ” 

Mrs.  Quilp  dutifully  replied,  “Yes,  Quilp;” 
and  fascinated'  by  his  gaze,  remained  looking 
timidly  at  him,  while  he  treated  her  with  a suc- 
cession of  such  horrible  grimaces  as  none  but 
himself  and  nightmares  had  the  power  of  assum- 
ing. During  the  whole  of  this  performance, 
which  was  somewhat  of  the  longest,  he  preserved 
a dead  silence,  except  when,  by  an  unexpected 
skip  or  leap,  he  made  his  wife  start  backward 
with  an  irrepressible  shriek.  Then  he  chuckled. 

“ Mrs.  Quilp,”  he  said  at  last. 

“ Yes,  Quilp,”  she  meekly  replied. 

Instead  of  pursuing  the  theme  he  had  in  his 
mind,  Quilp  arose,  folded  his  arms  again,  and 
looked  at  her  more  sternly  than  before,  while 
she  averted  her  eyes  and  kept  them  on  the 
ground. 

“ Mrs.  Quilp.” 

“ Yes,  Quilp.” 

“ If  ever  you  listen  to  these  beldames  again, 
I’ll  bite  you.” — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  4. 

QUILP— His  domestic  system. 

“ How  are  you  now,  my  dear  old  darling?” 

Slight  and  ridiculous  as  the  incident  was,  it 
made  him  appear  such  a little  fiend,  and  withal 
such  a keen  and  knowing  one,  that  the  old 
woman  felt  too  much  afraid  of  him  to  utter  a 
single  word,  and  suffered  herself  to  be  led  with 
extraordinary  politeness  to  the  breakfast  table. 
Here  he  by  no  means  diminished  the  impression 
he  had  just  produced,  for  he  ate  hard  eggs,  shell 
and  all,  devoured  gigantic  prawns  with  the  heads 
and  tails  on,  chewed  tobacco  and  water-cresses 
at  the  same  time  and  with  extraordinary  greedi- 
ness, drank  boiling  tea  without  winking;  bit  his 
fork  and  spoon  till  they  bent  again,  and,  in 
short,  performed  so  many  horrifying  and  uncom- 
mon acts  that  the  women  were  nearly  frightened 
out  of  their  wits  and  began  to  doubt  if  he  were 
really  a human  creature.  At  last,  having  gone 
through  these  proceedings,  and  many  others 
which  were  equally  a part  of  his  system,  Mr. 
Quilp  left  them,  reduced  to  a very  obedient  and 
humbled  state,  and  betook  himself  to  the  river- 
side, where  he  took  boat  for  the  wharf  on  which 
he  had  bestowed  his  name. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  4. 


R 

RACES  Going1  to  the. 

Meanwhile,  they  were  drawing  near  the  town 
where  the  races  were  to  begin  next  day  ; for, 
from  passing  numerous  groups  of  gipsies  and 


trampers  on  the  road,  wending  their  way  to* 
wards  it,  and  straggling  out  from  every  by-way 
and  cross-country  lane,  they  gradually  fell  into 
a stream  of  people,  some  walking  by  the  side  of 
covered  carts,  others  with  horses,  others  with 
donkeys,  others  toiling  on  with  heavy  loads 
upon  their  backs*  but  all  tending  to  the  same 
point.  The  public-houses  by  the  wayside,  from 
being  empty  and  noiseless  as  those  in  the  re- 
moter parts  had  been,  now  sent  out  boisterous 
shouts  and  clouds  of  smoke  ; and,  from  the 
misty  windows,  clusters  of  broad  red  faces 
looked  down  upon  the  road.  On  every  piece  of 
waste  or  common  ground,  some  small  gambler 
drove  his  noisy  trade,  and  bellowed  to  the  idle 
passers-by  to  stop  and  try  their  chance  ; the 
crowd  grew  thicker  and  more  noisy  ; gilt  gin- 
gerbread in  blanket-stalls  exposed  it.s  glories  to 
the  dust  ; and  often  a four-horse  carriage,  dash- 
ing  by,  obscured  all  objects  in  the  gritty  cloud 
it  raised,  and  left  them,  stunned  and  blinded, 
far  behind. 

It  was  dark  before  they  reached  the  town  it- 
self, and  long  indeed  the  few  last  miles  had 
been.  Here  all  was  tumult  and  confusion  ; the 
streets  were  filled  with  throngs  of  people — many 
strangers  were  there,  it  seemed,  by  the  looks 
they  cast  about — the  church-bells  rang  out  their 
noisy  peals,  and  flags  streamed  from  windows 
and  house-tops.  In  the  large  inn  yards  waiters 
flitted  to  and  fro  and  ran  against  each  other, 
horses  clattered  on  the  uneven  stones,  carriage- 
steps  fell  rattling  down,  and  sickening  smells 
from  many  dinners  came  in  a heavy,  lukewarm 
breath  upon  the  sense.  In  the  smaller  public- 
houses,  fiddles  with  all  their  might  and  main 
were  squeaking  out  the  tune  to  staggering  feet ; 
drunken  men,  oblivious  of  the  burden  of  their 
song,  joined  in  a senseless  howl,  which  drowned 
the  tinkling  of  the  feeble  bell,  and  made  them 
savage  for  their  drink  ; vagabond  groups  assem- 
bled round  the  doors  to  see  the  stroller  woman 
dance,  and  add  their  uproar  to  the  shrill  flageo- 
let and  deafening  drum. 

***** 

As  the  morning  wore  on,  the  tents  assumed  a 
gayer  and  more  brilliant  appearance,  and  long 
lines  of  carriages  came  rolling  softly  on  the  turf. 
Men  who  had  lounged  about  all  night  in  smock- 
frocks  and  leather  leggings,  came  out  in  silken 
vests  and  hats  and  plumes,  as  jugglers  or  mounte- 
banks ; or  in  gorgeous  liveries,  as  soft-spoken 
servants  at  gambling  booths  ; or  in  sturdy  yeo- 
man dress,  as  decoys  at  unlawful  games.  Black- 
eyed  gipsy  girls,  hooded  in  showy  handkerchiefs, 
sallied * forth  to  tell  fortunes,  and  pale  slender 
women  with  consumptive  faces  lingered  upon 
the  footsteps  of  ventriloquists  and  conjurors,  and 
counted  the  sixpences  with  anxious  eyes  long 
before  they  were  gained.  As  many  of  the  chil- 
dren as  could  be  kept  within  bounds,  were 
stowed  away,  with  all  the  other  signs  of  dirt  and 
poverty,  among  the  donkeys,  carts,  and  horses  ; 
and  as  many  as  could  not  thus  be  disposed  of 
ran  in  and  out  in  all  intricate  spots,  crept  be- 
tween people’s  legs  and  carriage -wheels,  and 
came  forth  unharmed  from  under  horses’  hoofs. 
The  dancing-dogs,  the  stilts,  the  little  lady  and 
the  tall  man,  and  all  the  other  attractions,  with 
organs  out  of  number  and  bands  innumerable, 
emerged  from  the  holes  and  corners  in  which 
they  had  passed  the  night,  and  flourished  boldly 
in  the  sun. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  19. 


RACE-COURSE 


385 


RACE-COURSE 


RACE-COURSE— The  scenes  upon  a. 

The  little  race-course  at  Hampton  was  in  the 
full  tide  and  height  of  its  gaiety  ; the  day  as 
dazzling  as  day  could  be  ; the  sun  high  in  the 
cloudless  sky,  and  shining  in  its  fullest  splendor. 
Every  gaudy  color  that  fluttered  in  the  air  from 
carriage-seat  and  garish  tent-top,  shone  out  in  its 
gaudiest  hues.  Old  dingy  flags  grew  new  again, 
faded  gilding  was  re-burnished,  stained  rotten 
canvas  looked  a snowy  white,  the  very  beggars’ 
rags  were  freshened  up,  and  sentiment  quite  for- 
got its  charity  in  its  fervent  admiration  of  poverty 
so  picturesque. 

It  was  one  of  those  scenes  of  life  and  anima- 
tion, caught  in  its  very  brightest  and  freshest 
moments,  which  can  scarcely  fail  to  please  ; for, 
if  the  eye  be  tired  of  show  and  glare,  or  the  ear 
be  weary  with  the  ceaseless  round  of  noise,  the 
one  may  repose,  turn  almost  where  it  will,  on 
eager,  happy,  and  expectant  faces,  and  the  other 
deaden  all  consciousness  of  more  annoying  sounds 
in  those  of  mirth  and  exhilaration.  Even  the 
sunburnt  faces  of  gypsy  children,  half  naked 
though  they  be,  suggest  a drop  of  comfort.  It 
is  a pleasant  thing  to  see  that  the  sun  has  been 
there  ; to  know  that  the  air  and  light  are  on  them 
every  day  ; to  feel  that  they  are  children,  and 
lead  children’s  lives  ; that  if  their  pillows  be 
damp,  it  is  with  the  dews  of  Heaven,  and  not 
with  tears  ; that  the  limbs  of  their  girls  are  free, 
and  that  they  are  not  crippled  by  distortions, 
imposing  an  unnatural  and  horrible  penance 
upon  their  sex  ; that  their  lives  are  spent,  from 
day  to  day,  at  least  among  the  waving  trees,  and 
not  in  the  midst  of  dreadful  engines  which  make 
young  children  old  before  they  know  what  child- 
i hood  is,  and  give  them  the  exhaustion  add  in- 
firmity of  age,  without,  like  age,  the  privilege  to 
: die.  God  send  that  old  nursery  tales  were  true, 
and  that  gypsies  stole  such  children  by  the 
score  ! 

The  great  race  of  the  day  had  just  been  run  ; 
and  the  close  lines  of  people,  on  either  side  of 
the  course,  suddenly  breaking  up  and  pouring 
into  it,  imparted  a new  liveliness  to  the  scene, 
which  was  again  all  busy  movement.  Some 
hurried  eagerly  to  catch  a glimpse  of  the  win- 
ning horse  ; others  darted  to  and  fro,  searching, 
no  less  eagerly,  for  the  carriages  they  had  left  in 
i quest  of  better  stations.  Here,  a little  knot 
gathered  round  a pea-and-thimble  table  to  watch 
■the  plucking  of  some  unhappy  greenhorn  ; and 
there,  another  proprietor,  with  his  confederates 
in  various  disguises — one  man  in  spectacles,  an- 
other, with  an  eye-glass  and  a stylish  hat ; a third, 
'dressed  as  a farmer  well-to-do  in  the  world,  with 
this  top-coat  over  his  arm,  and  his  flash  notes  in 
; a large  leathern  pocket-book  ; and  all  with  heavy- 
,1  handled  whips  to  represent  most  innocent  coun- 
| try  fellows,  who  had  trotted  there  on  horseback 
| — sought,  by  loud  and  noisy  talk  and  pretended 
play,  to  entrap  some  unwary  customer  ; while  the 
gentlemen  confederates  (of  more  villanous  aspect 
Still,  in  clean  linen  and  good  clothes)  betrayed 
their  close  interest  in  the  concern  by  the  anxious, 
furtive  glance  they  cast  on  all  new-comers. 
These  would  be  hanging  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
jwide  circle  of  people  assembled  round  some 
itinerant  juggler,  opposed,  in  his  turn,  by  a noisy 
band  of  music,  or  the  classic  ^game  of  “ Ring 
;:he  Bull,”  while  ventriloquists  holding  dialogues 
with  wooden  dolls,  and  fortune-telling  women 
smothering  the  cries  of  real  babies,  divided  with 


them,  and  many  more,  the  general  attention  of 
the  company.  Drinking-tents  were  full,  glasses 
began  to  clink  in  carriages,  hampers  to  be  un- 
packed, tempting  provisions  to  be  set  forth, 
knives  and  forks  to  rattle,  champagne  corks  to 
fly,  eyes  to  brighten  that  were  not  dull  before, 
and  pickpockets  to  count  their  gains  during  the 
last  heat.  The  attention  so  recently  strained  on 
one  object  of  interest,  was  now  divided  among 
a hundred  ; and,  look  where  you  would,  there 
was  a motley  assemblage  of  feasting,  laughing, 
talking,  begging,  gambling,  and  mummery. 

Of  the  gambling-booths  there  was  a plentiful 
show,  flourishing  in  all  the  splendor  of  carpeted 
ground,  striped  hangings,  crimson  cloth,  pin- 
nacled roofs,  geranium  pots,  and  livery  servants. 
There  were  the  Stranger’s  club  house,  the  Athe- 
naeum club-house,  the  Hampton  club-house,  the 
] Saint  James’s  club-house,  half-a-mile  of  club- 
houses, to  play  in  ; and  there  were  rouge-et-noir, 
French  hazard,  and  other  games,  to  play  at.  It 
is  into  one  of  these  booths  that  our  story  takes 
its  way. 

Fitted  up  with  three  tables  for  the  purposes 
of  play,  and  crowded  with  players  and  lookers- 
on,  it  was,  although  the  largest  place  of  the  kind 
upon  the  course,  intensely  hot,  notwithstanding 
that  a portion  of  the  canvas  roof  was  rolled  back 
to  admit  more  air,  and  there  were  two  doors  for 
a free  passage  in  and  out.  Excepting  one  or 
two  men  who,  each  with  a long  roll  of  half- 
crowns  chequered  with  a few  stray  sovereigns, 
in  his  left  hand,  staked  their  money  at  every 
roll  of  the  ball  with  a business-like  sedateness 
which  showed  that  they  were  used  to  it,  and  had 
been  playing  all  day,  and  most  probably  all  the 
day  before,  there  was  no  very  distinctive  charac- 
ter about  the  players.  They  were  chiefly  young 
men,  apparently  attracted  by  curiosity,  or  stak- 
ing small  surris  as  part  of  the  amusement  of  the 
day,  with  no  very  great  interest  in  winning  or 
losing.  There  were  two  persons  present,  how- 
ever, who,  as  peculiarly  good  specimens  of  a 
class,  deserve  a passing  notice. 

Of  these,  one  was  a man  of  six  or  eight  and 
fifty,  who  sat  on  a chair  near  one  of  the  entrances 
of  the  booth,  with  his  hands  folded  on  the  top 
of  his  stick,  and  his  chin  appearing  above  them. 
He  was  a tall,  fat,  long-bodied  man,  buttoned 
up  to  the  throat  in  a light  green  coat,  which 
made  his  body  look  still  longer  than  it  was.  He 
wore,  besides  drab  breeches  and  gaiters,  a white 
neckerchief,  and  a broad-brimmed  white  hat. 
Amid  all  the  buzzing  noise  of  the  games,  and 
the  perpetual  passing  in  and  out  of  people,  he 
seemed  perfectly  calm  and  abstracted,  without 
the  smallest  particle  of  excitement  in  his  com- 
position. He  exhibited  no  indication  of  weari- 
ness, nor,  to  a casual  observer,  of  interest  either. 
There  he  sat,  quite  still  and  collected.  Some- 
times, but  very  rarely,  he  nodded  to  some  pass- 
ing face,  or  beckoned  to  a waiter  to  obey  a call 
from  one  of  the  tables.  The  next  instant  he 
subsided  into  his  old  state.  He  might  have 
been  some  profoundly  deaf  old  gentleman,  who 
had  come  in  to  take  a rest,  or  he  might  have 
been  patiently  waiting  for  a friend,  without  the 
least  consciousness  of  anybody’s  presence,  or  he 
might  have  been  fixed  in  a trance,  or  under  the 
influence  of  opium.  People  turned  round  and 
looked  at  him  ; he  made  no  gesture,  caught  no- 
body’s eye,  let  them  pass  away,  and  others  come 
on  and  be  succeeded  by  others,  and  took  no 


RACE-COURSE 


380 


RAILROAD 


notice.  When  he  did  move,  it  seemed  wonder- 
ful how  he  could  have  seen  anything  to  occasion 
it.  And  so,  in  truth,  it  was.  But  there  was  not 
a face  that  passed  in  or  out,  which  this  man 
failed  to  see  ; not  a gesture  at  any  one  of  the 
three  tables  that  was  lost  upon  him  ; not  a word, 
spoken  by  the  bankers,  but  reached  his  ear  ; not 
a winner  or  loser  he  could  not  have  marked. 
And  he  was  the  proprietor  of  the  place. 

The  other  presided  over  the  rouge-et-noir 
table.  He  was  probably  some  ten  years  young- 
er, and  was  a plump,  paunchy,  sturdy-looking 
fellow,  with  his  underlip  a little  pursed,  from  a 
habit  of  counting  money  inwardly,  as  he  paid 
it,  but  with  no  decidedly  bad  expression  in  his 
face,  which  was  rather  an  honest  and  jolly  one 
than  otherwise.  He  wore  no  coat,  the  weather 
being  hot,  and  stood  behind  the  table  with  a 
huge  mound  of  crowns  and  half-crowns  before 
him,  and  a cash-box  for  notes.  This  game  was 
constantly  playing.  Perhaps  twenty  people 
would  be  staking  at  the  same  time.  This  man 
had  to  roll  the  ball,  to  watch  the  stakes  as 
they  were  laid  down,  to  gather  them  off  the 
color  which  lost,  to  pay  those  who  won, 
to  do  it  all  with  the  utmost  despatch,  to  roll 
the  ball  again,  and  to  keep  this  game  perpet- 
ually alive.  He  did  it  all  with  a rapidity  abso- 
lutely marvellous ; never  hesitating,  never 
making  a mistake,  never  stopping,  and  never 
ceasing  to  repeat  such  unconnected  phrases  as 
the  following,  which,  partly  from  habit,  and 
partly  to  have  something  appropriate  and  busi- 
ness-like to  say,  he  constantly  poured  out  with 
the  same  monotonous  emphasis,  and  in  nearly 
the  same  order,  all  day  long . 

“ Rooge-a-nore  from  Paris  ! Gentlemen, 
make  your  game  and  back  your  own  opinions 
— any  time  while  the  ball  rolls — rooge-a-nore 
from  Paris,  gentlemen,  it’s  a French  game,  gen- 
tlemen, I brought  it  over  myself,  I did  indeed  ! 
Rooge-a-nore  from  Paris — black  wins— black 
—stop  a minute,  sir,  and  I’ll  pay  you  directly 
— two  there,  half  a pound  there,  three  there 
and  one  there — gentlemen,  the  ball’s  a-rolling 
— any  time,  sir,  while  the  ball  rolls  ! — The  beau- 
ty of  this  game  is,  that  you  can  double 
your  stakes  or  put  down  your  money,  gen- 
tlemen, any  time  while  the  ball  rolls  — 
black  again— black  wins— I never  saw  such 
a thing — I never  did,  in  all  my  life,  upon 
my  word  I never  did  ; if  any  gentleman  had 
been  backing  the  black  in  the  last  five  minutes 
!he  must  have  won  five  and  forty  pound  in  four 
rolls  of  the  ball,  he  must  indeed.  Gentlemen, 
we’ve  port,  sherry,  cigars,  and  most  excellent 
champagne.  Here,  wai-ter,  bring  a bottle  of 
champagne,  and  let’s  have  a dozen  or  fifteen 
cigars  here — and  let’s  be  comfortable,  gen- 
tlemen—and  bring  some  clean  glasses— any 
time  while  the  ball  rolls  ! — I lost  one  hundred 
and  thirty-seven  pound  yesterday,  gentlemen, 
at  one  roll  of  the  ball,  I did  indeed  !— how  do 
you  do,  sir  ” (recognizing  some  knowing  gen- 
tleman without  any  halt  or  change  of  voice, 
and  giving  a wink  so  slight  that  it  seems  an  acci- 
dent), “ will  you  take  a glass  of  sherry,  sir? — 
here,  wai-ter  ! bring  a clean  glass,  and  hand 
the  sherry  to  this  gentleman — and  hand  it 
round,  will  you,  waiter — this  is  the  rooge-a- 
nore  from  Paris,  gentlemen — any  time  while 
the  ball  rolls !— gentlemen,  make  your  game 
and  back  your  own  opinions — it’s  the  rooge-a- 


norc  from  Paris — quite  a new  game,  I brought 
it  over  myself,  T did  indeed — gentlemen,  the 
ball’s  a-rolling  !” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  50. 

RAGE  Its  effervescence. 

He  darted  swiftly  from  the  room  with  every 
particle  of  his  hitherto-buttoned-up  indignation 
effervescing,  from  all  parts  of  his  countenance, 
in  a perspiration  of  passion. — Pickiuick,  Chap.  2. 

RAGE  A mad-house  style  of  manner. 

“ Gad,  Nickleby,”  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  retreat- 
ing towards  his  wife,  “ what  a demneble  fierce 
old  evil  genius  you  are?  You’re  enough  to 
frighten  my  life  and  soul  out  of  her  little  de 
licious  wits — flying  all  at  once  into  such  a blaz- 
ing, ravaging,  raging  passion  as  never  was,  dem- 
mit  ! ” 

“ Pshaw,”  rejoined  Ralph,  forcing  a smile. 
“ It  is  but  manner.” 

“ It  is  a demd  uncomfortable,  private-mad- 
house sort  of  manner,”  said  Mr.  Mantalini,  pick- 
ing up  his  cane. — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  34. 

RAGE— Of  Mr.  Smallweed. 

This  tends  to  the  discomfiture  of  Mr.  Small- 
weed, who  finds  it  so  difficult  to  resume  his  ob- 
ject, whatever  it  may  be,  that  he  becomes  exas- 
perated, and  secretly  claws  the  air  with  an  im- 
potent vindictiveness  expressive  of  an  intense 
desire  to  tear  and  rend  the  visage  of  Mr.  George. 
As  the  excellent  old  gentleman’s  nails  are  long 
and  leaden,  and  his  hands  lean  and  veinous,  and 
his  eyes  green  and  watery  ; and,  over  and  above 
this,  as  he  continues,  while  he  claws,  to  slide 
down  in  his  chair  and  to  collapse  into  a shape- 
less bundle  ; he  becomes  such  a ghastly  spectacle, 
even  in  the  accustomed  eyes  of  Judy,  that  that 
young  virgin  pounces  at  him  with  something 
more  than  the  ardor  of  affection,  and  so  shakes 
him  up,  and  pats  and  pokes  him  in  divers  parts 
of  his  body,  but  particularly  in  that  part  which 
the  science  of  self-defence  would  call  his  wind, 
that  in  his  grievous  distress  he  utters  enforced 
sounds  like  a pavior’s  rammer. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  26. 

RAILROAD— Construction  of  the. 

The  first  shock  of  a great  earthquake  had 
just  at  that  period,  rent  the  whole  neighborhood 
to  its  centre.  Traces  of  its  course  were  visibly 
on  every  side.  Houses  were  knocked  down 
streets  broken  through  and  stopped  ; deep  pita 
and  trenches  dug  in  the  ground  ; enormous  heapd 
of  earth  and  clay  thrown  up  ; buildings  thrr 
were  undermined  and  shaking,  propped  by  great 
beams  of  wood.  Here,  a chaos  of  carts,  over 
thrown  and  jumbled  together,  lay  topsy-turvy  a 
the  bottom  of  a steep  unnatural  hill  ; there,  coal 
fused  treasures  of  iron  soaked  and  rusted  in 
something  that  had  accidentally  become  a pondl 
Everywhere  were  bridges  that  led  nowhere  j 
thoroughfares  that  were  wholly  impassable 
Babel  towers  of  chimneys,  wanting  half  then 
height;  temporary  wooden  houses  and  en 
closures,  in  the  most  unlikely  situations  ; cnr 
cases  of  ragged  tenements,  and  fragments  of  un 
finished  walls  and  arches,  and  piles  of  scaffolding 
and  wildernesses  of  bricks,  and  giant  forms  oj 
cranes,  and  tripods  straddling  above  nothing 
There  were  a hundred  thousand  shapes  and  sub 
stances  of  incompleteness,  wildly  mingled  ou 
of  their  places,  upside  down,  burrowing  in  tlv 


RAILROAD 


387 


RAILROAD 


earth,  aspiring  in  the  air,  mouldering  in  the 

j water,  and  unintelligible  as  any  dream.  Hot 
j springs  and  fiery  eruptions,  the  usual  attendants 
| upon  earthquakes,  lent  their  contributions  of 
confusion  to  the  scene.  Boiling  water  hissed 
and  heaved  within  dilapidated  Walls  ; whence, 
[ als0>  the  glai'e  and  roar  of  flames  came  issuing 
forth  ; and  mounds  of  ashes  blocked  up  rights 
of  way,  and  wholly  changed  the  law  and  custom 
of  the  neighborhood. 

In  short,  the  yet  unfinished  and  unopened 
Railroad  was  in  progress  ; and,  from  the  very 
! core  ^is  dire  disorder,  trailed  smoothly 

j fvvay-  uPoa  its  mighty  course  of  civilization  and 
| improvement. 

t But  as  yet,  the  neighborhood  was  shy  to  own 
the  Railroad.  One  or  two  bold  speculators  had 
I projected  streets  ; and  one  had  built  a little,  but 
: had  stopped  among  the  mud  and  ashes  to  con- 
i' sidei  fai  ther  of  it.  A bran-new  Tavern,  redolent 
of  fresh  mortar  and  size,  and  fronting  nothing  at 
all,  had  taken  for  its  sign  The  Railway  Arms  ; but 
that  might  be  rash  enterprise — and  then  it 
hoped  to  sell  drink  to  the  workmen  So  the 
j Excavators'  House  of  Call  had  sprung  up  from 
, a beer  shop  ; and  the  old-established  Ham  and 
Beef  Shop  had  become  the  Railway  Eating 
House,  with  a roast  leg  of  pork  daily,  through 
interested  motives  of  a similar  immediate  and 
popular  description.  Lodging-house  keepers 
were  favorable  in  like  manner  ; and  for  the  like 
•reasons  were  not  to  be  trusted.  The  general 
■belief  was  very  slow.  There  were  frowzy  fields, 
and  cow-houses,  and  dung-hills,  and  dust-heaps,’ 
and  ditches,  and  gardens,  and  summer-houses, 
and  carpet-beating  grounds  at  the  very  door  of 
the  Railway.  Little  tumuli  of  oyster-shells  in 
the  oyster  season,  and  of  lobster-shells  in  the 
lobster  season,  and  of  broken  crockery  and 
faded  cabbage  leaves  in  all  seasons,  encroached 
upon  its  high  places.  Posts,  and  rails,  and  old 
cautions  to  trespassers,  and  backs  of  mean 
pouses,  and  patches  of  wretched  vegetation, 
'stared  it  out  of  countenance.  Nothin^  was 
he  better  for  it,  or  thought  of  being  so.  If  the 
niserable  waste  ground  lying  near  it  could  have 
laughed,  it  would  have  laughed  it  to  scorn,  like 
jnany  of  the  miserable  neighbors. 

Staggs  s Gardens  was  uncommonly  incredu- 
ous.  It  was  a little  row  of  houses,  with  little 
hquahd  patches  of  ground  before  them,  fenced 
)rt  with  old  doors,  barrel  staves,  scraps  of  tar- 
paulin, and  dead  bushes  ; with  bottomless  tin 
^ettles  and  exhausted  iron  fenders  thrust  into 
he  gaps  Here,  the  Staggs's  Gardeners  trained 
(Carlet  beans,  kept  fowls  and  rabbits,  erected 
men  summer-houses  (one  was  an  old  boat) 
wied  clothes,  and  smoked  pipes.  Some  were  of 
pinion  that  Staggs’s  Gardens  derived  its  name 
,-om  a deceased  capitalist,  one  Mr.  Staggs,  who 
;ad  built  it  for  his  delectation.  Others,  who 
ai da  natural  taste  for  the  country,  held  that 
| datep  from  those  rural  times  when  the 
ntlered  herd,  under  the  familiar  denomination 
t Staggses,  had  resorted  to  its  shady  precincts, 
e this  as  it  may,  Staggs’s  Gardens  was  regard- 
i bv  its  population  as  a sacred  grove,  not  to  be 
withered  by  railroads;  and  so  confident  were 
iey  generally  of  its  long  outliving  any  such 
emulous  inventions,  that  the  master  chimney- 
veeper  at  the.  corner,  who  was  understood  to 
ke  the  lead  in  the  local  politics  of  the  Gar- 
ins,  had  publicly  declared  that  on  the  occasion  I 


of  the  Railroad  opening,  if  ever  it  did  open 
two  of  his  boys  should  ascend  the  flues  of  his 
dwelling,  with  instructions  to  hail  the  failure 
with  derisive  jeers  from  the  chimney-pots. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  6. 

RAILROAD— A finished. 

There  was  no  such  place  as  Staggs’s  Gardens. 
It  had  vanished  from  the  earth.  Where  the  old 
rotten  summer-houses  once  had  stood,  palaces 
now  reared  their  heads,  and  granite  columns  of 
gigantic  girth  opened  a vista  to  the  railway 
world  beyond.  The  miserable  waste  ground, 
where  the  refuse-matter  had  been  heaped  of 
yore,  was  swallowed  up  and  gone  ; and  in  its 
frowzy  stead  were  tiers  of  warehouses,  crammed 
with  rich  goods  and  costly  merchandise.  The 
old  bye-streets  now  swarmed  with  passengers 
and  vehicles  of  every  kind  ; the  new  streets, 
that  had  stopped  disheartened  in  the  mud  and 
wagon-ruts,  formed  towns  within  themselves, 
originating  wholesome  comforts  and  conveni- 
ences belonging  to  themselves,  and  never  tried 
nor  thought  of  until  they  sprung  into  existence, 
budges  that  had  led  to  nothing,  led  to  villas, 
gardens,  churches,  healthy  public  walks.  The 
cai casses  of  houses,  and  beginnings  of  new 
thoroughfares,  had  started  off  upon  the  line  at 
steam  s own  speed,  and  shot  away  into'  the  coun- 
try in  a monster  train. 

As  to  the  neighborhood  which  had  hesitated 
to  acknowledge  the  railroad  in  its  straggling 
days,  that  had  grown  wise  and  penitent,  as  any 
Christian  might  in  such  a case,  and  now  boasted 
of  its  powerful  and  prosperous  relation.  There 
were  railway  patterns  in  its  drapers’  shops,  and 
railway  journals  in  the  windows  of  its  newsmen. 
There  were  railway  hotels,  coffee-houses,  lodg- 
mg-houses,  boarding-houses  ; railway  clans, 
maps,  views,  wrappers,  bottles,  sandwich-boxes,’ 
and  time-tables  ; railway  hackney-coach  and 
cab-stands  ; railway  omnibuses,  railway  streets 
and  buildings,  railway  hangers-on  and  para- 
sites, and  flatterers  out  of  all  calculation.  There 
was  even  railway  time  observed  in  clocks,  as  if 
the  sun  itself  had  given  in.  Among  the  van- 
quished was  the  master  chimney-sweeper,  whi- 
lome  incredulous  at  Staggs’s  Gardens,  who  now 
lived  in  a stuccoed  house  three  stories  high,  and 
gave  himself  out,  with  golden  flourishes  upon  a 
varnished  board,  as  contractor  for  the  cleansing 
of  railway  chimneys  by  machinery. 

To  and  from  the  heart  of  this  great  change, 
all  day  and  night,  throbbing  currents  rushed 
and  returned  incessantly  like  its  life’s  blood. 
Crowds  of  people  and  mountains  of  goods,  de- 
parting and  arriving  scores  upon  scores  of  times 
in  every  four-and -twenty  hours,  produced  a fer- 
mentation in  the  place  that  was  always  in  action. 
The  very  houses  seemed  disposed  to  pack  up 
and  take  trips.  Wonderful  Members  of  Parlia- 
ment, who,  little  more  than  twenty  years  before, 
had  made  themselves  merry  with  the  wild  rail- 
road theories  of  engineers,  and  given  them  the 
liveliest  rubs  in  cross-examination,  went  down 
into  the  north  with  their  watches  in  their  hands, 
and  sent  on  messages  before  by  the  electric  tel- 
egraph,  to  say  that  they  were  coming.  Night 
and  day  the  conquering  engines  rumbled  at  their 
distant  ^work,  or,  advancing  smoothly  to  their 
journey’s  end,  and  gliding  like  tame  dragons 
into  the  allotted  corners  grooved  out  to  the 
inch  for  their  reception,  stood  bubbling  and 


RAILROAiD 


388 


RAILROAD 


trembling  there,  making  the  walls  quake,  as  if 
they  were  dilating  with  the  secret  knowledge  of 
great  powers  yet  unsuspected  in  them,  and  strong 
purposes  not  yet,  achieved. 

But  Staggs’s  Gardens  had  been  cut  up  root 
and  branch.  Oh,  woe  the  day  when  “ not  a 
rood  of  English  ground  ” — laid  out  in  Staggs’s 
Gardens — is  secure. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  15. 

RAILROAD -The  course  of. 

He  found  no  pleasure  or  relief  in  the  journey. 
Tortured  by  these  thoughts  he  carried  monotony 
with  him,  through  the  rushing  landscape,  and 
hurried  headlong,  not  through  a rich  and  varied 
country,  but  a wilderness  of  blighted  plans  and 
gnawing  jealousies.  The  very  speed  at  which 
the  train  was  whirled  along  mocked  the  swift 
course  of  the  young  life  that  had  been  borne 
away  so  steadily  and  so  inexorably  to  its  fore- 
doomed end.  The  power  that  forced  itself  upon 
its  iron  way — its  own — defiant  of  all  paths  and 
roads,  piercing  through  the  heart  of  every  obsta- 
cle, and  dragging  living  creatures  of  all  classes, 
ages,  and  degrees  behind  it,  was  a type  of  the 
triumphant  monster,  Death. 

Away,  with  a shriek,  and  a roar,  and  a rattle, 
from  the  town,  burrowing  among  the  dwellings 
of  men  and  making  the  streets  hum,  flashing 
out  into  the  meadows  for  a moment,  mining  in 
through  the  damp  earth,  booming  on  in  darkness 
and  heavy  air,  bursting  out  again  into  the  sunny 
day  so  bright  and  wide  ; away,  with  a shriek, 
and  a roar,  and  a rattle,  through  the  fields, 
through  the  woods,  through  the  corn,  through 
the  hay,  through  the  chalk,  through  the  mould, 
through  the  clay,  through  the  rock,  among  ob- 
jects close  at  hand  and  almost  in  the  grasp,  ever 
flying  from  the  traveller,  and  a deceitful  distance 
ever  moving  slowly  within  him  : like  as  in  the 
track  of  the  remorseless  monster,  Death  ! 

Through  the  hollow,  on  the  height,  by  the 
heath,  by  the  orchard,  by  the  park,  by  the  gar- 
den, over  the  canal,  across  the  river,  where  the 
sheep  are  feeding,  where  the  mill  is  going,  where 
the  barge  is  floating,  where  the  dead  are  lying, 
where  the  factory  is  smoking,  where  the  stream 
is  running,  where  the  village  clusters,  where  the 
great  cathedral  rises,  where  the  bleak  moor  lies, 
and  the  wild  breeze  smooths  or  ruffles  it  at  its 
inconstant  will ; away,  with  a shriek,  and  a roar, 
and  a rattle,  and  no  trace  to  leave  behind  but 
dust  and  vapor : like  as  in  the  track  of  the  re- 
morseless monster,  Death ! 

Breasting  the  wind  and  light,  the  shower  and 
sunshine,  away,  and  still  away,  it  rolls  and  roars, 
fierce  and  rapid,  smooth  and  certain,  and  great 
works  and  massive  bridges  crossing  up  above, 
fall  like  a beam  of  shadow  an  inch  broad,  upon 
the  eye,  and  then  are  lost.  Away,  and  still 
away,  onward  and  onward  ever;  glimpses  of 
cottage-homes,  of  houses,  mansions,  rich  estates, 
of  husbandry  and  handicraft,  of  people,  of  old 
roads  and  paths  that  look  deserted,  small,  and 
insignificant  as  they  are  left  behind  : and  so  they 
do,  and  what  else  is  there  but  ;uch  gjimj >se  s,  in 
the  track  of  the  indomitable  monster,  Death  ! 

Away,  with  a shriek,  and  a roar,  and  a rattle, 
plunging  down  into  the  earth  again,  and  work- 
ing on  in  such  a storm  of  energy  and  persever- 
ance, that  amidst  the  darkness  and  whirlwind 
the  motion  seems  reversed,  and  to  tend  furiously 
backward,  until  a ray  of  light  upon  the  wet  wall 


shows  its  surface  flying  past  like  a fierce  stream. 
Away  once  more  into  the  day,  and  through  the 
day,  with  a shrill  yell  of  exultation,  roaring,  rat- 
tling, tearing  on,  spurning  everything  with  its 
dark  breath,  sometimes  pausing  for  a minute 
where  a crowd  of  faces  are,  that  in  a minute 
more  are  not : sometimes  lapping  water  greedily, 
and  before  the  spout  at  which  it  drinks  has  ceased 
to  drip  upon  the  ground,  shrieking,  roaring,  rat- 1 
tling,  through  the  purple  distance! 

Louder  and  louder  yet,  it  shrieks  and  cries  as 
it  comes  tearing  on  resistless  to  the  goal  ; andj 
now  its  way,  still  like  the  way  of  Death,  is  strewn 
with  ashes  thickly.  Everything  around  is  black- 
ened. There  are  dark  pools  of  water,  muddy 
lanes,  and  miserable  habitations  far  below. 
There  are  jagged  walls  and  falling  houses  close 
at  hand,  and  through  the  battered  roofs  and 
broken  windows,  wretched  rooms  are  seen,, 
where  want  and  fever  hide  themselves  in  many 
wretched  shapes,  while  smoke,  and  crowded 
gables,  and  distorted  chimneys,  and  deformity  of 
brick  and  mortar  penning  up  deformity  of  mind 
and  body,  choke  the  murky  distance. 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  20. 

RAILROAD— The  rush  of  the  engine. 

The  ground  shook,  the  house  rattled,  the 
fierce  impetuous  rush  was  in  the  air  ! He  felt  it 
come  up,  and  go  darting  by  ; and  even  when  he 
had  hurried  to  the  window,  and  saw  what  it 
was,  he  stood,  shrin king  from  it,  as  if  it  were  not 
safe  to  look.  J 

A curse  upon  the  fiery  devil,  thundering  along 
so  smoothly,  tracked  through  the  distant  valley 
by  a glare  of  light  and  lurid  smoke,  and  gone  ! 
He.  felt  as  if  he  had  been  plucked  out  of  its 
path,  and  saved  from  being  torn  asunder.  It 
made  him  shrink  and  shudder  even  now,  when 
its  faintest  hum  was  hushed,  and  when  the  lines 
of  iron  road  he  could  trace  in  the  moonlight, 
running  to  a point,  were  as  empty  and  as  silent 
as  a desert. 

A trembling  of  the  ground,  and  quick  vibra- 
tion in  his  ears  ; a distant  shriek  ; a dull  light 
advancing,  quickly  changed  to  two  red  eyes, 
and  a fierce  fire,  dropping  glowing  coals  ; an 
irresistible  bearing  on  of  a great  roaring  and 
dilating  mass  ; a high  wind,  and  a rattle — 
another  come  and  gone,  and  he'  holding  to  a 
gate,  as  if  to  save  himself. 

He  waited  for  another,  and  for  another.  He 
walked  back  to  his  former  point,  and  back  again 
to  that,  and  still,  through  the  wearisome  vision 
of  his  journey,  looked  for  these  approaching' 
monsters.  He  loitered  about  the  station,  wait-1 
ing  until  one  should  stay  to  call  there  ; antU 
when  one  did,  and  was  detached  for  water,  he 
stood  parallel  with  it,  watching  its  heavy  wheels 
and  brazen  front,  and  thinking  what  a cruel 
power  and  might  it  had  : Ugh  ! To  see  the 
great  wheels  slowly  turning,  and  to  think  of 
being  run  down  and  crushed  ! 

Dombey  <Sr*  Son,  Chap.  55- 

RAILROAD— On  a. 

Ah  ! The  fresh  air  is  pleasant  after  the  forc- 
ing-frame, though  it  does  blow  over  these  inter 
mlnable  streets,  and  scatter  the  smoke  of  this 
vast  wilderness  of  chimneys.  Here  we  are— no, 
I mean  there  we  were,  for  it  has  darted  far  into 
the  rear— in  Bermondsey,  where  the  tanners 
live.  Flash ! The  distant  shipping  in  the 


RAILROAD 


389 


RAILROAD  JOURNEY 


Thames  is  gone.  Whirr  ! The  little  streets  of 
new  brick  and  red  tile,  with  here  and.  there  a 
flag-staff  growing  like  a tall  weed  out  of  the  scar- 
let beans,  and,  everywhere,  plenty  of  open 
sewer  and  ditch  for  the  promotion  of  the  public 
health,  have  been  fired  off  in  a volley.  Whizz  ! 
Dust-heaps,  market  gardens,  and  waste  grounds. 
Rattle  ! New  Cross  Station.  Shock ! There 
we  were  at  Croydon.  Bu-r-r-r ! The  tun- 
nel. 

I wonder  why  it  is  that  when  I shut  my 
eyes  in  a tunnel  I begin  to  feel  as  if  I .were 
going  at  an  Express  pace  the  other  way.  I am 
clearly  going  back  to  London  now.  Compact 
Enchantress  must  have  forgotten  something, 
and  reversed  the  engine.  No  ! After  long 
darkness,  pale  fitful  streaks  of  light  appear.  I 
am  still  flying  on  for  Folkestone.  The  streaks 
grow  stronger — become  continuous — become 
the  ghost  of  day — become  the  living  day — be- 
came, I mean — the  tunnel  is  miles  and  miles 
away,  and  here  I fly  through  sunlight,  all 
among  the  harvest  and  the  Kentish  hops. 

There  is  a dreamy  pleasure  in  this  flying.  I 
wonder  where  it  was,  and  when  it  was,  that  we 
exploded,  blew  into  space  somehow,  a Parlia- 
mentary Train,  with  a crowd  of  heads  and  fa- 
ces looking  at  us  out  of  cages,  and  some  hats 
waving.  Moneyed  Interest  says  it  was  at  Rei- 
gate  Station.  Expounds  to  Mystery  how  Rei- 
gate  Station  is  so  many  miles  from  London, 
which  Mystery  again  develops  to  Compact 
' Enchantress.  There  might  be  neither  a Reigate 
nor  a London  for  me,  as  I fly  away  among  the 
Kentish  hops  and  harvest.  What  do  / care  ! 

Bang  ! We  have  let  another  Station  off,  and 
fly  away  regardless.  Everything  is  flying.  The 
hop-gardens  turn  gracefully  towards  me,  pre- 
senting regular  avenues  of  hops  in  rapid  flight, 
then  whirl  away.  So  do  the  pools  and  rushes, 
lxay-stacks,  sheep,  clover  in  full  bloom,  deli- 
cious to  the  sight  and  smell,  corn-sheaves, 
cherry-orchards,  apple-orchards,  reapers,  glean- 
ers, hedgers,  gates,  fields  that  taper  off  into  lit- 
tle angular  corners,  cottagps,  gardens,  now  and 
; then  a church.  Bang,  bang  ! A double-bar- 
i relied  Station  ! Now  a wood,  now  a bridge, 
now  a landscape,  now  a cutting,  now  a — Bang  ! 
. a single-barrelled  Station — there  was  a cricket 
match  somewhere,  with  two  white  tents,  and 
then  four  flying  cows,  then  turnips — now  the 
j wires  of  the  electric  telegraph  are  all  alive, 
and  spin,  and  blur  their  edges,  and  go  up  and 
sj  down,  and  make  the  intervals  between  each 
other  most  irregular  ; contracting  and  expand- 
| ing  in  the  strangest  manner.  Now  we  slacken. 
i|  With  a screwing,  and  a grinding,  and  a smell 
of  water  thrown  on  ashes,  now  we  stop. 

A Flight.  Repainted  Pieces. 

RAILROAD— Preparations  for  a. 

Railroads  shall  soon  traverse  all  this  coun- 
try, and  with  a rattle  and  a glare  the  engine 
• and  train  shall  shoot  like  a meteor  over  the 
wide  night-landscape,  turning  the  moon  paler  ; 
but,  as  yet,  such  things  are  non-existent  in  these 
[] parts,  though  not  wholly  unexpected.  Prep- 
Ljamtions  are  afoot,  measurements  are  made, 

| ground  is  staked  out.  Bridges  are  begun,  and 
their  not  yet  united  piers  desolately  look  at  one 
another  over  roads  and  streams,  like  brick  and 
mortar  couples  with  an  obstacle  to  their  union  ; 
fragments  of  embankments  are  thrown  up,  and 


left  as  precipices,  with  torrents  of  rusty  carts 
and  barrows  tumbling  over  them  ; tripods  ol 
tall  poles  appear  on  hill-tops,  where  there  are 
rumors  of  tunnels  ; everything  looks  chaotic, 
and  abandoned  in  full  hopelessness.  Along 
the  freezing  roads,  and  through  the  night,  the 
post-chaise  makes  its  way  without  a railroad 
on  its  mind. — Bleak  House , Chap.  55. 

RAILROAD  TRAIN. 

Then,  the  train  rattled  among  the  house-tops, 
and  among  the  ragged  sides  of  houses  torn  down 
to  make  way  for  it,  and  over  the  swarming 
streets,  and  under  the  fruitful  earth,  until  it  shot 
across  the  river  ; bursting  over  the  quiet  surface 
like  a bomb-shell,  and  gone  again  as  if  it  had 
exploded  in  the  rush  .of  smoke  and  steam  and 
glare.  A little  more,  and  again  it  roared  across 
the  river,  a great  rocket ; spurning  the  watery 
turnings  and  doublings  with  ineffable  contempt, 
and  going  straight  to  its  end,  as  Father  Time 
goes  to  his.  To  whom  it  is  no  matter  what  liv- 
ing waters  run  high  or  low,  reflect  the  heavenly 
lights  and  darknesses,  produce  their  little  growth 
of  weeds  and  flowers,  turn  here,  turn  there,  are 
noisy  or  still,  are  troubled  or  at  rest,  for  their 
course  has  one  sure  termination,  though  their 
sources  and  devices  are  many. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  IV.,  Chap.  11. 

RAILROAD— Arrival  of  the  train. 

The  seizure  of  the  station  with  a fit  of  trem- 
bling, gradually  deepening  to  a complaint  6f  the 
heart,  announced  the  train.  Fire,  and  steam, 
and  smoke,  and  red  light  ; a hiss,  a crash,  a bell, 
and  a shriek  ; the  little  station  a desert  speck  in 
the  thunder-storm. 

Hard  Times , Book  II.,  Chap.  1 1 

RAILROAD  JOURNEY— In  America. 

Now  you  emerge  for  a few  brief  minutes  on  an 
open  country,  glittering  with  some  bright  lake 
or  pool,  broad  as  many  an  English  river,  but  so 
small  here  that  it  scarcely  has  a name : now 
catch  hasty  glimpses  of  a distant  town,  with  its 
clean  white  houses  and  their  cool  piazzas,  its 
prim  New  England  church  and  school-house  ; 
when  whi-r-r-r  ! almost  before  you  have  seen 
them,  comes  the  same  dark  screen,  the  stunted 
trees,  the  stumps,  the  logs,  the  stagnant  water — 
all  so  like  the  last  that  you  seem  to  have  been 
transported  back  again  by  magic. 

The  train  calls  at  stations  in  the  woods,  where 
the  wild  impossibility  of  anybody  having  the 
smallest  reason  to  get  out  is  only  to  be  equalled 
by  the  apparently  desperate  hopelessness  of 
there  being  anybody  to  get  in.  It  rushes  across 
the  turnpike  road,  where  there  is  no  gate,  no 
policeman,  no  signal,  nothing  but  a rough  wood- 
en arch,  on  which  is  painted,  “ When  the  bell 
RINGS,  LOOK  OUT  FOR  THE  LOCOMOTIVE.”  On 
it  whirls  headlong,  dives  through  the  woods 
again,  emerges  in  the  light,  clatters  over  frail 
arches,  rumbles  upon  the  heavy  ground,  shoots 
beneath  a wooden  bridge  which  intercepts  the 
light  for  a second  like  a wink,  suddenly  awakens 
all  the  slumbering  echoes  in  the  main  street  of 
a large  town,  and  dashes  on,  hap-hazard,  pell- 
mell,  neck  or  nothing,  down  the  middle  of  the 
road.  There — with  mechanics  working  at  their 
trades,  and  people  leaning  from  their  doors  and 
windows,  and  boys  flying  kites  and  playing 
marbles,  and  men  smoking,  and  women  talking 


RAILROAD  cars 


390 


RAIN 


and  children  crawling,  and  pigs  burrowing,  and 
unaccustomed  horses  plunging  and  rearing,  close 
to  the  very  rails — there — on,  on,  on — tears  the 
mad  dragon  of  an  engine,  with  its  train  of  cars  ; 
scattering  in  all  directions  a shower  of  burning 
sparks  from  its  wood  tire  ; screeching,  hissing, 
yelling,  panting  ; until  at  last  the  thirsty  monster 
stops  beneath  a covered  way  to  drink,  the  peo- 
ple cluster  round,  and  you  have  time  to  breathe 
again. — American  Notes,  Chap.  4. 

RAILROAD  CARS— In  America. 

The  cars  are  like  shabby  omnibuses,  but 
larger  ; holding  thirty,  forty,  fifty  people.  The 
seats,  instead  of  stretching  from  end  to  end, 
are  placed  crosswise.  Each  seat  holds  two  per- 
sons. There  is  a long  row  of  them  on  each  side 
of  the  caravan,  a narrow  passage  up  the  middle, 
and  a door  at  both  ends.  In  the  centre  of  the 
carriage  there  is  usually  a stove,  fed  with  char- 
coal or  anthracite  coal,  which  is  for  the  most  part 
red-hot.  It  is  insufferably  close  ; and  you  see 
the  hot  air  fluttering  between  yourself  and 
any  other  object  you  may  happen  to  look 
at,  like  the  ghost  of  smoke. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  4. 

RAILROAD— Its  irresponsibility. 

How  its  wheels  clank  and  rattle,  and  the 
tram-road  shakes,  as  the  train  rushes  on  ! And 
now  the  engine  yells,  as  it  were  lashed  and  tor- 
tured like  a living  laborer,  and  writhed  in  agony. 
A poor  fancy  ; for  steel  and  iron  are  of  infinitely 
greater  account,  in  this  commonwealth,  than  flesh 
and  blood.  If  the  cunning  work  of  man  be  urged 
beyond  its  power  of  endurance,  it  has  within  it 
the  elements  of  its  own  revenge  ; whereas,  the 
wretched  mechanism  of  the  Divine  Hand  is 
dangerous  with  no  such  property,  but  may  be 
tampered  with,  and  crushed,  and  broken,  at  the 
driver’s  pleasure.  Look  at  that  engine  ! It 
shall  cost  a man  more  dollars  in  the  way  of 
penalty,  and  fine,  and  satisfaction  of  the  outrag- 
ed law,  to  deface  in  wantonness  that  senseless 
mass  of  metal,  than  to  take  the  lives  of  twenty 
human  creatures.  Thus  the  stars  wink  upon 
the  bloody  stripes  ; and  Liberty  pulls  down  her 
cap  upon  her  eyes,  and  owns  Oppression  in  its 
vilest  aspect,  for  her  sister. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  21. 

RAILROAD  DEPOT. 

When  there  was  no  market,  or  when  I want- 
ed variety,  a railway  terminus  with  the  morning 
mails  coming  in  was  remunerative  company. 
But,  like  most  of  the  company  to  be  had  in  this 
world,  it  lasted  only  a very  short  time.  The 
station  lamps  would  burst  out  ablaze,  the  por- 
ters would  emerge  from  places  of  concealment, 
the  cabs  and  trucks  would  rattle  to  their  places 
(the  post-office  carts  were  already  in  theirs),  and 
finally  the  bell  would  strike  up,  and  the  train 
would  come  banging  in.  But  there  were  few 
passengers  and  little  luggage,  and  everything 
scuttled  away  with  the  greatest  expedition. 
The  locomotive  post-offices,  with  their  great 
nets — as  if  they  had  been  dragging  the  coun- 
try for  bodies — would  fly  open  as  to  their  doors, 
and  would  disgorge  a smell  of  lamp,  an  exhaust- 
ed clerk,  a guard  in  a red  coat,  and  their  bags 
of  letters  ; the  engine  would  blow  and  heave 
and  perspire,  like  an  engine  wiping  its  forehead, 
and  saying  what  a run  it  had  had  ; and  within 


ten  minutes  the  lamps  were  out,  and  I was 
houseless  and  alone  again. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  13. 

RAIN  -In  the  city. 

Presently  the  rain  began  to  fall  in  slanting 
lines  between  him  and  those  houses,  and  people 
began  to  collect  under  cover  of  the  public  pass- 
age opposite,  and  to  look  out  hopelessly  at  the 
sky  as  the  rain  dropped  thicker  and  faster. 
Then  wet  umbrellas  began  to  appear,  draggled 
skirts',  and  mud.  What  the  mud  had  been  doing 
with  itself,  or  where  it  came  from,  who  could 
say  ? But  it  seemed  to  collect  in  a moment,  as 
a crowd  will,  and  in  five  minutes  to  have 
splashed  all  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Adam. 
The  lamplighter  was  going  his  rounds  now  ; and 
as  the  fiery  jets  sprang  up  under  his  touch,  one 
might  have  fancied  them  astonished  at  being 
suffered  to  introduce  any  show  of  brightness  in- 
to such  a dismal  scene. 

In  the  country,  the  rain  would  have  developed 
a thousand  fresh  scents,  and  every  drop  would 
have  had  its  bright  association  with  some  beau- 
tiful form  of  growth  or  life.  In  the  city,  it  de- 
veloped only  foul,  stale  smells,  and  was  a sickly, 
lukewarm,  dirt-stained,  wretched  addition  to  the 
gutters. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

RAIN. 

The  rain  seemed  to  have  worn  itself  out  by 
coming  down  so  fast. 

It  must  be  confessed  that,  at  that  moment,  he 
had  no  very  agreeable  employment  either  for  his 
moral  or  his  physical  perceptions.  The  day  was 
dawning  from  a patch  of  watery  light  in  the  east, 
and  sullen  clouds  came  driving  up  before  it,  from 
which  the  rain  descended  in  a thick,  wet  mist. 
It  streamed  from  every  twig  and  bramble  in  the 
hedge  ; made  little  gullies  in  the  path  ; ran  down 
a hundred  channels  in  the  road  ; and  punched  in- 
numerable holes  into  the  face  of  every  pond  and 
gutter.  It  fell  with  an  oozy,  slushy  sound  among 
the  grass  ; and  made  a muddy  kennel  of  every 
furrow  in  the  ploughed  fields.  No  living  creature 
was  anywhere  to  be  seen.  The  prospect  could 
hardly  have  been  more  desolate  if  animated 
nature  had  been  dissolved  in  water,  and  poured 
down  upon  the  earth  again  in  that  form. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  13. 

Unfortunately  the  morning  was  drizzly,  and 
an  angel  could  not  have  concealed  the  fact  that 
the  eaves  were  shedding  sooty  tears  outside  the 
window,  like  some  weak  giant  of  a Sweep. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  27. 

RAIN— After  a. 

The  superabundant  moisture,  trickling  from 
everything  after  the  late  rain,  set  him  off  well. 
Nothing  near  him  was  thirsty.  Certain  top- 
heavy  dahlias,  looking  over  the  palings  of  his 
neat,  well-ordered  garden,  had  swilled  as  much 
as  they  could  carry — perhaps  a trifle  more — and 
may  have  been  the  worse  for  liquor  ; but  the 
sweet-briar,  roses,  wall-flowers,  the  plants  at  the 
windows,  and  the  leaves  on  the  old  tree,  were 
in  the  beaming  state  of  moderate  company  that 
had  taken  no  more  than  was  wholesome  for 
them,  and  had  served  to  develop  their  best 
qualities.  Sprinkling  dewy  drops  about  them 
on  the  ground,  they  seemed  profuse  of  innocent 


RAMPAGE 


391 


READING 


and  sparkling  mirth,  that  did  good  where  it 
lighted,  softening  neglected  corners  which  the 
steady  rain  could  seldom  reach,  and  hurting 
nothing. — Battle  of  Life , Chap.  3. 

RAMPAGE— Mrs.  Joe  on  a. 

Joe  and  I being  fellow-sufferers,  and  having 
confidences  as  such,  Joe  imparted  a confidence 
to  me  the  moment  I raised  the  latch  of  the  door, 
and  peeped  in  at  him  opposite  to  it,  sitting  in 
the  chimney  corner. 

“ Mi*s.  Joe  has  been  out  a dozen  times,  look- 
ing for  you,  Pip.  And  she’s  out  now,  making 
it  a baker’s  dozen.” 

“ Is  she  ? ” 

“Yes,  Pip,”  said  Joe;  “and  what’s  worse, 
she’s  got  Tickler  with  her.” 

At  this  dismal  intelligence,  I twisted  the  only 
button  on  my  waistcoat  round  and  round,  and 
looked  in  great  depression  at  the  fire.  Tickler 
was  a wax-ended  piece  of  cane,  worn  smooth  by 
collision  with  my  tickled  frame. 

“ She  sot  down,”  said  Joe,  “and  she  got  up, 
and  she  made  a grab  at  Tickler,  and  she  Ram- 
paged out.  That’s  what  she  did,”  said  Joe, 
slowly  clearing  the  fire  between  the  lower  bars 
with  the  poker,  and  looking  at  it : “ she  Ram- 
paged out,  Pip.” 

“ Has  she  been  gone  long,  Joe?”  I always 
treated  him  as  a larger  species  of  child,  and  as 
no  more  than  my  equal. 

“Well,”  said  Joe,  glancing  up  at  the  Dutch 
clock,  “ she’s  been  on  the  Ram-page,  this  last 
spell,  about  five  minutes,  Pip.  She’s  a coming  ! 
Get  behind  the  door,  old  chap,  and  have  the 
jack-towel  betwixt  you.” 

I took  the  advice.  My  sister,  Mrs.  Joe,  throw- 
ing the  door  wide  open,  and  finding  an  obstruc- 
tion behind  it,  immediately  divined  the  cause, 
and  applied  Tickler  to  its  further  investigation. 
She  concluded  by  throwing  me — I often  served 
her  as  a connubial  missile — at  Joe,  who,  glad  to 
get  hold  of  me  on  any  terms,  passed  me  on  into 
the  chimney  and  quietly  fenced  me  up  there 
with  his  great  leg. 

“ Where  have  you  been,  you  young  monkey  ? ” 
said  Mrs.  Joe,  stamping  her  foot.  “ Tell  me  direct- 
ly what  you’ve  been  doing  to  wear  me  away  with 
fret  and  fright  and  worrit,  or  I’d  have  you  out  of 
that  corner  if  you  was  fifty  Pips,  and  he  was  five 
hundred  Gargerys.” — Great  Expectations , Chap.  2. 

READING-A  boy’s. 

My  father  had  left  a small  collection  of  books 
3 in  a little  room  up-stairs,  to  which  I had  access 
I (for  it  adjoined  my  own)  and  which  nobody  else 
I in  our  house  ever  troubled.  From  that  blessed 
j little  room,  Roderick  Random,  Peregrine  Pickle, 
Humphrey  Clinker,  Tom  Jones,  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,  Don  Quixote,  Gil  Bias,  and  Robin- 
son Crusoe,  came  out,  a glorious  host,  to  keep 
me  company.  They  kept  alive  my  fancy,  and 
my  hope  of  something  beyond  that  place  and 
time — they,  and  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  the 
Tales  of  the  Genii — and  did  me  no  harm  ; for 
’ whatever  harm  was  in  some  of  them  was  not 
there  for  me  ; / knew  nothing  of  it.  It  is  as- 
|:  tonishing  to  me  now,  how  I found  time,  in  the 
midst  of  my  porings  and  blunderings  over  heav- 
1 ier  themes,  to  read  those  books  as  I did.  It  is 
curious  to  me  how  I could  ever  have  consoled 
myself  under  my  small  troubles  (which  were 
great  troubles  to  me),  by  impersonating  my  fa- 


vorite characters  in  them — as  I did — and  by 
putting  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  into  all  the 
bad  ones — which  I did  too.  I have  been  Tom 
Jones  (a  child’s  Tom  Jones,  a harmless  crea- 
ture) for  a week  together.  I have  sustained  my 
own  idea  of  Roderick  Random  for  a month  at 
a stretch,  I verily  believe.  I had  a greedy  rel- 
ish for  a few  volumes  of  Voyages  and  Travels — 
I forget  what,  now — that  were  on  those  shelves  ; 
and  for  days  and  days  I can  remember  to  have 
gone  about  my  region  of  our  house,  armed  with 
the  centre-piece  out  of  an  old  set  of  boot-trees 
— the  perfect  realization  of  Captain  Somebody, 
of  the  Royal  British  Navy,  in  danger  of  being 
beset  by  savages,  and  resolved  to  sell  his  life  at 
a great  price.  The  Captain  never  lost  dignity, 
from  having  his  ears  boxed  with  the  Latin  Gram- 
mar. I did  ; but  the  Captain  was  a Captain 
and  a hero,  in  despite  of  all  the  grammars  of  all 
the  languages  in  the  world,  dead  or  alive. 

This  was  my  only  and  my  constant  comfort. 
When  I think  of  it,  the  picture  always  rises  in 
my  mind,  of  a summer  evening,  the  boys  at  play 
in  the  churchyard,  and  I sitting  on  my  bed, 
reading  as  if  for  life.  Every  barn  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, every  stone  in  the  church,  and  every 
foot  of  the  churchyard,  had  some  association  of 
its  own,  in  my  mind,  connected  with  these 
books,  and  stood  for  some  locality  made  famous 
in  them.  I have  seen  Tom  Pipes  go  climbing 
up  the  church-steeple  ; I have  watched  Strap, 
with  the  knapsack  on  his  back,  stopping  to  rest 
himself  upon  the  wicket-gate  ; and  I know  that 
Commodore  Trunnion  held  that  Club  with  Mr. 
Pickle,  in  the  parlor  of  our  little  village  ale- 
house.— David  Copperfield,  Chap.  4. 

READING— Wopsle’s  manner  of. 

Mr.  Wopsle,  united  to  a Roman  nose  and  a large 
shining  bald  forehead,  had  a deep  voice  which 
he  was  uncommonly  proud  of;  indeed,  it  was 
understood  among  his  acquaintance  that  if  you 
could  only  give  him  his  head,  he  would  read  the 
clergyman  into  fits  ; he  himself  confessed  that 
if  the  church  was  “ thrown  open,”  meaning  to 
competition,  he  would  not  despair  of  making 
his  mark  in  it.  The  church  not  being  “ thrown 
open,”  he  was,  as  I have  said,  our  clerk.  But 
he  punished  the  amens  tremendously  ; and  when 
he  gave  out  the  psalm — always  giving  the  whole 
verse — he  looked  all  round  the  congregation 
first,  as  much  as  to  say,  “You  have  heard  our 
friend  overhead  ; oblige  me  with  your  opinion 
of  this  style  ! ” — Great  Expectations , Chap.  4. 

RE  ADING— Words  delicious  to  taste. 

I remember  a certain  luscious  roll  he  gave  to 
such  phrases  as  “ The  people’s  representatives 
in  Parliament  assembled,”  “ Your  petitioners 
therefore  humbly  approach  your  honorable 
house,”  “ His  gracious  Majesty’s  unfortunate 
subjects,”  as  if  the  words  were  something  real 
in  his  mouth,  and  delicious  to  taste  : Mr.  Mi- 
cawber,  meanwhile,  listening  with  a little  of  an 
author’s  vanity,  and  contemplating  (not  severely) 
the  spikes  on  the  opposite  wall. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  II. 

READING— Mr.  Wegg’s  difficulty  in. 

Mr.  Wegg’s  laboring  bark  became  beset  by 
polysyllables,  and  embarrassed  among  a perfect 
archipelago  of  hard  words. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  III.,  Chap  14. 


HEADING 


392 


RECREATION 


READING— Dr.  Blimber’s  style  of. 

The  Doctor,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with 
his  hand  in  his  breast  as  usual,  held  a book 
from  him  at  arm’s  length,  and  read.  There 
was  something  very  awful  in  this  manner  of 
reading.  It  was  such  a determined,  unimpas- 
sioned, inflexible,  cold-blooded  way  of  going  to 
work.  It  left  the  Doctor’s  countenance  ex- 
posed to  view  ; and  when  the  Doctor  smiled  aus- 
piciously at  his  author,  or  knit  his  brows,  or 
shook  his  head  and  made  wry  faces  at  him, 
as  much  as  to  say,  “ Don’t  tell  me,  Sir ; 1 
know  better,”  it  was  terrific. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  n. 

READING— Captain  Cuttle’s  style  of. 

Thereupon  the  Captain,  with  much  alacrity, 
shouldered  his  book — for  he  made  it  a point  of 
duty  to  read  none  but  very  large  books  on  a 
Sunday,  as  having  a more  staid  appearance  ; and 
had  bargained,  years  ago,  for  a prodigious  vol- 
ume at  a book-stall,  five  lines  of  which  utterly 
confounded  him  at  any  time,  insomuch  that  he 
had  not  yet  ascertained  of  what  subject  it 
treated — and  withdrew. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  50. 

READING— On  gin  and  water. 

“ Now,  what’ll  you  read  on  ? ” 

“Thank  you,  sir,”  returned  Wegg,  as  if  there 
were  nothing  new  in  his  reading  at  all.  “ I gen- 
erally do  it  on  gin  and  water.” 

“Keeps  the  organ  moist,  does  it,  Wegg?” 
asked  Mr.  Boffin,  with  innocent  eagerness. 

“ N-no,  sir,”  replied  Wegg,  coolly,  “ I should 
hardly  describe  it  so,  sir.  I should  say,  mellers 
it.  Mellers  it,  is  the  word  I should  employ, 
Mr.  Boffin.” — Our  Mutual  Friend,  Chap.  5. 

RECEPTION— An  American. 

Up  they  came  with  a rush.  Up  they  came 
until  the  room  was  full,  and,  through  the  open 
door,  a dismal  perspective  of  more  to  come,  was 
shown  upon  the  stairs.  One  after  another,  one 
after  another,  dozen  after  dozen,  score  after 
score,  more,  more,  more,  up  they  came  ; all 
shaking  hands  with  Martin.  Such  varieties  of 
hands,  the  thick,  the  thin,  the  short,  the  long, 
the  fat,  the  lean,  the  coarse,  the  fine  ; such  dif- 
ferences of  temperature,  the  hot,  the  cold,  the 
dry,  the  moist,  the  flabby ; such  diversities  of 
grasp,  the  tight,  the  loose,  the  short-lived,  and 
the  lingering ! Still  up,  up,  up,  more,  more, 
more  : and  ever  and  anon  the  Captain’s  voice 
was  heard  above  the  crowd  ; “ There’s  more 
below  ! there’s  more  below.  Now,  gentlemen, 
you  that  have  been  introduced  to  Mr.  Chuzzle- 
wit,  will  you  clear,  gentlemen?  Will  you  clear? 
Will  you  be  so  good  as  clear,  gentlemen,  and 
make  a little  room  for  more?” 

Regardless  of  the  Captain’s  cries,  they  didn’t 
clear  at  all,  but  stood  there,  bolt  upright,  and 
staring.  Two  gentlemen  connected  with  the 
Watertoast  Gazette  had  come  express  to  get 
the  matter  for  an  article  on  Martin.  They  had 
agreed  to  divide  the  labor.  One  of  them  took 
him  below  the  waistcoat ; one  above.  Each 
stood  directly  in  front  of  his  subject,  with  his 
head  a little  on  one  side,  intent  on  his  depart- 
ment. If  Martin  put  one  boot  before  the  other, 
the  lower  gentleman  was  down  upon  him  ; he 
rubbed  a pimple  on  his  nose,  and  the  upper  gen- 
tleman booked  it.  He  opened  his  mouth  to 


speak,  and  the  same  gentleman  was  on  one  knee 
before  him,  looking  in  at  his  teeth  with  the  nice 
scrutiny  of  a dentist.  Amateurs  in  the  physiog- 
nomical and  phrenological  sciences  roved  about 
him  with  watchful  eyes  and  itching  fingers,  and 
sometimes  one,  more  daring  than  the  rest,  made 
a mad  grasp  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  van- 
ished in  the  crowd.  They  had  him  in  all  points 
of  view  : in  front,  in  profile,  three-quarter  face, 
and  behind.  Those  who  were  not  professional 
or  scientific,  audibly  exchanged  opinions  on  his 
looks.  New  lights  shone  in  upon  him,  in  respect 
of  his  nose.  Contradictory  rumors  were  abroad 
on  the  subject  of  his  hair.  And  still  the  Cap- 
tain’s voice  was  heard — so  stifled  by  the  con- 
course, that  he  seemed  to  speak  from  underneath 
a feather-bed,  exclaiming,  “ Gentlemen,  you  that 
have  been  introduced  to  Mr.  Chuzzlewit,  will 
you  clear?” 

Even  when  they  began  to  clear,  it  was  no  bet- 
ter : for  then  a stream  of  gentlemen,  every  one 
with  a lady  on  each  arm  (exactly  like  the  chorus 
to  the  National  Anthem,  when  Royalty  goes  in 
stare  to  the  play),  came  gliding  in  ; every  new 
group  fresher  than  the  last,  and  bent  on  staying 
to  the  latest  moment.  If  they  spoke  to  him, 
which  was  not  often,  they  invariably  asked  the 
same  questions,  in  the  same  tone  : with  no  more 
remorse,  or  delicacy,  or  consideration,  than  if 
he  had  been*  a figure  of  stone,  purchased,  and 
paid  for,  and  set  up  there,  for  their  delight. 
Even  when,  in  the  slow  course  of  time,  these 
died  off,  it  was  as  bad  as  ever,  if  not  worse  ; for 
then  the  boys  grew  bold,  and  came  in  as  a class 
of  themselves,  and  did  everything  that  the 
grown-up  people  had  done.  Uncouth  stragglers 
too,  appeared  ; men  of  a ghostly  kind,  who,  be- 
ing in,  didn’t  know  how  to  get  out  again  : inso- 
much that  one  silent  gentleman  with  glazed  and 
fishy  eyes,  and  only  one  button  on  his  waistcoat 
(which  was  a very  large  metal  one,  and  shone 
prodigiously),  got  behind  the  door,  and  stood 
there,  like  a clock,  long  after  everybody  else 
was  gone. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  22. 

RECREATION— Gardening  in  London. 

There  is  another  and  a very  different  class  of 
men,  whose  recreation  is  their  garden.  An  indi- 
vidual of  this  class  resides  some  short  distance 
from  town — say  in  the  Hampstead  Road,  or  the 
Kilburn  Road,  or  any  other  road  where  the 
houses  are  small  and  neat,  and  have  little  slips 
of  back  garden.  He  and  his  wife — who  is  as 
clean  and  compact  a little  body  as  himself — have 
occupied  the  same  house  ever  since  he  retired 
from  business  twenty  years  ago.  They  have  no 
family.  They  once  had  a son,  who  died  at  about 
five  years  old.  The  child’s  portrait  hangs  over 
the  mantelpiece  in  the  best  sitting-room,  and  a 
little  cart  he  used  to  draw  about  is  carefully 
preserved  as  a relic. 

In  fine  weather  the  old  gentleman  is  almost 
constantly  in  the  garden  ; and  when  it  is  too  wet 
to  go  into  it,  be  will  look  out  of  the  window  at 
It  by  the  hour  together.  He  has  always  some- 
thing to  do  there,  and  you  will  see  him  digging, 
and  sweeping,  and  cutting,  and  planting,  with 
manifest  delight.  In  spring-tinae,  there  is  no 
end  to  the  sowing  of  seeds,  and  sticking  little 
bits  of  wood  over  them,  with  labels,  which  look 
like  epitaphs  to  their  memory  ; and  in  the  even- 
ing, when  the  sun  has  gone  down,  the  persever- 
ance with  which  he  lugs  a great  watering-pot 


RECREATIONS 


393 


RED  TAPE 


about  is  perfectly  astonishing.  The  only  other 
recreation  he  has,  is  the  newspaper,  which  he 
peruses  every  day,  from  beginning  to  end,  gen- 
erally reading  the  most  interesting  pieces  of  in- 
telligence to  his  wife,  during  breakfast.  The  old 
lady  is  very  fond  of  flowers,  as  the  hyacinth- 
glasses  in  the  parlor  window,  and  geranium-pots 
in  the  little  front  court,  testify.  She  takes  great 
pride  in  the  garden,  too  ; and  when  one  of  the 
four  fruit-trees  produces  rather  a larger  goose- 
berry than  usual,  it  is  carefully  preserved  under 
a wine-glass  on  the  sideboard,  for  the  edification 
of  visitors,  who  are  duly  informed  that  Mr.  So- 
and-so  planted  the  tree  which  produced  it,  with 
his  own  hands.  On  a summer’s  evening,  when 
the  large  watering-pot  has  been  filled  and  emp- 
tied some  fourteen  times,  and  the  old  couple 
have  quite  exhausted  themselves  by  Lotting 
about,  you  will  see  them  sitting  happily  together 
in  the  little  summer-house,  enjoying  the  calm 
and  peace  of  the  twilight,  and  watching  the  shad- 
ows as  they  fall  upon  the  garden  and,  gradually 
growing  thicker  and  more  sombre,  obscure  the 
tints  of  their  gayest  flowers — no  bad  emblem 
of  the  years  that  have  silently  rolled  over  their 
heads,  deadening  in  their  course  the  brightest 
hues  of  early  hopes  and  feelings  which  have 
long  since  faded  away.  These  are  their  only 
recreations,  and  they  require  no  more.  They 
have  within  themselves  the  materials  of  com- 
fort and.  content ; and  the  only  anxiety  of  each, 
is  to  die  before  the  other. 

This  is  no  ideal  sketch.  There  used  to  be 
many  old  people  of  this'  description  ; their  num- 
bers may  have  diminished,  and  may  decrease 
still  more.  Whether  the  course  female  educa- 
tion has  taken  of  late  days — whether  the  pur- 
suit of  giddy  frivolities,  and  empty  nothings,  has 
tended  to  unfit  women  for  that  quiet  domestic 
life,  in  which  they  show  far  more  beautifully 
than  in  the  most  crowded  assembly,  is  a ques- 
tion we  should  feel  little  gratification  in  dis- 
cussing ; we  hope  not. 

Sketches  (Scenes),  Chap.  9. 

RECREATIONS— London. 

The  wish  of  persons  in  the  humbler  class- 
es of  life  to  ape  the  manners  and  customs 
of  those  whom  fortune  has  placed  above  them, 
is  often  the  subject  of  remark,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  of  complaint.  The  inclination  may, 
and  no  doubt  does,  exist  to  a great  extent, 
among  the  small  gentility — the  would-be  aristo- 
crats— of  the  middle  classes.  Tradesmen  and 
clerks,  with  fashionable  novel-reading  families, 
and  circulating-library-subscribing  daughters, 
get  up  small  assemblies  in  humble  imitation  of 
Almack’s,  and  promenade  the  dingy  “ large 
room  ” of  some  second-rate  hotel  with  as  much 
complacency  as  the  enviable  few  who  are  priv- 
ileged to  exhibit  their  magnificence  in  that 
exclusive  haunt  of  fashion  and  foolery.  Aspir- 
ing young  ladies,  who  read  flaming  accounts 
of  some  “ fancy  fair  in  high  life,”  suddenly 
grow  desperately  charitable  ; visions  of  admi- 
ration and  matrimony  float  before  their  eyes  ; 
some  wonderfully  meritorious  institution,  which, 
by  the  strangest  accident  in  the  world,  has 
never  been  heard  of  before,  is  discovered  to  be 
in  a languishing  condition  ; Thomson’s  great 
room,  or  Johnson’s  nursery-ground  is  forthwith 
engaged,  and  the  aforesaid  young  ladies,  from 
mere  charity,  exhibit  themselves  for  three  days, 


from  twelve  to  four,  for  the  small  charge  of 
one  shilling  per  head  ! With  the  exception  of 
these  classes  of  society,  however,  and  a few 
weak  and  insignificant  persons,  we  do  not  think 
the  attempt  at  imitation  to  which  we  have 
alluded,  prevails  in  any  great  degree. 

Sketches  (Scenes),  Chap.  9. 

RED  TAPE. 

She  was  a Fairy,  this  Tape,  and  was  a bright 
red  all  over.  She  was  disgustingly  prim  and 
formal,  and  could  never  bend  herself  a hair’s 
breadth  this  way  or  that  way,  out  of  her  natu- 
rally crooked  shape.  But  she  was  very  po- 
tent in  her  wicked  art.  She  could  stop  the 
fastest  thing  in  the  world,  change  the  strongest 
thing  into  the  weakest,  and  the  most  useful  into 
the  most  useless.  To  do  this  she  had  only  to 
put  her  cold  hand  upon  it,  and  repeat  her  own 
name,  Tape.  Then  it  withered  away. 

At  the  Court  of  Prince  Bull — at  least  I don’t 
mean  literally  at  his  court,  because  he  was  a 
very  genteel  Prince,  and  readily  yielded  to  his 
god-mother  when  she  always  reserved  that  for 
his  hereditary  Lords  and  Ladies — in  the  do- 
minions of  Prince  Bull,  among  the  great  mass 
of  the  community  who  were  called  in  the  lan- 
guage of  that  polite  country  the  Mobs  and 
the  Snobs,  were  a number  of  very  ingenious 
men,  who  were  always  busy  with  some  inven- 
tion or  other,  for  promoting  the  prosperity  of 
the  Prince’s  subjects,  and  augmenting  the 
Prince’s  power.  But,  whenever  they  submitted 
their  models  for  the  Prince’s  approval,  his  god- 
mother stepped  forward,  laid  her  hand  upon 
them,  and  said  “ Tape.”  Hence  it  came  to 
pass,  that  when  any  particularly  good  discovery 
was  made,  the  discoverer  usually  carried  it  off 
to  some  other  Prince,  in  foreign  parts,  who  had 
no  old  godmother  who  said  Tape.  This  was 
not  on  the  whole  an  advantageous  state  of 
things  for  Prince  Bull,  to  the  best  of  my  un- 
derstanding. 

* 

This,  again,  was  very  bad  conduct  on  the 
part  of  the  vicious  old  nuisance,  and  she  ought 
to  have  been  strangled  for  it  if  she  had  done 
nothing  worse  ; but,  she  did  something  worse 
still,  as  you  shall  learn.  For  she  got  astride  of 
an  official  broomstick,  and  muttered  as  a spell 
these  two  sentences,  “ On  Her  Majesty’s  ser- 
vice,” and  “ I have  the  honor  to  be,  sir,  your 
most  obedient  servant,”  and  presently  alighted 
in  the  cold  and  inclement  country  where  the 
army  of  Prince  Bull  were  encamped  to  fight  the 
army  of  Prince  Bear.  On  the  sea-shore  of  that 
country,  she  found  piled  together  a number  of 
houses  for  the  army  to  live  in,  and  a quantity  of 
provisions  for  the  army  to  live  upon,  and  a 
quantity  of  clothes  for  the  army  to  wear  ; while, 
sitting  in  the  mud  gazing  at  them,  were  a group 
of  officers  as  red  to  look  at  as  the  wicked  old 
woman  herself.  So  she  said  to  one  of  them, 
“ Who  are  you,  my  darling,  and  how  do  you 
do?”  “I  am  the  Quarter-master  General’s 
Department,  god-mother,  and  I am  pretty  well.” 
Then  she  said  to  another,  “Who  arej you,  my 
darling,  and  how  do  you  do  ? ” “I  am  the  Com- 
missariat Department,  god-mother,  and  I am 
pretty  well.”  Then  she  said  to  another,  “ Who 
are  you,  my  darling,  and  how  do  you  do  ? ” 
“ I am  the  head  of  the  Medical  Department, 
god-motlier,  and  I am  pretty  well.”  Then  she 


RED-FACED  MEN 


394 


REFORMS 


said  to  some  gentlemen  scented  with  lavender, 
who  kept  themselves  at  a great  distance  from 
the  rest,  “ And  who  are  you , my  pretty  pets, 
and  how  do  you  do  ? ” and  they  answered, 
“ We-aw-are-the-aw-Staff-aw-Deparlment,  god- 
mother, and  we  are  very  well  indeed.”  “ 1 am 
delighted  to  see  you  all,  my  beauties,”  says  this 
wicked  old  fairy,  “ — Tape!”  Upon  that,  the 
houses,  clothes,  and  provisions,  all  mouldered 
away  ; and  the  soldiers  who  were  sound,  fell 
sick  ; and  the  soldiers  vyho  were  sick,  died 
miserably,  and  the  noble  army  of  Prince  Bull 
perished. — Prince  Bull.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

RED-FACED  MEN. 

A numerous  race  are  these  red-faced  men  ; 
there  is  not  a parlor,  or  club-room,  or  benefit 
society,  or  humble  party  of  any  kind,  without 
its  red-faced  man.  Weak-pated  dolts  they  are, 
and  a great  deal  of  mischief  they  do  to  their 
cause,  however  good.  So,  just  to  hold  a pattern 
one  up  to  know  the  others  by,  we  took  his  like- 
ness at  once,  and  put  him  in  here.  And  that  is 
the  reason  why  we  have  written  this  paper. 

Sketches  ( Characters ),  Chap.  5. 

REFERENCES. 

“ As  to  being  a reference,”  said  Pancks, 
“ you  know,  in  a general  way,  what  being  a 
reference  means.  It’s  all  your  eye,  that  is  ! 
Look  at  your  tenants  down  the  Yard  here. 
They’d  all  be  references  for  one  another,  if 
you’d  let  ’em.  What  would  be  the  good  of  let- 
ting ’em  ? It’s  no  satisfaction  to  be  done  by 
two  men  instead  of  one.  One’s  enough.  A per- 
son who  can’t  pay,  gets  another  person  who 
can’t  pay  to  guarantee  that  he'  can  pay.  Like 
a person  with  two  wooden  legs  getting  another 
person  with  two  wooden  legs  to  guarantee 
that  he  has  got  two  natural  legs.  It  don’t  make 
either  of  them  able  to  do  a walking-match.  And 
four  wooden  legs  are  more  troublesome  to  you 
than  two,  when  you  don’t  want  any.”  Mr. 
Pancks  concluded  by  blowing  off  that  steam  of 
his. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  I.,  Chap.  23. 

REFINEMENT— An  evidence  of. 

“ May  I take  this  opportunity  of  remarking 
that  it  is  scarcely  delicate  to  look  at  vagrants 
with  the  attention  which  I have  seen  bestowed 
upon  them  by  a very  dear  young  friend  of  mine  ? 
They  should  not  be  looked  at.  Nothing  disa- 
greeable should  ever  be  looked  at.  Apart  from 
such  a habit  standing  in  the  way  of  that  grace- 
ful equanimity  of  surface  which  is  so  expressive 
of  good  breeding,  it  hardly  seems  compatible 
with  refinement  of  mind.  A truly  refined  mind 
will  seem  to  be  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  any- 
thing that  is  not  perfectly  proper,  placid,  and 
pleasant.”  Having  delivered  this  exalted  senti- 
ment, Mrs.  General  made  a sweeping  obeisance, 
and  retired  with  an  expression  of  mouth  indica- 
tive of  Prunes  and  Prism. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  5. 

REFORMERS— A party  of  female. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pardiggle  were  of  the  party — 
Mr.  Pardiggle,  an  obstinate-looking  man,  with 
a large  waistcoat  and  stubbly  hair,  who  was 
always  talking  in  a loud  bass  voice  about  his 
mile,  or  Mrs.  Pardigglc’s  mite,  or  their  five  boys’ 
miles.  Mr.  Quale,  with  his  hair  brushed  back 
as  usual,  and  his  knobs  of  temples  shining  very 


much,  was  also  there  ; not  in  the  character  of  a 
disappointed  lover,  but  as  the  Accepted  of  a 
young — at  least,  an  unmarried — lady,  a Miss 
Wisk,  who  was  also  there.  Miss  Wisk's  mission, 
my  guardian  said,  was  to  show  the  world  that 
woman’s  mission  was  man’s  mission  ; and  that 
the  onl)  genuine  mission  of  both  man  and 
woman,  was  to  be  always  moving  declaratory 
resolutions  about  things  in  general  at  public 
meetings.  The  guests  were  few  ; but  were,  as 
one  might  expect  at  Mrs.  Jellyby’s,  all  devoted 
to  public  objects  only.  Besides  those  I have 
mentioned,  there  was  an  extremely  dirty  lady, 
with  her  bonnet  all  awry,  and  the  ticketed  price 
of  her  dress  still  sticking  on  it,  whose  neglected 
home,  Caddy  told  me,  was  like  a filthy  wilder- 
ness, but  whose  church  was  like  a fancy  fair.  A 
very  contentious  gentleman,  who  said  it  was  his 
mission  to  be  everybody’s  brother,  but  who  ap- 
peared to  be  on  terms  of  coolness  with  the  whole 
of  his  large  family,  completed  the  party. 

A party  having  less  in  common  with  such  an 
occasion,  could  hardly  have  been  got  together  by 
any  ingenuity.  Such  a mean  mission  as  the  do- 
mestic mission,  was  the  very  last  thing  to  be  en- 
dured among  them  ; indeed,  Miss  Wisk  informed 
us,  with  great  indignation,  before  we  sat  down  to 
breakfast,  that  the  idea  of  woman’s  mission  lying 
chiefly  in  the  narrow  sphere  of  Home  was  an  out- 
rageous slander  on  the  part  of  her  Tyrant,  Man. 
One  other  singularity  was,  that  nobody  with  a 
mission — except  Mr.  Quale,  whose  mission,  as  I 
think  I have  formerly  said,  was  to  be  in  ecstasies 
with  everybody’s  mission — cared  at  all  for  any- 
body’s mission.  Mrs.  Pardiggle  being  as  clear 
that  the  only  one  infallible  course  was  her  course 
of  pouncing  upon  the  poor,  and  applying  benevo- 
lence to  them  like  a strait-waistcoat,  as  Miss 
Wisk  was  that  the  only  practical  thing  for  the 
world  was  the  emancipation  of  Woman  from  the 
thraldom  of  her  Tyrant,  Man.  Mrs.  Jellyby,  all 
the  while,  sat  smiling  at  the  limited  vision  that 
could  see  anything  but  Borrioboola-Gha. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  30. 

REFORMS— Public— Influence  of  literature 
on. 

I have  found  it  curious  and  interesting,  look- 
ing over  the  sheets  of  this  reprint,  to  mark  what 
important  social  improvements  have  taken  place 
about  us,  almost  imperceptibly,  since  they  were 
originally  written.  The  license  of  Counsel,  and 
the  degree  to  which  Juries  are  ingeniously  be- 
wildered, are  yet  susceptible  of  moderation ; 
while  an  improvement  in  the  mode  of  conduct- 
ing Parliamentary  Elections  (and  even  Parlia- 
ments too,  perhaps)  is  still  within  the  bounds 
of  possibility.  But  legal  reforms  have  pared 
the  claws  of  Messrs.  Dodson  and  Fogg;  a spirit 
of  self-respect,  mutual  forbearance,  education, 
and  co-operation  for  such  good  ends,,  has  dif- 
fused itself  among  their  clerks  ; places  far  apart 
are  brought  together,  to  the  present  convenience 
and  advantage  of  the  Public,  and  to  the  certain 
destruction,  in  time,  of  a host  of  petty  jealous- 
ies, blindnesses,  and  prejudices,  by  which  the 
Public  alone  have  always  been  the  sufferers  ; the 
laws  relating  to  imprisonment  for  debt  are  al- 
tered ; and  the  Fleet  Prison  is  pulled  down  ! 

Who  knows,  but  by  the  time  the  series  reaches 
its  conclusion,  it  may  be  discovered  that  there 
are  even  magistrates  in  town  and  country,  who 
should  be  taught  to  shake  hands  every  day  with 


RELATIONS 


395 


RELIGION 


Common-sense  and  Justice  ; that  even  Poor 
Laws  may  have  mercy  on  the  weak,  the  aged, 
and  unfortunate  ; that  Schools,  on  the  broad 
principles  of  Christianity,  are  the  best  adorn- 
ment for  the  length  and  breadth  of  this  civil- 
ized land  ; that  Prison-doors  should  be  barred 
on  tho  outside,  no  less  heavily  and  carefully 
than  they  are  barred  within  ; that  the  universal 
diffusion  of  common  means  of  decency  and 
health  is  as  much  the  right  of  the  poorest  of  the 
poor,  as  it  is  indispensable  to  the  safety  of  the 
rich,  and  of  the  State  ; that  a few  petty  boards 
and  bodies — less  than  drops  in  the  great  ocean 
of  humanity  which  roars  around  them — are  not 
forever  to  let  loose  Fever  and  Consumption  on 
God’s  creatures  at  their  will,  or  always  to  keep 
their  jobbing  little  fiddles  going,  for  a Dance 
of  Death.—  Pickwick.  Preface . 

RELATIONS -Poor. 

It  is  a melancholy  truth  that  even  great  men 
have  their  poor  relations.  Indeed,  great  men 
have  often  more  than  their  fair  share  of  poor 
relations  ; inasmuch  as  very  red  blood  of  the 
superior  quality,  like  inferior  blood  unlawfully 
shed,  will  cry  aloud,  and  will  be  heard.  Sir 
Leicester’s  cousins,  in  the  remotest  degree,  are 
so  many  murders,  in  respect  that  they  will 
“ out.”  Among  whom  there  are  cousins  who 
are  so  poor,  that  one  might  almost  dare  to  think 
it  would  have  been  the  happier  for  them  never 
to  have  been  plated  links  upon  the  Dedlock 
chain  of  gold,  but  to  have  been  made  of  com- 
mon iron  at  first,  and  done  base  service. 

Service,  however  (with  a few  limited  reserva- 
tions ; genteel,  but  not  profitable),  they  may  not 
do,  being  of  the  Dedlock  dignity.  So  they  visit 
their  richer  cousins,  and  get  into  debt  when  they 
can,  and  live  but  shabbily  when  they  can’t,  and 
find — the  women  no  husbands,  and  the  men  no 
wives — and  ride  in  borrowed  carriages,  and  sit 
at  feasts  that  are  never  of  their  own  making, 
and  so  go  through  high  life.  The  rich  family 
sum  has  been  divided  by  so  many  figures,  and 
they  are  the  something  over  that  nobody  knows 
what  to  do  with. — Bleak  House , Chap.  28. 

RELIGION  AND  LECTURES -In  New 
England. 

The  peculiar  province  of  the  Pulpit  in  New 
England  (always  excepting  the  Unitarian  min- 
istry) would  appear  to  be  the  denouncement  of 
all  innocent  and  national  amusements.  The 
church,  the  chapel,  and  the  lecture-room  are  the 
only  means  of  excitement  excepted  ; and  to  the 
church,  the  chapel,  and  the  lecture-room  the 
ladies  resort  in  crowds. 

Wherever  religion  is  resorted  to,  as  a strong 
drink,  and  as  an  escape  from  the  dull,  monoto- 
nous round  of  home,  those  of  its  ministers  who 
pepper  the  highest  will  be  the  surest  to  please. 
They  who  strew  the  Eternal  Path  with  the  great- 
est amount  of  brimstone,  and  who  most  ruth- 
lessly tread  down  the  flowers  and  leaves  that 
grow  by  the  wayside,  will  be  voted  the  most 
righteous  ; and  they  who  enlarge  with  the  great- 
est pertinacity  on  the  difficulty  of  getting  into 
heaven  will  be  considered  by  all  true  believers 
certain  of  going  there,  though  it  would  be  hard 
to  say  by  what  process  of  reasoning  this  conclu- 
sion is  arrived  at.  It  is  so  at  home,  and  it  is  so 
abroad.  With  regard  to  the  other  means  of  ex- 
citement, thf  Lecture,  it  has  at  least  the  merit 


of  being  always  new.  One  lecture  treads  so 
quickly  on  the  heels  of  another,  that  none  are 
remembered  ; and  the  course  of  this  month  may 
be  safely  repeated  next,  with  its  charm  of  novel- 
ty unbroken,  and  its  interest  unabated. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  3. 

RELIGION— A vent  for  bad-humor. 

“ What  such  people  miscall  their  religion,  is 
a vent  for  their  bad-humors  and  arrogance.  And 
do  you  know  I must  say;  sir,”  he  continued, 
mildly  laying  his  head  on  one  side,  “ that  I don't 
find  authority  for  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  in 
the  New  Testament?” 

“ I never  found  it  either  ! ” said  I. 

“ In  the  meantime,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Chillip, 
“ they  are  much  disliked  ; and  as  they  are  very 
free  in  consigning  everybody  who  dislikes  them 
to  perdition,  we  really  have  a good  deal  of  per- 
dition going  on  in  our  neighborhood  ! How- 
ever, as  Mrs.  Chillip  says,  sir,  they  undergo  a 
continual  punishment ; for  they  are  turned  in- 
ward, to  feed  upon  their  own  hearts,  and  their 
own  hearts  are  very  bad  feeding.” 

David  Copper  field.  Chap.  59. 

RELIGION— Austerity  in. 

I so  abhor  and  from  my  soul  detest  that  bad 
spirit,  no  matter  by  what  class  or  sect  it  may  be 
entertained,  which  would  strip  life  of  its  health- 
ful graces,  rob  youth  of  its  innocent  pleasures, 
pluck  from  maturity  and  age  their  pleasant  or- 
naments, and  make  existence  but  a narrow  path 
towards  the  grave  ; that  odious  spirit  which,  if 
it  could  have  had  full  scope  and  sway  upon  the 
earth,  must  have  blasted  and  made  barren  the 
imaginations  of  the  greatest  men,  and  left  them, 
in  their  power  of  raising  up  enduring  images 
before  their  fellow-creatures  yet  unborn,  no  bet- 
ter than  the  beasts  ; that  in  these  very  broad- 
brimmed  hats  and  very  sombre  coats — in  stiff- 
necked solemn-visaged  piety,  in  short,  no  matter 
what  its  garb,  whether  it  have  cropped  hair  as 
in  a Shaker  village,  or  long  nails  as  in  a Hindoo 
temple — I recognize  the  worst  among  the  ene- 
mies of  Heaven  and  Earth,  who  turn  the  water 
at  the  marriage  feasts  of  this  poor  world,  not 
into  wine,  but  gall.  And  if  there  must  be  peo- 
ple vowed  to  crush  the  harmless  fancies  and  the 
love  of  innocent  delights  and  gayeties,  which 
are  a part  of  human  nature, — as  much  a part  of 
it  as  any  other  love  or  hope  that  is  our  common 
portion, — let  them,  for  me,  stand  openly  revealed 
among  the  ribald  and  licentious  : the  very  idiots 
know  that  they  are  not  on  the  Immortal  road, 
and  will  despise  them,  and  avoid  them  readily. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  15. 

RELIGION,  INDIGESTION,  AND  LOVE. 

She  was  an  indigestive  single  woman,  who 
called  her  rigidity  religion,  and  her  liver  love. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  25. 

RELIGION— Austere,  of  the  Murdstones. 

The  gloomy  taint  that  was  in  the  Murdstone 
blood,  darkened  the  Murdstone  religion,  which 
was  austere  and  wrathful.  I have  thought  since 
that  its  assuming  that  character  was  a necessary 
consequence  of  Mr.  Murdstone’s  firmness,  which 
wouldn’t  allow  him  to  let  anybody  off  from  the 
utmost  weight  of  the  severest  penalties  he  could 
find  any  excuse  for.  Be  this  as  it  may,  I well 
remember  the  tremendous  visages  with  which 


RELIGION 


390 


RESPECTABILITY 


we  used  to  go  to  church,  and  the  changed  air  of 
the  place.  Again  the  dreaded  Sunday  comes 
round,  and  I file  into  the  old  pew  first,  like  a 
guarded  captive  brought  to  a condemned  service. 
Again,  Miss  Murdstone,  in  a black  velvet  gown, 
that  looks  as  if  it  had  been  made  out  of  a pall, 
follows  close  upon  me  ; then  my  mother  ; then 
her  husband.  There  is  no  Peggotty  now,  as  in 
the  old  time.  Again,  I listen  to  Miss  Murdstone 
mumbling  the  responses,  and  emphasizing  all 
the  dread  words  with  a cruel  relish.  Again,  I 
see  her  dark  eyes  roll  round  the  church  when 
she  says  “miserable  sinners,”  as  if  she  were  call- 
ingall  the  congregation  names.  Again,  I catch 
rare  glimpses  of  my  mother,  moving  her  lips  timid- 
ly between  the  two,  with  one  of  them  muttering 
at  each  ear,  like  low  thunder.  Again,  I wonder 
with  a sudden  fear  whether  it  is  likely  that  our 
good  old  clergyman  can  be  wrong,  and  Mr.  and 
Miss  Murdstone  right,  and  that  all  the  angels  in 
Heaven  can  be  destroying  angels.  Again,  if  I 
move  a finger  or  relax  a muscle  of  my  face,  Miss 
Murdstone  pokes  me  with  her  prayer-book,  and 
makes  my  side  ache. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  4. 

RELIGION— True  and  false. 

Lest  there  should  be  any  well-intentioned 
persons  who  do  not  perceive  the  difference  (as 
some  such  could  not,  when  Old  Mortality 
was  newly  published)  between  religion  and  the 
cant  of  religion,  piety  and  pretence  of  piety, 
a humble  reverence  for  the  great  truths  of  Scrip- 
ture and  an  audacious  and  offensive  obtru- 
sion of  its  letter  and  not  its  spirit  in  the  com- 
monest dissensions  and  meanest  affairs  of  life, 
to  the  extraordinary  confusion  of  ignorant  minds, 
let  them  understand  that  it  is  always  the  latter, 
and  never  the  former,  which  is  satirized  here. 
Further,  that  the  latter  is  here  satirized  as  being, 
according  to  all  experience,  inconsistent  with 
the  former,  impossible  of  union  with  it,  and  one 
of  the  most  evil  and  mischievous  falsehoods  ex- 
istent in  society — whether  it  establish  its  head- 
quarters, for  the  time  being,  in  Exeter  Hall,  or 
Ebenezer  Chapel,  or  both.  It  may  appear  un- 
necessary to  offer  a word  of  observation  on  so 
plain  a head.  But  it  is  never  out.  of  season  to 
protest  against  that  coarse  familiarity  with  sacred 
things  which  is  busy  on  the  lip,  and  idle  in  the 
heart  ; or  against  the  confounding  of  Christian- 
ity with  any  class  of  persons  who,  in  the  words 
of  Swift,  have  just  enough  religion  to  make 
them  hate,  and  not  enough  to  make  them  love, 
one  another. — Preface  to  Pickwick. 

REMORSE — Of  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to 
come.  The  rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof,  the 
wind  that  mourns  outside  the  door,  may  have 
foreknowledge  in  their  melancholy  sound.  Let 
him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  ! ” 

He  did  remember  it.  In  the  miserable  night 
he  thought  of  it  ; in  the  dreary  day,  the  wretch- 
ed dawn,  the  ghostly,  memory-haunted  twilight. 
He  did  remember  it.  In  agony,  in  sorrow,  in 
remorse,  in  despair!  “Papal  papa!  Speak 
to  me,  dear  papa  ! ” He  heard  the  words  again 
and  saw  the  face.  lie  saw  it  fall  upon  the 
trembling  hands,  and  heard  the  one  prolonged 
low  cry  go  upward. 

Oh!  lie  did  remember  it  ! The  rain  that 
fell  upon  the  roof,  the  wind  that  mourned 


outside  the  door  that  night,  had  had  foreknow- 
ledge in  their  melancholy  sound.  He  knew, 
now,  what  he  had  done.  He  knew,  now,  that 
he  had  called  down  that  upon  his  head,  which 
bowed  it  lower  than  the  heaviest  stroke  of  for- 
tune. lie  knew,  now,  what  it  was  to  be  reject- 
ed and  deserted  ; now,  when  every  loving  blos- 
som he  had  withered  in  his  innocent  daughter’s 
heart  was  snowing  down  in  ashes  on  him. 

Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  59. 

REPARATION  — Religious,  of  Mrs.  Clen- 
nam. 

“Reparation!”  said  she.  “Yes,  truly!  It 
is  easy  for  him  to  talk  of  reparation,  fresh  from 
journeying  and  junketing  in  foreign  lands,  and 
Viving  a life  of  vanity  and  pleasure.  But  let 
him  look  at  me,  in  prison  and  in  bonds  here. 
I endure  without  murmuring,  because  it  is  ap- 
pointed that  I shall  so  make  reparation  for  my 
sins.  Reparation  ! Is  there  none  in  this 
room  ? Has  there  been  none  here  this  fifteen 
years  ? ” 

Thus  was  she  always  balancing  her  bargain 
with  the  Majesty  of  heaven,  posting  up  the 
entries  to  her  credit,  strictly  keeping  her  set-off, 
and  claiming  her  due.  She  was  only  remarka- 
ble in  this,  for  the  force  and  emphasis  with 
which  she  did  it.  Thousands  upon  thousands 
do  it,  according  to  their  varying  manner,  every 
day. — Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  5. 

REPINING— Useless  tears. 

“ Repining  is  of  no  use,  ma’am,”  said  Ralph. 
“ Of  all  fruitless  errands,  sending  a tear  to  look 
after  a day  that  is  gone,  is  the  most  fruitless.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  10. 

RESPECT-SELF— The  modesty  of. 

It  has  always  been  in  my  observation  of 
human  nature,  that  a man  who  has  any  good 
reason  to  believe  in  himself  never  flourishes 
himself  before  the  faces  of  other  people  in  order 
that  they  may  believe  in  him.  For  this  reason, 
I retained  my  modesty  in  very  self-respect ; and 
the  more  praise  I got,  the  more  I tried  to  deserve. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  48. 

RESPECTABILITY— A pattern  of,  (Litti- 
mer.) 

There  was  a servant  in  that  house,  a man 
who,  I understood,  was  usually  with  Steerforth, 
and  had  come  into  his  service  at  the  university, 
who  was  in  appearance  a pattern  of  respectabil- 
ity. I believe  there  never  existed  in  his  station 
a more  respectable-looking  man.  He  was  taci- 
turn, soft-footed,  very  quiet  in  his  manner,  defer- 
ential, observant,  always  at  hand  when  wanted, 
and  never  near  when  not  wanted  ; but  his  great 
claim  to  consideration  was  his  respectability. 
He  had  not  a pliant  face  ; he  had  rather  a stiff 
neck,  rather  a tight  smooth  head,  with  short 
hair  clinging  to  it  at  the  sides,  a soft  way  of 
speaking,  with  a peculiar  habit  of  whispering 
the  letter  S so  distinctly,  that  he  seemed  to  use 
it  oftener  than  any  other  man  ; but  every  pe- 
culiarity that  he  had  he  made  respectable.  If 
his  nose  had  been  upside-dcfwn,  he  would  have 
made  that’respectable.  He  surrounded  himself 
with  an  atmosphere  of  respectability,  and 
walked  secure  in  it.  It  would  have  been  next 
to  impossible  to  suspect  him  of  anything 
wrong,  he  was  so  thoroughly  respectable. 


RESERVE  AND  AFFECTATION 


397 


RESTAURANT 


Nobody  could  have  thought  of  putting  him  in 
a livery,  he  was  so  highly  respectable.  To 
have  imposed  any  derogatory  work  upon  him, 
would  have  been  to  inflict  a wanton  insult  on 
the  feelings  of  a most  respectable  man.  And 
of  this,  I noticed  the  women-servants_  in  the 
household  were  so  intuitively  conscious,  that 
they  always  did  such  work  themselves,  and  gen- 
erally while  he  read  the  paper  by  the  pantry 
fire. 

Such  a self-contained  man  I never  saw.  But 
in  that  quality,  as  in  every  other  he  possessed, 
he  only  seemed  to  be  the  more  respectable. 
Even  the  fact  that  no  one  knew  his  Christian 
name,  seemed  to  form  a part  of  his  respecta- 
bility. Nothing  could  be  objected  against  his 
surname,  Littimer,  by  which  he  was  known. 
Peter  might  have  been  hanged,  or  Tom  trans- 
ported ; but  Littimer  was  perfectly  respectable. 

David  Copperjield,  Chap.  21. 

RESERVE  AND  AFFECTATION. 

“Tottle,”  said  Mr.  Gabriel  Parsons,  “ you 
know  my  way — off-hand,  open,  say  what  I mean, 
mean  what  I say,  hate  reserve,  and  can’t  bear 
affectation.  One  is  a bad  domino,  which  only 
hides  what  good  people  have  about  ’em,  without 
making  the  bad  look  better ; and  the  other  is 
much  about  the  same  thing  as  pinking  a white 
cotton  stocking  to  make  it  look  like  a silk  one. 
Now  listen  to  what  I’m  going  to  say.” 

Tales , Chap.  10. 

RESENTMENT-Mr.  Buffle  and  the  Major. 

When  the  Major  glared  at  Mr.  Buffle  with 
those  meaning  words  my  dear  I literally  gasped 
for  a teaspoonful  of  salvolatile  in  a wineglass  of 
water,  and  I says,  “ Pray  let  it  go  no  further 
gentlemen  I beg  and  beseech  of  you  ! ” But 
the  Major  could  be  got  to  do  nothing  else  but 
snort  long  after  Mr.  Buffle  was  gone,  and  the 
effect  it  had  upon  my  whole  mass  of  blood  when 
on  the  next  day  of  Mr.  Buffle’s  rounds  the 
Major  spruced  himself  up  and  went  humming 
a tune  up  and  down  the  street  with  one  eye 
almost  obliterated’  by  his  hat  there  are  not  ex- 
pressions in  Johnson’s  Dictionary  to  state.  But 
I safely  put  the  street  door  on  the  jar  and  got 
behind  the  Major’s  blinds  with  my  shawl  on  and 
my  mind  made  up  the  moment  I saw  danger  to 
rush  out  screeching  till  my  voice  failed  me  and 
catch  the  Major  round  the  neck  till  my  strength 
went  and  have  all  parties  bound.  I had  not 
been  behind  the  blinds  a quarter  of  an  hour 
when  I saw  Mr.  Buffle  approaching  with  his  Col- 
lecting-books in  his  hand.  The  Major  likewise 
saw  him  approaching  and  hummed  louder  and 
himself  approached.  They  met  before  the  Airy 
railings.  The  Major  takes  off  his  hat  at  arm’s 
length  and  says  “Mr.  Buffle  I believe?”  Mr. 
Buffle  takes  off  his  hat  at  arm’s  length  and 
says  “That  is  my  name  sir.”  Says  the  Major 
“ Have  you  any  commands  for  me,  Mr.  Buffle?  ” 
Says  Mr.  Buffle  “ Not  any  sir.”  Then  my  dear 
both  of  ’em  bowed  very  low  and  haughty  and 
parted,  and  whenever  Mr.  Buffle  made  his  rounds 
in  future  him  and.  the  Major  always  met  and 
bowed  before  the  Airy  railings,  putting  me  much 
in  mind  of  Hamlet  and  the  other  gentleman  in 
mourning  before  killing  one  another,  though  I 
could  have  wished  the  other  gentleman  had 
done  it  fairer  and  even  if  less  polite  no  poison. 

Mrs.  Lin'iper3 s Legacy,  Chap.  1. 


REST— Tranquillity  of. 

It  was  dimly  pleasant  to  him  now,  to  lie 
there,  with  the  window  open,  looking  out  at  the 
summer  sky  and  the  trees  ; and,  in  the  evening, 
at  the  sunset.  To  watch  the  shadows  of  the 
clouds  and  leaves,  and  seem  to  feel  a sympathy 
with  shadows.  It  was  natural  that  he  should. 
To  him,  life  and  the  world  were  nothing  else. 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  61. 

RESTAURANT— The  question  of  refresh- 
ment. 

To  resume  the  consideration  of  the  curious 
question  of  refreshment.  I am  a Briton,  and,  as 
such,  I am  aware  that  I never  will  be  a slave,  — 
and  yet  I have  latent  suspicion  that  there  must 
be  some  slavery  of  wrong  custom  in  this  matter. 

I travel  by  railroad.  I start  from  home  at 
seven  or  eight  in  the  morning,  after  breakfast- 
ing hurriedly.  What  with  skimming  over  the 
open  landscape,  what  with  mining  in  the  damp 
bowels  of  the  earth,  what  with  banging,  boom- 
ing, and  shrieking  the  scores  of  miles  away,  I 
am  hungry  when  I arrive  at  the  “ Refreshment” 
station  where  I am  expected.  Please  to  observe, 
— expected.  I have  said  I am  hungry  ; perhaps 
I might  say,  with  greater  point  and  force,  that  I 
am  to  some  extent  exhausted,  and  that  I need 
— in  the  expressive  French  sense  of  the  word — • 
to  be  restored.  What  is  provided  for  my  res- 
toration ? The  apartment  that  is  to  restore  me 
is  a wind-trap,  cunningly  set  to  inveigle  all  the 
draughts  in  that  country-side,  and  to  communi- 
cate a special  intensity  and  velocity  to  them  as 
they  rotate  in  two  hurricanes, — one  about  my 
wretched  head,  one  about  my  wretched  legs. 
The  training  of  the  young  ladies  behind  the 
counter  who  are  to  restore  me  has  been  from 
their  infancy  directed  to  the  assumption  of  a de- 
fiant dramatic  show  that  I am  not  expected.  It 
is  in  vain  for  me  to  represent  to  them,  by  my 
humble  and  conciliatory  manners,  that  I wish  to 
be  liberal.  It  is  in  vain  for  me  to  represent  to 
myself,  for  the  encouragement  of  my  sinking 
soul,  that  the  young  ladies  have  a pecuniary 
interest  in  my  arrival.  Neither  my  reason  nor 
my  feelings  can  make  head  against  the  cold, 
glazed  glare  of  eye  with  which  I am  assured 
that  I am  not  expected,  and  not  wanted.  The 
solitary  man  among  the  bottles  would  sometimes 
take  pity  on  me,  if  he  dared,  but  he  is  powerless 
against  the  rights  and  mights  of  Woman.  (Of 
the  page  I make  no  account, 'for  he  is  a boy, 
and  therefore  the  natural  enemy  of  Creation.) 
Chilling  fast  in  the  deadly  tornadoes  to  which 
my  upper  and  lower  extremities  are  exposed, 
and  subdued  by  the  moral  disadvantage  at 
which  I stand,  I turn  my  disconsolate  eyes  on 
the  refreshments  that  are  to  restore  me.  I find 
that  I must  either  scald  my  throat  by  insanely 
ladling  into  it,  against  time  and  for  no  wager, 
brown  hot  water  stiffened  with  flour  ; or  I must 
make  myself  flaky  and  sick  with  Banbury  cake  ; 
or  I must  stuff  into  my  delicate  organization  a 
currant  pincushion  which  I know  will  swell  into 
immeasurable  dimensions  when  it  has  got  there  ; 
or  I must  extort  from  an  iron-bound  quarry, 
with  a fork,  as  if  I were  farming  an  inhospitable 
soil,  some  glutinous  lumps  of  gristle  and  grease 
called  pork-pie.  While  thus  forlornly  occupied, 
I find  that  the  depressing  banquet  on  the  table 
is,  in  every  phase  of  its  profoundly  unsatisfactory 
character,  so  like  the  banquet  at  the  meanest 


RESTAURANT 


398 


RETRIBUTION 


and  shabbiest  of  evening  parties,  that  I begin 
to  think  I must  have  “ brought  down  ” to  supper 
the  old  lady  unknown,  blue  with  cold,  who  is 
setting  her  teeth  on  edge  with  a cool  orange  at 
my  elbow  ; that  the  pastry-cook  who  has  com- 
pounded for  the  company  on  the  lowest  terms 
per  head  is  a fraudulent  bankrupt,  redeeming  his 
contract  with  the  stale  stock  from  his  window  ; 
that,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  the  family 
giving  the  party  have  become  my  mortal  foes, 
and  have  given  it  on  purpose  to  affront  me. 
Or  I fancy  that  I am  “breaking  up”  again  at 
the  evening  conversazione  at  school,  charged 
two  and  sixpence  in  the  half-year’s  bill  ; or 
breaking  down  again  at  that  celebrated  evening 
party  given  at  Mrs.  Bogles’s  boarding-house 
when  I was  a boarder  there,  on  which  occasion 
Mrs.  Bogles  was  taken  in  execution  by  a branch 
of  the  legal  profession  who  got  in  as  the  harp, 
and  was  removed  (with  the  keys  and  subscribed 
capital)  to  a place  of  durance,  half  an  hour  prior 
to  the  commencemenUof  the  festivities. 

* * * jK  * 

He  beheld  nothing  to  eat  but  butter  in  vari- 
ous forms,  slightly  charged  with  jam,  and  lan- 
guidly frizzling  over  tepid  water.  Two  ancient 
turtle-shells,  on  which  was  inscribed  the  legend, 
“ Soups,”  decorated  a glass  partition  within, 
enclosing  a stuffy  alcove,  from  which  a ghastly 
mockery  of  a marriage-breakfast,  spread  on  a 
rickety  table,  warned  the  terrified  traveller.  An 
oblong  box  of  stale  and  broken  pastry  at  re- 
duced prices,  mounted  on  a stool,  ornamented 
the  doorway  ; and  two  high  chairs,  that  looked 
as  if  they  were  performing  on  stilts,  embellished 
the  counter.  Over  the  whole  a young  lady  pre- 
sided, whose  gloomy  haughtiness  as  she  surveyed 
the  street  announced  a deep-seated  grievance 
against  society,  and  an  implacable  determina- 
tion to  be  avenged.  From  a beetle-haunted 
kitchen  below  this  institution,  fumes  arose,  sug- 
gestive of  a class  of  soup  which  Mr.  Grazing- 
lands  knew,  from  painful  experience,  enfeebles 
the  mind,  distends  the  stomach,  forces  itself  into 
the  complexion,  and  tries  to  ooze  out  at  the 
eyes.  As  he  decided  against  entering,  and 
turned  away,  Mrs.  Grazingiands,  becoming  per- 
ceptibly weaker,  repeated,  “ I am  rather  faint, 
Alexander,  but  don’t  mind  me.”  Urged  to 
new  efforts  by  these  words  of  resignation,  Mr. 
Grazingiands  looked  in  at  a cold  and  floury 
baker’s  shop,  where  utilitarian  buns,  unrelieved 
by  a currant,  consorted  with  hard  biscuits,  a 
stone  filter  of  cold  water,  a hard  pale  clock,  and 
a hard  little  old  woman,  with  flaxen  hair,  of  an 
undeveloped-farinaceous  aspect,  as  if  she  had 
been  fed  upon  seeds. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  6. 

RESTAURANT  -A  French. 

“ On.  my  experience  south  of  Paris,”  said  Our 
Missis,  in  a deep  tone,  “ I will  not  expatiate, 
'loo  loathsome  were  the  task  ! But  fancy  this. 
Fancy  a guard  coming  round,  with  the  train  at 
full  speed,  to  inquire  how  many  for  dinner. 
Fancy  his  telegraphing  forward  the  number  of 
diners.  Fancy  every  one  expected,  and  the  ta- 
ble elegantly  laid  for  the  complete  party.  Fan- 
cy a charming  dinner,  in  a charming  room,  and 
the  head-cook,  concerned  for  the  honor  of  every 
<li-.li,  superintending  in  his  clean  white  jacket 
and  cap.  Fancy  the  Beast  travelling  six  hun- 
dred miles  on  end,  very  fast,,  and  with  great 


punctuality,  yet  being  taught  to  expect  all  this 
to  be  done  for  it  I ” 

A spirited  chorus  of  “ The  Beast !” 

I noticed  that  Sniff  was  agin  a rubbing  his 
stomach  with  a soothing  hand,  and  that  he  had 
drored  up  one  leg.  But  agin  I didn’t  take  par- 
ticular notice,  looking  on  myself  as  called  upon 
to  stimilate  public  feeling.  It  being  a lark  be- 
sides. 

“ Putting  everything  together,”  said  Our  Mis- 
sis, “ French  Refreshmen  ting  comes  to  this,  and 
O,  it  comes  to  a nice  total!  First:  eatable 
things  to  eat,  and  drinkable  things  to  drink.” 

A groan  from  the  young  ladies,  kep’  up  by  me. 

“ Second  : convenience,  and  even  elegance.” 

Another  groan  from  the  young  ladies,  kep’  up 
by  me. 

“ Third  : moderate  charges.” 

This  time  a groan  from  me,  kep’  up  by  the 
young  ladies. 

“Fourth: — and  here,”  says  Our  Missis,  “I 
claim  your  angriest  sympathy — attention,  com- 
mon civility,  nay,  even  politeness  ! ” 

Me  and  the  young  ladies  regularly  raging  mad 
all  together. 

“ And  I cannot  in  conclusion,”  says  Our  Missis, 
with  her  spitefullest  sneer,  “ give  you  a com- 
pleter pictur  of  that  despicable  nation  (after 
what  I have  related),  than  assuring  you  that  they 
wouldn’t  bear  our  constitutional  ways  and  noble 
independence  at  Mugby  Junction  for  a single 
month,  and  that  they  would  turn  us  to  the  right 
about  and  put  another  system  in  our  places,  as 
soon  as  look  at  us  ; perhaps  sooner,  for  I do  not 
believe  they  have  the  good  taste  to  care  to  look 
at  us  twice.” — Boy  at  Mugby. 

RESTAURANT  -A. 

I dined  at  what  Herbert  and  I used  to  call  a 
Geographical  chop-house — where  there  were 
maps  of  the  world  in  porter-pot  rims  on  every 
half-yard  of  the  tablecloths,  and  charts  of  gravy 
on  every  one  of  the  knives — to  this  day  there  is 
scarcely  a single  chop-house  within  the  Lord 
Mayor’s  dominions  which  is  not  Geographical — 
and  wore  out  the  time  in  dozing  over  crumbs, 
staring  at  gas,  and  baking  in  a hot  blast  of 
dinners. — Great  Expectations,  Chap.  47. 

RETRIBUTION. 

“ It  is  a long  time,”  repeated  his  wife  ; “ and 
when  is  it  not  a long  time  ? Vengeance  and 
retribution  require  a long  time  : it  is  the  rule.” 

“ It  does  not  take  a long  time  to  strike  a man 
with  Lightning,”  said  Defarge. 

“ How  long,”  demanded  madame,  composedly, 
“ does  it  take  to  make  and  store  the  lightning? 
Tell  me?  ” 

Defarge  raised  his  head  thoughtfully,  as  if 
there  were  something  in  that,  too. 

“ It  does  not  take  a long  time,”  said  madame, 
“ for  an  earthquake  to  swallow  a town.  Eh, 
well  ! Tell  me  how  long  it  takes  to  prepare  the 
earthquake  ? ” 

“ A long  time,  I suppose,”  said  Defarge. 

“ But  when  it  is  ready,  it  takes  place,  and 
grinds  to  pieces  everything  before  it.  In  the 
mean  time,  it  is  always  preparing,  though  it  is 
not  seen  or  heard.  That  is  your  consolation. 
Keep  it.” 

She  tied  a knot  with  flashing  eyes,  as  if  it 
throttled  a foe. 

“ I tell  thee,”  said  madame,  extending  her 


RETICENCE 


REVOLUTION 


right  hand,  for  emphasis,  “ that  although  it  is  a 
long  time  on  the  road,  it  is  on  the  road  and  com- 
ing. I tell  thee  it  never  retreats,  and  never  stops. 
I tell  thee  it  is  always  advancing.  Look  around 
and  consider  the  lives  of  all  the  world  that  we 
know,  consider  the  faces  of  all  the  world  that  we 
know,  consider  the  rage  and  discontent  to 
which  the  Jacquerie  addresses  itself  with  more 
and  more  of  certainty  every  hour.  Can  such 
things  last  ? Bah  ! I mock  you.” 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  16. 

RETICENCE-Of  Mr.  Chivery. 

He  locked  himself  up  as  carefully  as  he  locked 
up  the  Marshalsea  debtors.  Even  his  custom 
of  bolting  his  meals  may  have  been  a part  of  an 
uniform  whole  ; but  there  is  no  question,  that, 
as  to  all  other  purposes,  he  kept  his  mouth  as  he 
kept  the  Marshalsea  door.  He  never  opened  it 
without  occasion.  When  it  was  necessary  to  let 
anything  out,  he  opened  it  a little  way,  held  it 
open  just  as  long  as  sufficed  for  the  purpose, 
and  locked  it  again.  Even  as  he  would  be  spar- 
ing of  his  trouble  at  the  Marshalsea  door,  and 
would  keep  a visitor  who  wanted  to  go  out, 
waiting  for  a few  moments  if  he  saw  another 
visitor  coming  down  the  yard,  so  that  one  turn 
of  the  key  should  suffice  for  both,  similarly  he 
would  often  reserve  a remark  if  he  perceived 
another  on  its  way  to  his  lips,  and  would  deliver 
himself  of  the  two  together.  As  to  any  key  to 
his  inner  knowledge  being  to  be  found  in  his 
face,  the  Marshalsea  key  was  as  legible  an  index 
to  the  individual  characters  and  histories  upon 
which  it  was  turned. 

Little  Dorr it , Book  /.,  Chap.  25. 

RETICENCE-Of  Mrs.  General. 

“My  goodness  me,  Amy,”  returned  Fanny, 
“ is  she  the  sort  of  woman  to  say  anything  ? 
Isn’t  it  perfectly  plain  and  clear  that  she  has 
nothing  to  do,  at  present,  but  to  hold  herself  up- 
right, keep  her  aggravating  gloves  on,  and  go 
sweeping  about?  Say  anything!  If  she  had 
the  ace  of  trumps  in  her  hand,  at  whist,  she 
wouldn’t  say  anything,  child.  It  would  come 
out  when  she  played  it.” 

Little  Dorr  it , Book  II.,  Chap.  7. 

REVOLUTION— Before  the  French. 

It  was  the  best  of  times,  it  was  the  worst  of 
times,  it  was  the  age  of  wisdom,  it  was  the  age 
of  foolishness,  it  was  the  epoch  of  belief,  it 
was  the  epoch  of  incredulity,  it  was  the  season 
of  Light,  it  was  the  season  of  Darkness,  it  was 
the  spring  of  hope,  it  was  the  winter  of  despair, 
we  had  everything  before  us,  we  had  nothing 
before  us,  we  were  all  going  direct  to  Heaven, 
we  were  all  going  direct  the  other  way — in  short, 
the  period  was  so  far  like  the  present  period, 
that  some  of  its  noisiest  authorities  insisted  on 
its  being  received,  for  good  or  for  evil,  in  the 
superlative  degree  of  comparison  only. 

There  were  a king  with  a large  jaw  and  a 
queen  with  a plain  face,  on  the  throne  of  Eng- 
gland  ; there  were  a king  with  a large  jaw  and  a 
queen  with  a fair  face,  on  the  throne  of  France. 
In  both  countries  it  was  clearer  than  crystal  to 
the  lords  of  the  State  preserves  of  loaves  and 
fishes,  that  things  in  general  were  settled  for 
ever. 

It  was  the  year  of  Our  Lord  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five. 


France,  less  favored  on  the  whole  as  to  mat- 
ters spiritual  than  her  sister  of  the  shield  and 
trident,  rolled  with  exceeding  smoothness  down- 
hill, making  paper  money  and  spending  it.  Un- 
der the  guidance  of  her  Christian  pastors,  she 
entertained  herself,  besides,  with  such  humane 
achievements  as  sentencing  a youth  to  have  his 
hands  cut  off,  his  tongue  torn  out  with  pincers, 
and  his  body  burned  alive,  because  he  had  not 
kneeled  down  in  the  rain  to  do  honor  to  a dirty 
procession  of  monks  which  passed  within  his 
view  at  a distance  of  some  fifty  or  sixty  yards. 
It  is  likely  enough  that,  rooted  in  the  woods  of 
France  and  Norway,  there  were  growing  trees, 
when  that  sufferer  was  put  to  death,  already 
marked  by  the  Woodman,  Fate,  to  come  down 
and  be  sawn  into  boards,  to  make  a certain 
movable  framework  with  a sack  and  a knife  in 
it,  terrible  in  history.  It  is  likely  enough  that 
in  the  rough  outhouses  of  some  tillers  of  the 
heavy  lands  adjacent  to  Paris,  there  were  shel- 
tered from  the  weather  that  very  day,  rude 
carts,  bespattered  with  rustic  mire,  snuffed 
about  by  pigs,  and  roosted  in  by  poultry,  which 
the  Farmer,  Death,  had  already  set  apart  to  be 
his  tumbrils  of  the  Revolution.  But,  that 
Woodman  and  that  Farmer,  though  they  work 
unceasingly,  work  silently,  and  no  one  heard 
them  as  they  went  about  with  muffled  tread  : 
the  rather,  forasmuch  as  to  entertain  any  sus- 
picion that  they  were  awake,  was  to  be  atheis- 
tical and  traitorous. 

In  England,  there  was  scarcely  an  amount  of 
order  and  protection  to  justify  much  national 
boasting.  Daring  burglaries-  by  armed  men, 
and  highway  robberies,  took  place  in  the  capi- 
tal itself  every  night ; families  were  publicly 
cautioned  not  to  go  out  of  town  without  re- 
moving their  furniture  to  upholsterers’warehouses 
for  security  ; the  highwayman  in  the  dark  was 
a City  tradesman  in  the  light,  and,  being 
recognized  and  challenged  by  his  fellow-trades- 
man whom  he  stopped  in  his  character  of  “ the 
Captain,”  gallantly  shot  him  through  the  head 
and  rode  away  ; the  mail  was  waylaid  by  seven 
robbers,  and  the  guard  shot  three  dead,  and 
then  got  shot  dead  himself  by  the  other  four, 
“ in  consequence  of  the  failure  of  his  ammuni- 
tion after  which  the  mail  was  robbed  in 
peace ; that  magnificent  potentate,  the  Lord 
Mayor  of  London,  was  made  to  stand  and  de- 
liver on  Turnham  Green,  by  one  highwayman, 
who  despoiled  the  illustrious  creature  in  sight  of 
all  his  retinue ; prisoners  in  London  gaols 
fought  battles  with  their  turnkeys,  and  the  ma- 
jesty of  the  law  fired  blunderbusses  in  among 
them,  loaded  with  rounds  of  shot  and  ball ; 
thieves  snipped  off  diamond  crosses  from  the 
necks  of  noble  lords  at  Court  drawing-rooms  ; 
musketeers  went  into  St.  Giles’s,  to  search  for 
'contraband  goods,  and  the  mob  fired  on  the 
musketeers,  and  the  musketeers  fired  on  the 
mob,  and  nobody  thought  any  of  these  occur- 
rences much  out  of  the  common  way.  In 
the  midst  of  them,  the  hangman,  ever  busy 
and  ever  worse  than  useless,  was  in  constant 
requisition  ; now,  stringing  up  long  rows  of 
miscellaneous  criminals  ; now,  hanging  a house- 
breaker on  Saturday  who  had  been  taken  on 
Tuesday  ; now,  burning  people  in  the  hand  at 
Newgate  by  the  dozen,  and  now  burning 
pamphlets  at  the  door  of  Westminster  Hall  ; 
to-day,  taking  the  life  of  an  atrocious  murder- 


REVOLUTION  400  REVOLUTION 


er,  and  to-morrow  of  a wretched  pilferer  who 
had  robbed  a farmer’s  boy  of  sixpence. 

All  these  things,  and  a thousand  like  them, 
came  to  pass  in  and  close  upon  the  dear  old  year 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  seventy-five. 
Environed  by  them,  while  the  Woodman  and 
the  Farmer  worked  unheeded,  those  two  of 
the  large  jaws,  and  those  other  two  of  the 
plain  and  the  fair  faces,  trod  with  stir  enough 
and  carried  their  divine  rights  with  a high 
hand.  Thus  did  the  year  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  seventy-five  conduct  their  Great- 
nesses, and  myriads  of  small  creatures — the 
creatures  of  this  chronicle  among  the  rest — 
along  the  roads  that  lay  before  them. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  I. 

REVOLUTION— Scenes  in  the  French. 

“ Patriots  ! ” said  Defarge,  in  a determined 
voice,  “ are  we  ready  ? ” 

Instantly  Madame  Defarge’s  knife  was  in  her 
girdle  ; the  drum  was  beating  in  the  streets,  as  if 
it  and  a drummer  had  flown  together  by  magic  ; 
and  The  Vengeance,  uttering  terrific  shrieks, 
and  flinging  her  arms  about  her  head  like  all 
the  forty  Furies  at  once,  was  tearing  from  house 
to  house,  rousing  the  women. 

The  men  were  terrible,  in  the  bloody-minded 
anger  with  which  they  looked  from  windows, 
caught  up  what  arms  they  had,  and  came  pour- 
ing down  into  the  streets  ; but  the  women  were 
a sight  to  chill  the  boldest.  From  such  house- 
hold occupations  as  their  bare  poverty  yielded, 
from  their  children,  from  their  aged  and  their 
sick,  crouching  on  the  bare  ground  famished  and 
naked,  they  ran  out  with  streaming  hair,  urging 
one  another,  and  themselves,  to  madness,  with 
the  wildest  cries  and  actions.  Villain  Foulon 
taken,  my  sister!  Old  Foulon  taken,  my 
mother  ! Miscreant  Foulon  taken,  my  daugh- 
ter ! Then,  a score  of  others  ran  into  the  midst 
of  these,  beating  their  breasts,  tearing  their  hair, 
and  screaming,  Foulon  alive  ! Foulon,  who 
told  the  starving  people  they  might  eat  grass  ! 
Foulon,  who  told  my  old  father  that  he  might  eat 
grass,  when  I had  no  bread  to  give  him  ! Foulon, 
who  told  my  baby  it  might  suck  grass,  when  these 
breasts  were  dry  with  want  ! O mother  of  God, 
this  Foulon  ! O Heaven,  our  suffering  ! Hear 
me,  my  dead  baby  and  my  withered  father  ; I 
swear  on  my  knees,  on  these  stones,  to  avenge 
you  on  Foulon  ! Husbands,  and  brothers,  and 
young  men,  Give  us  the  blood  of  Foulon,  Give 
us  the  head  of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  heart  of 
Foulon,  Give  us  the  body  and  soul  of  Foulon. 
Rend  Foulon  to  pieces,  and  dig  him  into  the 
ground,  that  grass  may  grow  from  him  ! With 
these  cries,  numbers  of  the  women,  lashed  into 
blind  frenzy,  whirled  about,  striking  and  tear- 
ing at  their  own  friends  until  they  dropped  into 
a passionate  swoon,  and  were  only  saved  by  the 
men  belonging  to  them  from  being  trampled 
under  foot. 

Nevertheless,  not  a moment  was  lost ; not  a 
moment  ! This  Foulon  was  at  the  Hotel  de 
Ville,  and  might  be  loosed.  Never,  if  Saint 
\ ntoine  knew  his  ow  n i uffei  ings,  insults,  and 
wrongs ! Armed  men  and  women  flocked  out 
of  the  Quarter  so  fast,  and  drew  even  these  last 
dregs  after  them  with  such  a force  of  suction, 
that  within  a quarter  of  an  hour  there  was  not 
a human  creature  in  Saint  Antoine’s  bosom  but 
a few  old  crones  and  the  wailing  children. 


No.  They  were  all  by  that  time  choking 
the  Hall  of  examination  where  this  old  man, 
ugly  and  wicked,  was,  and  overflowing  into  the 
adjacent  open  space  and  streets.  The  Defarges, 
husband  and  wife,  The  Vengeance,  and  Jacques 
Three,  were  in  the  first  press,  and  at  no  great 
distance  from  him  in  the  Hall. 

“See!”  cried  madame,  pointing  with  her 
knife.  “ See  the  old  villain  bound  with  ropes. 
That  was  well  done  to  tie  a bunch  of  grass  upon 
his  back.  Ha,  ha!  That  was  well  done.  Let 
him  eat  it,  now!”  Madame  put  her  knife 
under  her  arm,  and  clapped  her  hands  as  at  a 

play. 

I he  people  immediately  behind  Madame  De- 
farge, explaining  the  cause  of  her  satisfaction  to 
those  behind  them,  and  those  again  explaining 
to  others,  and  those  to  others,  the  neighboring 
streets  resounded  with  the  clapping  of  hands. 
Similarly,  during  two  or  three  hours  of  drawl, 
and  the  winnowing  of  many  bushels  of  words, 
Madame  Defarge’s  frequent  expressions  of  im- 
patience were  taken  up,  with  marvellous  quick- 
ness, at  a distance : the  more  readily,  because 
certain  men  who  had  by  some  wonderful  exer- 
cise of  agility  climbed  up  the  external  archi- 
tecture to  look  in  from  the  windows,  knew 
Madame  Defarge  well,  and  acted  as  a telegraph 
between  her  and  the  crowd  outside  the  build- 
ing- 

At  length,  the  sun  rose  so  high  that  it  struck 
a kindly  ray,  as  of  hope  or  protection,  directly 
down  upon  the  old  prisoner’s  head.  The  favor 
was  too  much  to  bear  ; in  an  instant  the  barrier 
of  dust  and  chaff  that  had  stood  surprisingly 
long,  went  to  the  winds,  and  Saint  Antoine  had 
got  him  ! 

It  was  known  directly,  to  the  furthest  confines 
of  the  crowd.  Defarge  had  sprung  over  a rail- 
ing and  a table,  and  folded  the  miserable  wretch 
in  a deadly  embrace — Madame  Defarge  had  but 
followed  and  turned  her  hand  in  one  of  the 
ropes  with  which  he  was  tied — The  Vengeance 
and  Jacques  Three  were  not  yet  up  with  them, 
and  the  men  at  the  windows  had  not  yet  swooped 
into  the  Hall,  like  birds  of  prey  from  their  high 
perches — when  the  cry  seemed  to  go  up,  all  over 
the  city,  “ Bring  him  out ! Bring  him  to-  the 
lamp  ! ” 

Down,  and  up,  and  head  foremost  on  the  steps 
of  the  building  ; now,  on  his  knees  ; now,  on  his 
feet ; now,  on  his  back  ; dragged,  and  struck  at 
and  stifled  by  the  bunches  of  grass  and  btraw 
that  were  thrust  into  his  face  by  hundreds  of 
hands  ; torn,  bruised,  panting,  bleeding,  yet  al- 
ways entreating  and  beseeching  for  mercy  ; now 
full  of  vehement  agony  of  action,  with  a small 
clear  space  about  him  as  the  people  drew  one 
another  back  that  they  might  see  ; now,  a log 
of  dead  wood  drawn  through  a forest  of  legs ; 
he  was  hauled  to  the  nearest  street  corner,  where 
one  of  the  fatal  lamps  swung,  and  there  Madame 
Defarge  let  him  go — as  a cat  might  have  done 
to  a mouse — and  silently  and  composedly  looked 
at  him  while  they  made  ready,  and  while  he  be- 
sought her  : the  women  passionately  screeching 
at  him  all  the  time,  and  the  men  sternly  calling 
out  to  have  him  killed  with  grass  in  his  mouth. 
Once,  he  went  aloft,  and  the  rope  broke,  and 
they  caught  him  shrieking ; twice,  he  went 
aloft,  and  the  rope  broke,  and  they  caught  him 
shrieking  ; then,  the  rope  was  merciful  and  held 
him,  and  his  head  was  soon  upon  a pike,  with 


REVOLUTION 


401 


RICH  MAN 


•grass  enough  in  the  mouth  for  all  Saint  Antoine 
to  dance  at  the  sight  of. 

Tale  of  Tzvo  Cities , Chap.  22. 

REVOLUTION— The  mobs  of  the  French. 

In  the  howling  universe  of  passion  and  con- 
tention that  seemed  to  encompass  this  grim  old 
officer,  conspicuous  in  his  gray  coat  and  red 
decoration,  there  was  but  one  quite  steady  figure, 
and  that  was  a woman’s.  “ See,  there  is  my  hus- 
band ! ” she  cried,  pointing  him  out.  “ See  De- 
Large  ! ” She  stood  immovable  close  to  the  grim 
old  officer,  and  remained  immovable  close  to 
[him  ; remained  immovable  close  to  him  through 
the  streets,  as  Defarge  and  the  rest  bore  him 
along  ; remained  immovable  close  to  him  when 
fie  was  got  near  his  destination,  and  began  to  be 
struck  at  from  behind  ; remained  immovable 
Iclose  to  him  when  the  long-gathering  rain  of  stabs 
and  blows  fell  heavy  ; was  so  close  to  him  when 
he  dropped  dead  under  it,  that,  suddenly  ani- 
mated, she  put  her  foot  upon  his  neck,  and  with 
her  cruel  knife— long  ready— hewed  off  his 
■lead. 

The  hour  was  come,  when  Saint  Antoine  was 
.0  execute  his  horrible  idea  of  hoisting  up  men 
lor  lamps  to  show  what  he  could  be  and  do. 
Saint  Antoine’s  blood  was  up,  and  the  blood  of 
yranny  and  domination  by  the  iron  hand  was 
lown— down  on  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville, 
fhere  the  governor’s  body  lay— down  on  the  sole 
>f  the  shoe  of  Madame  Defarge  where  she  had 
rodden  on  the  body  to  steady  it  for  mutilation. 
Lower  the  lamp  yonder  ! ” cried  Saint  Antoine, 
fter  glaring  round  for  a new  means  of  death  ; 
here  is  one  of  his  soldiers  to  be  left  on  guard  ! 

"he  swinging  sentinel  was  posted,  and  the  sea 
ushed  on. 

The  sea  of  black  and  threatening  waters,  and 
f destructive  upheaving  of  wave  against  wave, 
ffiose  depths  were  yet  unfathomed,  and  whose 
prces  were  yet  unknown.  The  remorseless  sea 
f turbulently  swaying  shapes,  voices  of  ven- 
eance,  and  faces  hardened  in  the  furnaces  of  suf- 
;ring  until  the  touch  of  pity  could  make  no 
ftark  on  them. 

Lut,  in  the  ocean  of  faces,  where  every  fierce 
id  furious  expression  was  in  vivid  life,  there 
ere  two  groups  of  faces — each  seven  in  number 
,-so  fixedly  contrasting  with  the  rest,  that  never 
d sea  roll  which  bore  more  memorable  wrecks 
ith  it.  Seven  faces  of  prisoners,  suddenly  re- 
ased  by  the  storm  that  had  burst  their  tomb, 
ere  carried  high  overhead  ; all  scared,  all  lost, 

\ wondering  and  amazed,  as  if  the  Last  Day 
ere  come,  and  those  who  rejoiced  around  them 
ere  lost  spirits.  Other  seven  faces  there  were, 
rried  higher,  seven  dead  faces,  whose  drooping 
elids  and  half- seen  eyes  awaited  the  Last  Day. 
^passive  faces,  yet  with  a suspended — not  an 
•olished— expression  on  them  ; faces,  rather,  in 
.earful  pause,  as  having  yet  to  raise  the  dropped 
jls  °f  Lie  eyes,  and  bear  witness  with  the 
[.podless  lips,  “ Thou  didst  it  !” 

Seven  prisoners  released,  seven  gory  heads  on 
. kes,  the  keys  of  the  accursed  fortress  of  the 
|'pt  strong  towers,  some  discovered  letters  and 
her  memorials  of  prisoners  of  old  time — long 
! ad  of  broken  hearts — such,  and  such  like,  the 
Uidly-echoing  footsteps  of  Saint  Antoine  escort 
j ough  the  Paris  streets  in  mid-July,  one  thou- 
id  seven  hundred  and  eighty-nine. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  21. 


REVOLUTION— The  knitting-  women  of 
the  French. 

In  the  evening,  at  which  season  of  all  others, 
Saint  Antoine  turned  himself  inside  out,  and 
sat  on  door-steps  and  window-ledges,  and  came 
to  the  corners  of  vile  streets  and  courts  for  a 
breath  of  air,  Madame  Defarge,  with  her  work 
in  her  hand,  was  accustomed  to  pass  from  place 
to  place  and  from  group  to  group  ; a Mission- 
ary—there  were  many  like  her— such  as  the 
world  will  do  well  never  to  breed  again.  All 
the  women  knitted.  They  knitted  worthless 
things  ; but  the  mechanical  work  was  a mechani- 
cal substitute  for  eating  and  drinking  ; the  hands 
moved  for  the  jaws  and  the  digestive  appara- 
tus ; if  the  bony  fingers  had  been  still,  the 
stomachs  would  have  been  more  famine-pinched. 

But,  as  the  fingers  went,  the  eyes  went,  and 
the  thoughts.  And  as  Madame  Defarge  moved  on 
from  group  to  group,  all  three  went  quicker  and 
fiercer  among  every  little  knot  of  women  that 
she  had  spoken  with,  and  left  behind. 

Pier  husband  smoked  at  his  door,  looking 
after  her  with  admiration.  “ A great  woman,” 
said  he,  ‘ a strong  woman,  a grand  woman,  a 
frightfully  grand  woman  ! ” 

Darkness  closed  around,  and  then  came  the 
ringing  of  church  bells  and  the  distant  beating 
of  the  military  drums  in  the  Palace  Court- Yard^ 
as  the  women  sat  knitting,  knitting.  Darkness 
encompassed  them.  Another  darkness  was 
closing  in  as  surely,  when  the  church  bells, 
then  linging  pleasantly  in  many  an  airy  steeple 
over  France,  should  be  melted  into  thundering 
cannou  ; when  the  military  drums  should  be 

beating  to  drown  a wretched  voice,  that  night  all 
potent  as  the  voice  of  Power  and  Plenty,  Free- 
dom and  Life.  So  much  was  closing  in  about 
the  women  who  sat  knitting,  knitting,  that  they 
their  very  selves  were  closing  in  around  a struc- 
ture yet  unbuilt,  where  they  were  to  sit  knitting, 
knitting,  counting  dropping  heads. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  16. 

RHEUMATISM  vs.  TOMBATISM. 

“ How  are  you,  Durdles  ? ” 

“I’ve  got  a touch  of  the  Tombatism  on  me, 
Mr.  Jasper,  but  that  I must  expect.” 

“You  mean  the  Rheumatism,”  says  Sapsea, 
m a sharp  tone.  (He  is  nettled  by  having  his 
composition  so  mechanically  received.) 

“ N°>  I don’t.  I mean,  Mr.  Sapsea,  the  Tomb- 
atism. It  s another  sort  from  Rheumatism. 
Mr.  Jasper  knows  what  Durdles  means.  You 
get  among  them  Tombs  afore  it’s  well  light  on 
a winter  morning,  and  keep  on,  as  the  Catechism 
says,  a walking  in  the  same  all  the  days  of  your 
life,  and  you  ’ll  know  what  Durdles  means.” 

.“  It  is  a bitter  cold  place,”  Mr.  Jasper  assents, 
with  an  antipathetic  shiver. 

“ And  if  it’s  bitter  cold  for  you,  up  in  the 
chancel,  with  a lot  of  live  breath  smoking  out 
about  you,  what  the  bitterness  is  to  Durdles, 
down  in  the  crypt  among  the  earthy  damps 
there,  and  the  dead  breath  of  the  old  ’uns,”  re- 
turns that  individual,  “ Durdles  leaves  you  to 
judge.” — Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  4. 

RICH  MAN— His  importance. 

1 he  famous  name  of  Merdle  became,  every 
day,  more  famous  in  the  land.  Nobody  knew 
that  the  Merdle  of  such  high  renown  had  ever 
done  any  good  to  any  one,  alive  or  dead,  or  to 


RICH  MAN 


402 


RIDE 


any  earthly  thing  ; nobody  knew  that  he  had  any 
capacity  or  utterance  of  any  sort  in  him,  which 
had  ever  thrown,  for  any  creature,  the  feeblest 
farthing-candle  ray  of  light  on  any  path  of  duty 
or  diversion,  pain  or  pleasure,  toil  or  rest,  fact  or 
fancy,  among  the  multiplicity  of  paths  in  the 
labyrinth  trodden  by  the  sons  of  Adam  ; nobody 
had  the  smallest  reason  for  supposing  the  clay 
of  which  this  object  of  worship  was  made,  to 
be  other  than  the  commonest  clay,  with  as  clog- 
ged a wick  smouldering  inside  of  it  as  ever  kept 
an  image  of  humanity  from  tumbling  to  pieces. 
All  people  knew  (or  thought  they  knew)  that  he 
had  made  himself  immensely  rich  ; and  for  that 
reason  alone,  prostrated  themselves  before  him, 
more  degradedly  and  less  excusably  than  the 
darkest  savage  creeps  out  of  his  hole  in  the 
ground  to  propitiate,  in  some  log  or  reptile,  the 
Deity  of  his  benighted  soul. 

Nay,  the  high  priest  of  this  worship  had  the 
man  before  them  as  a protest  against  their  mean- 
ness. The  multitude  worshipped  on  trust— 
though  always  distinctly  knowing  why— but  the 
officiators  at  the  altar  had  the  man  habitually  in 
their  view.  They  sat  at  his  feasts,  and  he  sat 
at  theirs.  There  was  a spectre  always  attendant 
on  him,  saying  to  these  high  priests,  “ Are  such 
the  signs  you  trust,  and  love  to  honor  ; this  head, 
these&eyes,  this  mode  of  speech,  the  tone  and 
manner  of  this  man?  You  are  the  levers  of  the 
Circumlocution  Office,  and  the  rulers  of  men. 
When  half-a-dozen  of  you  fall  out  by  the  ears, 
it  seems  that  mother  earth  can  give  birth  to  no 
other  rulers.  Does  your  qualification  lie  in  the 
superior  knowledge  of  men,  which  accepts, 
courts,  and  puffs  this  man?  Or,  if  you  are 
competent  to  judge  aright  the  signs  I never  fail 
to  show  you  when  he  appears  among  you,  is 
your  superior  honesty  your  qualification  ? i wo 
rather  ugly  questions  these,  always  going  about 
town -with  Mr.  Merdle  ; and  there  was  a tacit 
agreement  that  they  must  be  stifled. 

Little  Dornt,  Book  II.,  Chap.  12. 


RICH  MAN— The  world’s  tribute  to  the. 

Commotion  in  the  office  of  the  hotel.  Mer- 
dle ! The  landlord,  though  a gentleman  of  a 
haughty  spirit,  who  had  just  driven  a pair  of 
thorough-bred  horses  into  town,  turned  out  to 
show  him  up-stairs.  The  clerks  and  servants 
cut  him  off  by  back-passages,  and  were  found 
accidentally  hovering  in  doorways  and  angles, 
that  they  might  look  upon  him.  Merdle . O 
ye  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  great  man  ! The 
rich  man,  who  had  in  a manner  revised  the  New 
Testament,  and  already  entered  into  the  king- 
dom of  Heaven.  The  man  who  could  have 
any  one  he  chose  to  dine  with  him,  and  who 
had  made  the  money  ! As  he  went  up  the 

Lii  people  were  already  posted  on  the  lower 
stairs,  that  his  shadow  might  fall  upon  them 

n he  - dow  n.  So  were  the  sick  brought 

out  and  laid  in  the  track  of  the  Apostle— who  had 
not  got  into  the  good  society,  and  had  not  made 
the  money.— Little  Dorrit , Book  II,  Chap.  16. 


might  not  be  a temporary  difficulty  in  “realizing* 
it ; whether  there  might  not  even  be  a temporary 
suspension  (say  a month  or  so)  on  the  part  of 
the  wonderful  Bank.  As  the  whispers  became 
louder,  which  they  did  from  that  time  every 
minute,  they  became  more  threatening.  lie 
had  sprung  from  nothing,  by  no  natural  growth 
or  process  that  any  one  could  account  for  ; he 
had  been,  after  all,  a low,  ignorant  fellow;  htl 
had  been  a down-looking  man,  and  no  one  had 
ever  been  able  to  catch  his  eye  ; he  had  been 
taken  up  by  all  sorts  of  people,  in  quite  an  un- 
accountable manner  ; he  had  never  had  any 
money  of  his  own  ; his  ventures  had  been  ut- 
terly reckless,  and  his  expenditure  had  been, 
most  enormous.  In  steady  progression,  as  the 
day  declined,  the  talk  rose  in  sound  and  pur- 
pose. He  had  left  a letter  at  the  Baths  ad- 
dressed to  his  physician,  and  his  physician  had 
got  the  letter,  and  the  letter  would  be  produced 
at  the  Inquest  on  the  morrow,  and  it  would  fall 
like  a thunderbolt  upon  the  multitude  he  had 
deluded.  Numbers  of  men  in  every  profession 
and  trade  would  be  blighted  by  his  insolvency : 
old  people  who  had  been  in  easy  circumstances 
all  their  lives  would  have  no  place  of  repent- 
ance for  their  trust  in  him  but  the  workhouse  ; 
legions  of  women  and  children  would  have  their 
whole  future  desolated  by  the  hand  of  this 
mighty  scoundrel.  Every  partaker  of  his  mag- 
nificent feasts  would  be  seen  to  have  been  a 
sharer  in  the  plunder  of  innumerable  homes  ; 
every  servile  worshipper  of  riches  who  had, 
helped  to  set  him  on  his  pedestal,  would  have 
done  better  to  worship  the  Devil  point-blana. 
So,  the  talk,  lashed  louder  and  higher  by  con- 
firmation on  confirmation,  and  by  edition  after 
edition  of  the  evening  papers,  swelled  into  such 
a roar  when  night  came,  as  might  have  brought 
one  to  believe  that  a solitary  watcher  on  the 
gallery  above  the  Dome  of  Saint  Paul  s would) 
have  perceived  the  night  air  to  be  laden  wit  1 J 
heavy  muttering  of  the  name  of  Merdle,  coupled 
with  every  form  of  execration.  I 

For,  by  that  time  it  was  known  that  the  lata 
Mr.  Merdle’s  complaint  had  been,  simply,  Eon 
rrerv  and  Robbery.  He,  the  uncouth  object  offl 
such  wide-spread  adulation,  the  sitter  at  grea  j 
men’s  feasts,  the  roc’s  egg  of  great  ladies  assem 
blies,  the  subduer  of  exclusiveness,  the  levelled 
of  pride,  the  patron  of  patrons,  the  bargain! 
driver  with  a Minister  for  Lordships  of  the  Ur 
cumlocution  Office,  the  recipient  of  more  ad 
knowledgment  within  some  ten  or  fifteen  yeaiH 
at  most,  than  had  been  bestowed  in  England 
upon  all  peaceful  public  benefactors,  and  upo 
all  the  leaders  of  all  the  Arts  and  Science 
with  all  their  works  to  testify  for  them,  dunn 
two  centuries  at  least— he,  the  shining  wonde 
the  new  constellation  to  be  followed  by  tfl 
wise  men  bringing  gifts,  until  it  stopped  ovd 
certain  carrion  at  the  bottom  of  a bath  and  di* 
appeared— was  simply  the  greatest  forger  an 
the  greatest  Thief  that  ever  cheated  the  gallow 
Little  , Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  25. 


RICH  MAN  His  fall. 

But,  at  about  the  time  of  High  ’Change,  Pres- 
sure began  to  wane,  and  appalling  whispers  to 
circulate  east,  west,  north,  and  south.  At  first 
t|)ry  were  faint,  and  went  no  further  than  a doubt 
1 , q rdl<  ’ . w<  1 1th  would  be  found  to 
be  as  vast  as  had  been  supposed  ; whether  there 


RICH  AND  POOR. 

“Detestation  of  the  high  is  theinvoluntaij 
homage  of  the  low.” — Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap,  i 


RIDE— Tom  Pinch’s  morning1. 

What  better  time  for  driving,  riding,  walkinj 
moving  through  the  air  by  any  means,  than 


RIDE 


403 


RIVER 


■ fresh,  frosty  morning,  when  hope  runs  cheerily 
j through  the  veins  with  the  brisk  blood,  and 
I tingles  in  the  frame  from  head  to  foot ! This 
; was  the  glad  commencement  of  a bracing  day 
in  early  winter,  such  as  may  put  the  languid 
| summer  season  (speaking  of  it  when  it  can’t  be 
| had)  to  the  blush,  and  shame  the  spring  for 
being  sometimes  cold  by  halves.  The  sheep- 
i bells  rang  as  clearly  in  the  vigorous  air,  as  if 
they  felt  its  wholesome  influence  like  living 
creatures  ; the  trees,  in  lieu  of  leaves  or  blos- 
I soras,  shed  upon  the  ground  a frosty  rime  that 
I sparkled  as  it  fell,  and  might  have  been  the  dust 
i of  diamonds.  So  it  was,  to  Tom.  From  cot- 
| tage  chimneys,  smoke  went  streaming  up  high, 
i high,  as  if  the  earth  had  lost  its  grossness,  being 
| so  fair,  and  must  not  be  oppressed  by  heavy 
| vapor.  The  crust  of  ice  on  the  else  rippling 
; brook,  was  so  transparent  and  so  thin  in  tex- 
: ture,  that  the  lively  water  might,  of  its  own 
I free  "’ill,  have  stopped — in  Tom’s  glad  mind 
. it  had — to  look  upon  the  lovely  morning. 

: And  lest  the  sun  should  break  this"  charm  too 
i eagerly,  there  moved  between  him  and  the 
; ground  a mist  like  that  which  waits  upon  the 
moon  on  summer  nights— the  very  same  to  Tom 
| — and  wooed  him  to  dissolve  it  gently. 

Tom  Pinch  went  on  ; not  fast,  but  with  a 
sense  of  rapid  motion,  which  did  just  as  well  ; 
j and  as  he  went,  all  kinds  of  things  occurred  to 
: keep  him  happy.  Thus  when  he  came  within 
\ sight  of  the  turnpike,  and  was — Oh  a long  way 
off! — he  saw  the  tollman’s  wife,  who  had  that 
moment  checked  a wagon,  run  back  into  the 
little  house  again  like  mad,  to  say  (she  knew) 

: that  Mi.  finch  was  coming  up.  And  she  was 
: right,  for  when  he  drew  within  hail  of  the  gate, 
forth  rushed  the  tollman’s  children,  shrieking 
in  tiny  chorus,  “ Mr.  Pinch  !”  to  Tom’s  intense 
delight.  The  very  tollman,  though  an  ugly 
chap  in  general,  and  one  whom  folks  were 
rather  shy  of  handling,  came  out  himself  to 
take  the  toll,  and  gave  him  rough  good-morn- 
ing ; and  that  with  all  this,  and  a glimpse  of 
the  family  breakfast  on  the  little  round'  table 
: before  the  fire,  the  crust  Tom  Pinch  had  brought 
away  with  him  acquired  as  rich  a flavor  as 
though  it  had  been  cut  from  a fairy  loaf. 

But  there  was  more  than  this.  It  -was  not 
| only  the  married  people  and  the  children  who 
gave  Tom  Pinch  a welcome  as  he  passed.  No, 
no.  Sparkling  eyes  and  snowy  breasts  came 
hurriedly  to  many  an  upper  casement  as  he  clat- 
tered by,  and  gave  him  back  his  greeting : not 
Jstinted  either,  but  sevenfold,  good  measure. 
[They  were  all  merry.  They  all  laughed.  And 
'some  of  the  wickedest  among  them  even  kissed 
their  hands  as  Tom  looked  back.  For  who 
minded  poor  Mr.  Pinch  ? There  was  no  harm 
jin  him. 

And  now  the  morning  grew  so  fair,  and  all 
things  were  so  wide  awake  and  gay,  that  the  sun 
^eeming  to- say — -Tom  had  no  doubt  he  said — 
i ^ c^n>t  sbmd  it  any  longer:  I must  have  a 
'look,  streamed  out  in  radiant  majesty.  The 
mist,  too  shy  and  gentle  for  such  lusty  company, 
ied  oft,  quite  scared,  before  it  ; and  as  it  swept 
away,  the  hills  and  mounds  and  distant  pasture 
ands,  teeming  with  placid  sheep  and  noisy 
'rows,  came  out  as  bright  as  though  they  were 
iinrolled  bran  new  for  the  occasion.  In  com- 
pliment to  which  discovery,  the  brook  stood 
fill  no  longer,  but  ran  briskly  off  to  bear  I 


the  tidings  to  the  water-mill,  three  miles  a- 
way. — Marlin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  5, 

RIVER  AND  EERRY-BOAT-Their  moral. 

Within  view  was  the  peaceful  river  and  the 
ferry-boat,  to  moralize  to  all  the  inmates,  say- 
ing : Young  or  old,  passionate  or  tranquil,  chaf- 
ing or  content,  you,  thus  runs  the  current  al- 
ways. Let  the  heart  swell  into  what  discord  it 
will,  thus  plays  the  rippling  water  on  the  prow 
of  the  ferry-boat  ever  the  same  tune.  Year  after 
year,  so  much  allowance  for  the  drifting  of  the 
boat,  so  many  miles  an  hour  the  flowing  of  the 
stream,  here  the  rushes,  there  the  lilies,  nothing 
uncertain  or  unquiet,  upon  this  road  that  stead- 
ily runs  away  ; while  you,  upon  your  flowing 
road  of  time,  are  so  capricious  and  distracted. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  16. 

RIVER— At  evening. 

A late,  dull,  autumn  night  was  closing  in  upon 
the  river  Saone.  The  stream,  like  a sullied  look- 
ing-glass in  a gloomy  place,  reflected  the  clouds 
heavily  ; and  the  low  banks  leaned  over  here 
and  there,  as  if  they  were  half  curious,  and  half 
afraid,  to  see  their  darkening  pictures  in  the 
water.  The  flat  expanse  of  country  about  Cha- 
lons lay  a long  heavy  streak,  occasionally  made 
a little  ragged  by  a row  of  poplar  trees,  against 
the  wrathful  sunset. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  11. 

RIVER  SCENE — On  the  Thames. 

It  was  flood-tide  when  Daniel  Quilp  sat  him- 
self down  in  the  wherry  to  cross  to  the  opposite 
shore.  . A fleet  of  barges  were  coming  lazily  on, 
some  sideways,  some  head  first,  some  stern  first  ; 
all  in  a wrong-headed,  dogged,  obstinate  way, 
bumping  up  against  the  larger  craft,  running 
under  the  bows  of  steamboats,  getting  into  every 
kind  of  nook  and  corner  where  they  had  no 
business,  and  being  crunched  on  all  sides  like 
so  many  walnut-shells  ; while  each,  with  its  pair 
of  long  sweeps  struggling  and  splashing  in  the 
water,  looked  like  some  lumbering  fish  in  pain. 
In  some,  of  the  vessels  at  anchor,  all  hands 
were  busily  engaged  in  coiling  ropes,  spreading 
out  sails  to  dry,  taking  in  or  discharging  their 
cargoes  ; in  others,  no  life  was  visible  but  two 
or  three  tarry  boys,  and  perhaps  a barking  dog 
running  to  and  fro  upon  the  deck,  or  scrambling 
up  to  look  over  the  side  and  bark  the  louder 
for  the  view.  Coming  slowly  on  through  the 
forests  of  masts,  was  a great  steamship,  beating 
the  water  in  short  impatient  strokes  with  her 
heavy  paddles,  as  though  she  wanted  room  to 
breathe,  and  advancing  in  her  huge  bulk  like  a 
sea-monster  among  the  minnows  of  the  Thames. 
On  either  hand,  were  long  black  tiers  of  colliers  ; 
between  them,  vessels  slowly  working  out  of’ 
harbor  with  sails  glistening  in  the  sun,  and 
creaking  noise  on  board,  re-echoed  from  a hun- 
dred quarters.  The  water  and  all  upon  it  was 
in  active  motion,  dancing  and  buoyant  and  bub- 
bling up  ; while  the  old  gray  Tower  and  piles 
of  building  on  the  shore,  with  many  a church- 
spire  shooting  up  between,  looked  coldly  on, 
and  seemed  to  disdain  their  chafing  neighbor. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  5. 

RIVER — A portal  of  eternity. 

To  the  rolling  River,  swift  and  dim,  where  Win- 
ter Night  sat  brooding  like  the  last  dark  thoughts 


RIVER  404  RIVER  SCENERY 


of  many  who  had  sought  a refuge  there,  before 


her.  Where  scattered  lights  upon  the  banks 
gleamed  sullen,  red,  and  dull,  as  torches  that 
were  burning  there,  to  show  the  way  to  Death. 
Where  no  abode  of  living  people  cast  its  shadow 
on  the  deep,  impenetrable,  melancholy  shade. 

To  the  River  1 To  that  portal  of  Eternity, 
her  desperate  footsteps  tended  with  the  swift- 
ness of  its  rapid  waters  running  to  the  sea. 

Chimes , 4 th  Quarter. 

RIVER-  A midnight  funeral. 

I should  like  to  know  where  Inspector  Field 
was  born.  In  Ratcliff  Highway,  I would  have 
answered  with  confidence,  but  for  his  being 
equally  at  home  wherever  we  go.  He  does  not 
trouble  his  head  as  I do,  about  the  river  at 
night.  He  does  not  care  for  its  creeping,  black 
and  silent,  on  our  right  there,  rushing  through 
sluice  gates,  lapping  at  piles  and  posts  and 
iron  rings,  hiding  strange  things  in  its  mud,  run- 
ning away  with  suicides  and  accidentally  drown- 
ed bodies  faster  than  midnight  funeral  should, 
and  acquiring  such  various  experience  between 
its  cradle  and  its  grave.  It  has  no  mystery  for 
him. — O11  Duty  with  Inspector  Field.  Reprinted 
Pieces. 

RIVER— Its  foreknowledge  of  the  sea. 

Its  river  winding  down  from  the  mist  on  the  ho- 
rizon. as  though  that  were  its  source,  and  already 
heaving  with  a restless  knowledge  of  its  approach 
towards  the  sea. — Edwin  Drood , Chap.  12. 

RIVER  THIEF. 

In  these  times. of  ours,  though  concerning 
the  exact  year  there  is  no  need  to  be  precise, 
a boat  of  dirty  and  disreputable  appearance, 
with  two  figures  in  it  floated  on  the  Thames, 
between  Southwark  Bridge,  which  is  of  iron, 
and  London  Bridge,  which  is  of  stone,  as  an 
autumn  evening  was  closing  in. 

The  figures  in  this  boat  were  those  of  a strong 
man  with  ragged,  grizzled  hair,  and  a sun- 
browned  face,  and  a dark  girl  of  nineteen  or 
twenty,  sufficiently  like  him  to  be  recognizable 
as  his  daughter.  The  girl  rowed,  pulling  a 
pair  of  sculls  very  easily  ; the  man,  with  the 
rudder-lines  slack  in  his  hands,  and  his  hands 
loose  in  his  waistband,  kept  an  eager  look-out. 
He  had  no  net,  hook,  or  line,  and  he  could 
not  be  a fisherman  ; his  boat  had  no  cushion  for 
a sitter,  no  paint,  no  inscription,  no  appliance 
beyond  a rusty  boathook  and  a coil  of  rope, 
and  he  could  not  be  a waterman  ; his  boat  was 
too  crazy  and  too  small  to  take  in  cargo  for 
delivery,  and  he  could  not  be  a lighterman  or 
river-carrier  ; there  was  no  clue  to  what  he 
looked  for,  but  he  looked  for  something,  with  a 
most  intent  and  searching  gaze.  The  tide, 
which  had  turned  an  hour  before,  was  running 
down,  and  his  eyes  watched  every  little  race 
and  eddy  in  its  broad  sweep,  as  the  boat  made 
slight  headway  against,  or  drove  stern  foremost 
before  it,  according  as  lie  directed  his  daughter 
by  a movement  of  his  head.  She  watched  his 
face  as  earnestly  as  he  watched  the  river.  But 
in  the  intensity  of  her  look  there  was  a touch 
of  dread  or  horror. 

Allied  to  the  bottom  of  the  river  rather 
than  the  surface,  by  reason  of  the  slime  and 
ooze  with  which  it  was  covered,  and  its  sod- 
den state,  this  boat  and  the  two  figures  in  it 


obviously  were  doing  something  that  they 
often  did,  and  were  seeking  what  they  often 
sought.  Half  savage  as  the  man  showed,  with 
no  covering  on  his  matted  head,  with  his  brown 
arms  bare  to  between  the  elbow  and  the  shoul-  | 
der,  vith  the  loose  knot  of  a looser  ker-  ] 
chief  lying  low  on  his  bare  breast  in  a wilder-  ; 
ness  of  beard  and  whisker,  with  such  dress  as 
he  wore  seeming  to  be  made  out  of  the  mud 
that  begrimed  his  boat,  still  there  was  busi-  | 
ness-like  usage  in  his  steady  gaze.  So  with 
every  lithe  action  of  the  girl,  with  every  turn 
of  her  wrist,  perhaps  most  of  all  with  her 
look  of  dread  or  horror  ; they  were  things  of 
usage. — Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  I. 

RIVER  SCENERY— The  Ohio. 

A fine  broad  river  always,  but  in  some  parts 
much  wider  than  in  others  ; and  then  there  is 
usually  a green  island  covered  with  trees,  divid- 
ing it  into  two  streams.  Occasionally  we  stop  for 
a few  minutes,  maybe  to  take  in  wood,  maybe 
for  passengers,  at  some  small  town  or  village  (I 
ought  to  say  city  ; every  place  is  a city  here)  ; t 
but  the  banks  are  for  the  most  part  deep  soli- 
tudes overgrown  with  trees,  which  hereabouts 
are  already  in  leaf  and  very  green.  For  miles 
and  miles  and  miles,  these  solitudes  are  unbro- 
ken by  any  sign  of  human  life  or  trace  of  human 
footstep  ; nor  is  anything  seen  to  move  about 
them  but  the  blue-jay,  whose  color  is  so  bright 
and  yet  so  delicate  that  it  looks  like  a flying 
flower.  At  lengthened  intervals  a log-cabin, 
with  its  little  space  of  cleared  land  about  it, 
nestles  under  a rising  ground,  and  sends  its 
thread  of  blue  smoke  curling  up  into  the  sky. 
It  stands  in  the  corner  of  the  poor  field  of 
wheat,  which  is  full  of  great  unsightly  stumps, 
like  earthy  butchers’  blocks.  Sometimes  the 
ground  is  only  just  now  cleared  ; the  felled 
trees  lying  yet  upon  the  soil,  and  the  log-house 
only  this  morning  begun.  As  we  pass  this  clear- 
ing, the  settler  leans  upon  his  axe  or  hammer, 
and  looks  wistfully  at  the  people  from  the  world. 
The  children  creep  out  of  the  temporary  hut, 
which  is  like  a gypsy  tent  upon  the  ground,  and 
clap  their  hands  and  shout.  The  dog  only 
glances  round  at  us,  and  then  looks  up  into  his 
master’s  face  again,  as  if  he  were  rendered  un- 
easy by  any  suspension  of  the  common  business, 
and  had  nothing  more  to  do  with  pleasurers. 
And  still  there  is  the  same  eternal  foreground. 

Hs  * * 

Through  such  a scene  as  this  the  unwieldly 
machine  takes  its  hoarse,  sullen  way  ; venting 
at  every  revolution  of  the  paddles  a loud,  high- 
pressure  blast ; enough,  one  would  think,  to 
waken  up  the  host  of  Indians  who  lie  buried  in 
a great  mound  yonder ; so  old  that  mighty 
oaks  and  other  forest  trees  have  struck  their 
roots  into  its  earth  ; and  so  high  that  it  is  a hill, 
even  among  the  hills  that  nature  planted  round 
it.  The  very  river,  as  though  it  shared  one’s 
feelings  of  compassion  for  the  extinct  tribes  who 
lived  so  pleasantly  here,  in  their  blessed  igno- 
rance of  white  existence,  hundreds  of  years  ago, 
steals  out  of  its  way  to  ripple  near  this  mound  ; 
and  there  are  few  places  where  the  Ohio  sparkles 
more  brightly  than  in  the  Big  Grave  Creek. 

:J:  $j$  sjc  sfc 

The  night  is  dark,  and  we  proceed  within  the 
shadow  of  the  wooded  bank,  which  makes  it 
darker.  After  gliding  past  the  sombre  maze  of 


RIVER 


405 


RIVER 


boughs  for  a long  time,  we  come  upon  an  open 
space  where  the  tall  trees  are  burning.  The 
shape  of  every  branch  and  twig  is  expressed  in 
a deep  red  glow  ; and,  as  the  light  wind  stirs 
and  ruffles  it,  they  seem  to  vegetate  in  fire.  It 
is  such  a sight  as  we  read  of  in  legends  of  en- 
chanted forests  ; saving  that  it  is  sad  to  see  these 
noble  works  wasting  away  so  awfully,  alone  ; 
and  to  think  how  many  years  must  come  and 
go  befoi-e  the  magic  that  created  them  will  rear 
their  like  upon  this  ground  again.  But  the 
time  will  come  ; and  when,  in  their  changed 
ashes,  the  growth  of  centuries  unborn  has  struck 
its  roots,  the  restless  men  of  distant  ages  will 
repair  to  these  again  unpeopled  solitudes ; and 
their  fellows,  in  cities  far  away,  that  slumber 
now,  perhaps,  beneath  the  rolling  sea,  will  read, 
in  language  strange  to  any  ears  in  being  now, 
but  very  old  to  them,  of  primeval  forests  where 
the  axe  was  never  heard,  and  where  the  jungled 
ground  was  never  trodden  by  a human  foot. 

Midnight  and  sleep  blot  out  these  scenes  and 
thoughts,  and  when  the  morning  shines  again, 
it  gilds  the  house-tops  of  a lively  city,  before 
whose  broad  paved  wharf  the  boat  is  moored, 
with  other  boats,  and  flags,  and  moving  wheels, 
and  hum  of  men  around  it  ; as  though  there 
were  not  a solitary  or  silent  rood  of  ground 
within  the  compass  of  a thousand  miles. 

American  Notes , Chap.  n. 

RIVER— Mississippi— On  the. 

On  they  toiled  through  great  solitudes,  where 
the  trees  upon  the  banks  grew  thick  and  close  ; 
and  floated  in  the  stream  ; and  held  up  shrivelled 
arms  from  out  the  river’s  depths  ; and  slid  down 
from  the  margin  of  the  land,  half  growing,  half 
decaying,  in  the  miry  water.  On  through  the 
weary  day  and  melancholy  night  ; beneath  the 
burning  sun,  and  in  the  mist  and  vapor  of  the 
evening ; on,  until  return  appeared  impossible, 
and  restoration  to  their  home  a miserable 
dream. 

They  had  now  but  few  people  on  board,  and 
these  few  were  as  flat,  as  dull,  and  stagnant,  as 
the  vegetation  that  oppressed  their  eyes.  No 
sound  of  cheerfulness  or  hope  was  heard  ; no 
pleasant  talk  beguiled  the  tardy  time  ; no  little 
group  made  common  cause  against  the  dull  de- 
pression of  the  scene.  But  that,  at  certain 
periods,  they  swallowed  food  together  from  a 
< common  trough,  it  might  have  been  old  Charon’s 
boat,  conveying  melancholy  shades  to  judg- 
ment. 

I ^ 

As  they  proceeded  further  on  their  track,  and 
. came  more  and  more  towards  their  journey’s 

■ end,  the  monotonous  desolation  of  the  scene  in- 
creased to  that  degree,  that  for  any  redeeming 

t feature  it  presented  to  their  eyes,  they  might 
i have  entered,  in  the  body,  on  the  grim  domains 
of  Giant  Despair*.  A flat  morass,  bestrewn  with 

- fallen  timber : a marsh,  on  which  the  good  growth 
of  the  earth  seemed  to  have  been  wrecked  and 
cast  away,  that  from  its  decomposing  ashes  vile 

- and  ugly  things  might  rise  ; where  the  very  trees 
r took  the  aspect  of  huge  weeds,  begotten  of  the 

slime  from  which  they  sprung,  by  the  hot  sun 

■ that  burnt  them  up  ; where  fatal  maladies,  seek- 
ing whom  they  might  infect,  came  forth  at  night, 
in  misty  shapes,  and  creeping  out  upon  the 

a water,  hunted  them  like  spectres  until  day  ; 
where  even  the  blessed  sun,  shining  down  on 


festering  elements  of  corruption  and  disease,  be- 
came a horror ; this  was  the  realm  of  Hope 
through  which  they  moved. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  23. 

RIVER— A dreary  neighborhood  by  the. 

The  neighborhood  was  a dreary  one  at  that 
time  ; as  oppressive,  sad,  and  solitary  by  night, 
as  any  about  London.  There  were  neither 
wharves  nor  houses  on  the  melancholy  waste  of 
road  near  the  great  blank  Prison.  A sluggish 
ditch  deposited  its  mud  by  the  prison  walls. 
Coarse  grass  and  rank  weeds  straggled  over  all 
the  marshy  land  in  the  vicinity.  In  one  part, 
carcases  of  houses,  inauspiciously  begun  and 
never  finished,  rotted  away.  In  another,  the 
ground  was  cumbered  with  rusty  iron  monsters 
of  steam-boilers,  wheels,  cranks,  pipes,  furnaces, 
paddles,  anchors,  diving-bells,  windmill-sails, 
and  I know  not  what  strange  objects,  accumu- 
lated by  some  speculator,  and  grovelling  in  the 
dust,  underneath  which — having  sunk  into  the 
soil  of  their  own  weight  in  wet  weather — they 
had  the  appearance  of  vainly  trying  to  hide 
themselves.  The  clash  and  glare  of  sundry  fiery 
Works  upon  the  river  side,  arose  by  night  to 
disturb  everything  except  the  heavy  and  un- 
broken smoke  that  poured  out  of  their  chim- 
neys. Slimy  gaps  and  causeways,  winding  among 
old  wooden  piles,  with  a sickly  substance  cling- 
ing to  the  latter,  like  green  hair,  and  the  rags  of 
last  year’s  handbills  offering  rewards  for  drowned 
men  fluttering  above  high-water  mark,  led  down 
through  the  ooze  and  slush  to  the  ebb-tide. 
There  was  a story  that  one  of  the  pits  dug  for 
the  dead  in  the  time  of  the  Great  Plague  was 
hereabout ; and  a blighting  influence  seemed  to 
have  proceeded  from  it  over  the  whole  place. 
Or  else  it  looked  as  if  it  had  gradually  decom- 
posed into  that  nightmare  condition,  out  of  the 
overflowings  of  the  polluted  stream. 

David  Copper  field , Chap.  47. 

RIVER— (A  water  party). 

But  the  party  arrives,  and  Dando,  relieved 
from  his  state  of  uncertainty,  starts  up  into  ac- 
tivity. They  approach  in  full  aquatic  costume, 
with  round  blue  jackets,  striped  shirts,  and  caps 
of  all  sizes  and  patterns,  from  the  velvet  skull- 
cap of  French  manufacture,  to  the  easy  head- 
dress familiar  to  the  students  of  the  old  spelling- 
books,  as  having,  on  the  authority  of  the  portrait, 
formed  part  of  the  costume  of  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Dihvorth. 

This  is  the  most  amusing  time  to  observe  a 
regular  Sunday  water-party.  There  has  evi- 
dently been  up  to  this  period  no  inconsiderable 
degree  of  boasting  on  everybody’s  part  relative 
to  his  knowledge  of  navigation  ; the  sight  of 
the  water  rapidly  cools  their  courage,  and  the 
air  of  self-denial  with  which  each  of  them  in- 
sists on  somebody  else’s  taking  an  oar,  is  per- 
fectly delightful.  At  length,  after  a great  deal 
of  changing  and  fidgeting,  consequent  upon  the 
election  of  a stroke-oar,  the  inability  of  one 
gentleman  to  pull  on  this  side,  of  another  to 
pull  on  that,  and  of  a third  to  pull  at  all,  the 
boat’s  crew  are  seated.  “ Shove  her  off ! ” cries 
the  coxswain,  who  looks  as  easy  and  comfort- 
able as  if  he  were  steering  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 
The  order  is  obeyed  ; the  boat  is  immediately 
turned  completely  round,  and  proceeds  towards 
Westminster  Bridge,  amidst  such  a splashing 


RIVER  SPORTS 


406 


ROME 


and  struggling  as  never  was  seen  before,  except 
when  the  Royal  George  went  down.  “ Back 
wa’ater,  sir,”  shouts  Dando,  “ Back  wa’ater,  you 
sir,  aft;”  upon  which  everybody  thinking  he 
must  be  the  individual  referred  to,  they  all  back 
water,  and  back  comes  the  boat,  stern  first,  to 
the  spot  whence  it  started.  “ Back  water,  you 
sir,  aft ; pull  round,  you  sir,  for’ad,  can’t  you  ? ” 
shouts  Dando,  in  a frenzy  of  excitement.  “ Pull 
round,  Tom,  can’t  you  ?”  re-echoes  one  of  the 
party.  “ Tom  an’t  for’ad,”  replies  another. 
“ Yes,  he  is,”  cries  a third  ; and  the  unfortunate 
young  man,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  breaking  a 
blood-vessel,  pulls  and  pulls,  until  the  head  of 
the  boat  fairly  lies  in  the  direction  of  Vauxhall 
Bridge.  “ That’s  right — now  pull  all  on  you  !” 
shouts  Dando  again,  adding,  in  an  undertone, 
to  somebody  by  him,  “ Blowed  if  hever  I see 
such  a set  of  muffs  !”  and  away  jogs  the  boat  in 
a zigzag  direction,  every  one  of  the  six  oars 
dipping  into  the  water  at  a different  time  ; and 
the  yard  is  once  more  clear,  until  the  arrival  of 
the  next  party. — Scenes , Chap.  io. 

RIVER  SPORTS— A rowing:  match. 

A well-contested  rowing-match  on  the 
^hames,  is  a very  lively  and  interesting  scene. 
The  water  is  studded  with  boats  of  all  sorts, 
kinds,  and  descriptions ; places  in  the  coal- 
barges  at  the  different  wharfs  are  let  to  crowds 
of  spectators ; beer  and  tobacco  flow  freely 
about  ; men,  women,  and  children  wait  for  the 
start  in  breathless  expectation  ; cutters  of  six 
and  eight  oars  glide  gently  up  and  down, 
waiting  to  accompany  their  protigis  during  the 
race  ; bands  of  music  add  to  the  animation,  if 
not  to  the  harmony  of  the  scene  ; groups  of 
watermen  are  assembled  at  the  different  stairs, 
discussing  the  merits  of  the  respective  candi- 
dates ; and  the  prize  wherry,  which  is  rowed 
slowly  about  by  a pair  of  sculls,  is  an  object 
of  general  interest. 

Two  o’clock  strikes,  and  everybody  looks 
anxiously  in  the  direction  of  the  bridge  through 
which  the  candidates  for  the  prize  will  come — 
half-past  two,  and  the  general  attention  which 
has  been  preserved  so  long  begins  to  flag,  when 
suddenly  a gun  is  heard,  and  the  noise  of  dis- 
tant hurra’ing  along  each  bank  of  the  river — 
every  head  is  bent  forward — the  noise  draws 
nearer  and  nearer — the  boats  which  have  been 
waiting  at  the  bridge  start  briskly  up  the  river, 
and  a well-manned  galley  shoots  through  the 
arch,  the  sitters  cheering  on  the  boats  behind 
them,  which  are  not  yet  visible. 

“ Here  they  are,”  is  the  general  cry — and 
through  darts  the  first  boat,  the  men  in  her 
stripped  to  the  skin,  and  exerting  every  muscle 
to  preserve  the  advantage  they  have  gained  — 
four  other  boats  follow  close  astern  ; there  are 
not  two  boats’  length  between  them — the  shout- 
ing is  tremendous  and  the  interest  intense. 
“Go  on,  Pink” — “Give  it  her,  Red” — “ Sulli- 
win  for  ever”  — “ Bravo  ! George  ” — “ Now, 
Tom,  now- — now — now — why  don’t  your  partner 
stretch  out  ? ” — “ Two  pots  to  a pint  on  Yellow,” 
etc.,  etc.  Every  little  public-house  fires  its  gun, 
and  hoists  its  flag  ; and  the  men  who  win  the 
heat,  come  in  amidst  a splashing,  and  shouting, 
and  banging,  and  confusion,  which  no  one  can 
imagine  who  has  not  witnessed  it,  and  of  which 
any  description  would  convey  a very  faint  idea. 

Scenes,  Chap.  io. 


RIVER-SPORTS  (Water  Excursions). 

“ Arc  you  fond  of  the  water?”  is  a question 
very  frequently  asked,  in  hot  summer  weather, 
by  amphibious-looking  young  men.  "Very,”  is 
the  general  reply.  “ An’t  you  ? ” — “ Hardly  ever 
off  it,”  is  the  response,  accompanied  by  sundry 
adjectives,  expressive  of  the  speaker’s  heartfelt 
admiration  of  that  element.  Now,  with  all  re- 
spect for  the  opinion  of  society  in  general,  and 
cutter  clubs  in  particular,  we  humbly  suggest 
that  some  of  the  most  painful  reminiscences  in 
the  mind  of  every  individual  who  has  occasion- 
ally disported  himself  on  the  Thames,  must  be 
connected  with  his  aquatic  recreations.  Who 
ever  heard  of  a successful  water-party  ? — or,  to 
put  the  question  in  a still  more  intelligible  fomi, 
who  ever  saw  one?  We  have  been  on  water- 
excursions  out  of  number,  but  we  solemnly  de- 
clare that  we  cannot  call  to  mind  one  single 
occasion  of  the  kind,  which  was  not  marked  by 
more  miseries  than  any  one  would  suppose 
could  reasonably  be  crowded  into  the  space  of 
some  eight  or  nine  hours.  Something  has  al- 
ways gone  wrong.  Either  the  cork  of  the  salad- 
dressing  has  come  out,  or  the  most  anxiously 
expected  member  of  the  party  has  not  come  out, 
or  the  most  disagreeable  man  in  company  would 
come  out,  or  a child  or  two  have  fallen  into  the 
water,  or  the  gentleman  who  undertook  to  steer 
has  endangered  everybody’s  life  all  the  way,  or 
the  gentlemen  who  volunteered  to  row  have 
been  “ out  of  practice,”  and  performed  very 
alarming  evolutions,  putting  their  oars  down 
into  the  water  and  not  being  able  to  get  them 
up  again,  or  taking  terrific  pulls  without  put- 
ting them  in  at  all  ; in  either  case,  pitching 
over  on  the  backs  of  their  heads  with  startling 
violence,  and  exhibiting  the  soles  of  their 
pumps  to  the  “ sitters  ” in  the  boat,  in  a very 
humiliating  manner. — Scenes , Chap.  io. 

ROME— Its  past  and  present. 

But  whether,  in  this  ride,  you  pass  by  obelisks, 
or  columns  : ancient  temples,  theatres,  houses, 
porticoes,  or  forums : it  is  strange  to  see  how 
every  fragment,  whenever  it  is  possible,  has 
been  blended  into  some  modern  structure,  and 
made  to  serve  some  modern  purpose — a wall,  a 
dwelling-place,  a granary,  a stable — some  use 
for  which  it  never  was  designed,  and  associated 
with  which  it  cannot  otherwise  than  lamely  as- 
sort. It  is  stranger  still,  to  see  how  many  ruins 
of  the  old  mythology,  how  many  fragments  of 
obsolete  legend  and  observance,  have  been  in- 
corporated into  the  worship  of  Christian  altars 
here  ; and  how,  in  numberless  respects,  the  false 
faith  and  the  true  are  fused  into  a monstrous 
union. 

* * * * * 

What  a bright  noon  it  was,  as  we  rode  away  ‘ 
The  Tiber  was  no  longer  yellow,  but  blue. 
There  was  a blush  on  the  old  bridges,  that 
made  them  fresh  and  hale  again.  The  Pan- 
theon, with  its  majestic  front,  all  seamed  and 
furrowed  like  an  old  face,  had  summer  light 
upon  its  battered  walls.  Every  squalid  and 
desolate  hut  in  the  Eternal  City  (bear  witness 
every  grim  old  palace,  to  the  filth  and  misery  of 
the  plebeian  neighbor  that  elbows  it,  as  certain 
as  I'ime  has  laid  its  grip  on  its  patrician  head  !) 
was  fresh  and  new  with  some  ray  of  the  sun. 
The  very  prison  in  the  crowded  street,  a whirl 
of  carriages  and  people,  had  some  stray  sense 


ROME 


407 


ROME 


of  the  day,  dropping  through  its  chinks  and 
crevices;  and  dismal  prisoners  who  could  not 
| iwind  their  faces  round  the  barricading  of  the 
blocked-up  windows,  stretched  out  their 
I hands,  and  clinging  to  the  rusty  bars,  turned 
I them  towards  the  overflowing  street ; as  if  it 
were  a cheerful  fire,  and  could  be  shared  in  that 
wav. 

* * * * * 

By  way  of  contrast  we  rode  out  into  old  ruined 
Rome,  after  all  this  firing  and  booming,  to  take 
our  leave  of  the  Coliseum.  I had  seen  it  by 
I moonlight  before  (I  never  could  get  through  a 
.(lay  without  going  back  to  it),  but  its  tremen- 
idous  solitude  that  night  is  past  all  telling.  The 
! ghostly  pillars  in  the  Forum;  the  Triumphal 
Arches  of  Old  Emperors  ; those  enormous  mass- 
es of  ruin  which  were  once  their  palaces  ; the 
fi  grass-grown  mounds  that  mark  the  graves  of 
[ruined  temples;  the  stones  of  the  Via  Sacra, 
smooth  with  the  tread  of  feet  in  ancient  Rome  : 
even  these  were  dimmed,  in  their  transcendent 
melancholy,  by  the  dark  ghost  of  its  bloody 
holidays,  erect  and  grim  ; haunting  the  old 
(scene;  despoiled  by  pillaging  Popes  and  fight- 
ing Princes,  but  not  laid  ; wringing  wild  hands 
of  weed,  and  grass,  and  bramble  ; and  lament- 
j ing  to  the  night  in  every  gap  and  broken  arch — 
the  shadow  of  its  awful  self,  immovable  ! 

Pictures  from  Italy. 

ROME— Its  ralics. 

, Such  are  the  spots  and  patches  in  my  dream 
of  churches,  that  remain  apart,  and  keep  their 
separate  identity.  I have  a fainter  recollection, 
sometimes,  of  the  relics  ; of  the  fragments  of  the 
S pillar  of  the  Temple  that  was  rent  in  twain  ; of 
the  portion  of  the  table  that  was  spread  for  the 
Last  Supper ; of  the  well  at  which  the  woman 
of  Samaria  gave  water  to  Our  Saviour  ; of  two 
columns  from  the  house  of  Pontius  Pilate  ; of 
the  stone  to  which  the  Sacred  hands  were  bound, 
when  the  scourging  was  performed  ; of  the  grid- 
iron of  St.  Lawrence,  and  the  stone  below  it, 
marked  with  the  frying  of  his  fat  and  blood  ; 
these  set  a shadowy  mark  on  some  cathedrals,  as 
an  old  story  or  a fable  might,  and  stop  them  for 
an  instant,  as  they  flit  before  me.  The  rest  is  a 
vast  wilderness  of  consecrated  buildings  of  all 
shapes  and  fancies,  blending  one  with  another  ; 
of  battered  pillars  of  old  Pagan  temples,  dug  up 
from  the  ground,  and  forced,  like  giant  captives, 
to  support  the  roofs  of  Christian  churches  ; of 
pictures,  bad,  and  wonderful,  and  impious,  and 
ridiculous  ; of  kneeling  people,  curling  incense, 
tinkling  bells,  and  sometimes  (but  not  often)  of  a 
swelling  organ  ; of  Madonne,  with  their  breasts 
stuck  full  of  swords,  arranged  in  a half-circle 
like  a modern  fan  ; of  actual  skeletons  of  dead 
saints,  hideously  attired  in  gaudy  satins,  silks, 
and  velvets,  trimmed  with  gold  : their  withered 
crust  of  skull  adorned  with  precious  jewels,  or 
with  chaplets  of  crushed  flowers  ; sometimes,  of 
people  gathered  round  the  pulpit,  and  a monk 
within  it  stretching  out  the  crucifix,  and  preach- 
ing fiercely:  the  sun  just  streaming  down 
through  some  high  window  on  the  sail-cloth 
stretched  above  him  and  across  the  church,  to 
keep  his  high-pitched  voice  from  being  lost 
among  the  echoes  of  the  roof.  Then  my  tired 
memory  comes  out  upon  a flight  of  steps,  where 
knots  of  people  ark  asleep,  or  basking  in  the 
light ; and  strolls  away  among  the  rags,  and 


smells,  and  palaces,  and  hovels,  of  an  old  Italian 
street. — Pictures  froi7i  Italy. 

ROME— The  Coliseum. 

We  said  to  the  coachman,  “ Go  to  the  Coli- 
seum.” In  a quarter  of  an  hour  or  so.  he  stop- 
ped at  the  gate,  and  we  went  in. 

It  is  no  fiction,  but  plain,  sober,  honest  Truth, 
to  say — so  suggestive  and  distinct  is  it  at  this 
hour — that,  for  a moment — actually  in  passing 
in — they  who  will,  may  have  the  whole  great 
pile  before  them,  as  it  used  to  be,  with 
thousands  of  eager  faces  staring  down  into  the 
arena,  and  such  a whirl  of  strife,  and  blood, 
and  dust,  going  on  there,  as  no  language  can 
describe.  Its  solitude,  its  awful  beauty,  and  its 
utter  desolation,  strike  upon  the  stranger  the 
next  moment,  like  a softened  sorrow  ; and 
never  in  his  life,  perhaps,  will  he  be  so  moved 
and  overcome  by  any  sight,  not  immediately 
connected  with  his  own  affections  and  afflic- 
tions. • 

To  see  it  crumbling  there,  an  inch  a year  ; 
its  walls  and  arches  overgrown  with  green  ; its 
corridors  open  to  the  day  ; the  long  grass 
growing  in  its  porches  ; young  trees  of  yester- 
day, springing  up  on  its  ragged  parapets,  and 
bearing  fruit — chance  produce  of  the  seeds 
dropped  there  by  the  birds  who  build  their 
nests  within  its  chinks  and  crannies — to  see  its 
Pit  of  Fight  filled  up  with  earth,  and  the 
peaceful  Cross  planted  in  the  centre  ; to  climb 
into  its  upper  halls,  and  look  down  on  ruin, 
ruin,  ruin,  all  about  it  ; the  triumphal  arches 
of  Constantine,  Septimus  Severus,  and  Titus  ; 
the  Roman  Forum  ; the  Palace  of  the  Caesars  ; 
the  temples  of  the  old  religion,  fallen  down  and 
gone — is  to  see  the  ghost  of  old  Rome, 
wicked,  wonderful,  old  city,  haunting  the  very 
ground  on  which  its  people  trod.  It  is  the  most 
impressive,  the  most  stately,  the  most  solemn, 
grand,  majestic,  mournful  sight,  conceivable. 
Never,  in  its  bloodiest  prime,  can  the  sight 
of  the  gigantic  Coliseum,  full  and  running  over 
with  the  lustiest  life,  have  moved  one  heart,  as 
it  must  move  all  who  look  upon  it  now,  a ruin. 
God  be  thanked — a ruin  ! 

As  it  tops  the  other  ruins  : standing  there,  a 
mountain  among  graves  : so  do  its  ancient  influ- 
ences outlive  all  other  remnants  of  the  old  my- 
thology and  old  butchery  of  Rome,  in  the  na- 
ture of  the  fierce  and  cruel  Roman  people. 
The  Italian  face  changes  as  the  visitor  ap- 
proaches the  city  ; its  beauty  becomes  devilish  ; 
and  there  is  scarcely  one  countenance  in  a 
hundred,  among  the  common  people  in  the 
streets,  that  would  not  be  at  home  and  happy 
in  a renovated  Coliseum  to-morrow. 

Pictures  from  Italy. 

ROME-St.  Peter’s. 

The  effect  of  the  Cathedral  on  my  mind,  on 
that  second  visit,  was  exactly  what  it  was  at 
first,  and  what  it  remains  after  many  visits.  It 
is  not  religiously  impi*essive  or  affecting.  It  is 
an  immense  edifice,  with  no  one  point  for  the 
mind  to  rest  upon  ; and  it  tires  itself  with 
wandering  round  and  round.  The  very  pur- 
pose of  the  place  is  not  expressed  in  anything 
you  see  there,  unless  you  examine  its  details — 
and  all  examination  of  details  is  incompatible 
with  the  place  itself.  It  might  be  a Pantheon, 
i or  a Senate  House,  or  a great  architectural 


ROME 


408 


SAILOR 


trophy,  having  no  other  object  than  an  archi- 
tectural triumph. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

ROME— Its  ruins. 

Here  was  Rome  indeed  at  last  ; and  such  a 
Rome  as  no  one  can  imagine  in  its  full  and 
awful  grandeur  ! We  wandered  out  upon  the 
Appian  Way,  and  then  went  on,  through  miles 
of  ruined  tombs  and  broken  walls,  with  here 
and  there  a desolate  and  uninhabited  house  ; 
past  the  Circus  of  Romulus,  where  the  course 
of  the  chariots,  the  stations  of  the  judges,  com- 
petitors, and  spectators,  are  yet  as  plainly  to 
be  seen  as  in  old  time  : past  the  tomb  of  Ce- 
cilia Metella : past  all  inclosure,  hedge,  or 
stake,  wall  or  fence : away  upon  the  open 
Campagna,  where,  on  that  side  of  Rome,  nothing 
is  10  be  beheld  but  Ruin.  Except  where  the  dis- 
tant Apennines  bound  the  view  upon  the  left, 
the  whole  wide  prospect  is  one  field  of  ruin. 
Broken  aqueducts,  left  in  the  most  picturesque 
and  beautiful  clusters  of  arches  ; broken  tem- 
ples ; broken  tombs.  A desert  of  decay,  som- 
bre and  desolate  beyond  all  expression  ; and 
with  a history  in  every  stone  that  strews  the 
ground. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

ROUGE— Miss  Mowcher  on. 

“/  do  something  in  that  way  myself — perhaps 
a good  deal' — perhaps  a little — sharp’s  the  word, 
my  dear  boy — never  mind  ! ” 

“ In  what  way  do  you  mean?  In  the  rouge 
way?”  said  Steerforth. 

“ Put  this  and  that  together,  my  tender  pu- 
pil,” returned  the  wary  Mowcher,  touching  her 
nose,  “ work  it  by  the  rule  of  Secrets  in  all 
trades,  and  the  product  will  give  you  the  de- 
sired result.  I say  / do  a little  in  that  way  my- 
self. One  Dowager,  she  calls  it  lip-salve. 
Another,  she  calls  it  gloves.  Another,  she  calls 
it  tucker-edging.  Another,  she  calls  it  a fan. 
/ call  it  whatever  they  call  it.  I supply  it  for 
’em,  but  we  keep  up  the  trick  so,  to  one  anoth- 
er, and  make  believe  with  such  a face,  that  they’d 
as  soon  think  of  laying  it  on  before  a whole 
drawing-room,  as  before  me.  And  when  I wait 
upon  ’em,  they’ll  say  to  me  sometimes — with  it 
on — thick,  and  no  mistake — ‘ How  am  I look- 
ing, Mowcher?  Am  I pale?’  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
ha  ! Isn’t  that  refreshing,  my  young  friend  ! ” 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  22. 

RUMOR—  Popular. 

Popular  rumor,  unlike  the  rolling  stone  of 
the  proverb,  is  one  which  gathers  a deal  of 
moss  in  its  wanderings  up  and  down. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  48. 

RUINS— Tourists  among-  (Mrs.  General). 

Mrs.  General  took  life  easily — as  easily,  that 
is,  as  she  could  take  anything — when  the  Ro- 
man establishment  remained  in  their  sole  occu- 
pation ; and  Little  Dorrit  would  often  ride  out 
in  a hired  carriage  that  was  left  them,  and  alight 
alone  and  wander  among  the  ruins  of  old  Rome. 
The  ruins  of  the  vast  old  Amphitheatre,  of  the 
old  temples,  of  the  old  commemorative  Arches, 
of  the  old  trodden  highways,  of  the  old  tombs, 
besides  being  what  they  were,  to  her  were  ruins 
of  the  old  JVlarslialsea — ruins  of  her  own  old 
life  -ruins  of  the  faces  and  forms  that  of  old 
peopled  ii — ruins  of  its  loves,  hopes,  cares,  and 
joys.  Two  ruined  spheres  of  action  and  suffer- 


ing were  before  the  solitary  girl  often  sitting  on 
some  broken  fragment ; and  in  the  lonely  places, 
under  the  blue  sky,  she  saw  them  both  together. 

Up,  then,  would  come  Mrs.  General ; taking 
all  the  color  out  of  everything,  as  Nature  and 
Art  had  taken  it  out  of  herself ; writing  Prunes 
and  Prism,  in  Mr.  Eustace’s  text,  wherever  she 
could  lay  a hand  ; looking  everywhere  for  Mr. 
Eustace  and  company,  and  seeing  nothing  else  ; 
scratching  up  the  dryest  little  bones  of  antiquity, 
and  bolting  them  whole  without  any  human  vis- 
itings — like  a Ghoul  in  gloves. 

Little  Dorrit , Booh  //.,  Chap.  15. 


s 

SAILOR  --“  Poor  Mercantile  Jack.” 

Is  the  sweet  little  cherub,  who  sits  smiling 
aloft,  and  keeps  watch  on  the  life  of  poor  Jack, 
commissioned  to  take  charge  of  Mercantile 
Jack,  as  well  as  Jack  of  the  national  navy?  If 
not,  who  is?  \Vhat  is  the  cherub  about,  and 
what  are  we  all  about,  when  poor  Mercantile 
Jack  is  having  his  brains  slowly  knocked  out 
by  pennyweights,  aboard  the  brig  Beelzebub,  or 
the  bark  Bowie-knife, — when  he  looks  his  last 
at  that  infernal  craft,  with  the  first  officer’s  iron 
boot-heel  in  his  remaining  eye,  or  with  his  dying 
body  towed  overboard  in  the  ship’s  wake,  while 
the  cruel  wounds  in  it  do  “ the  multitudinous 
seas  incarnadine?  ” 

Is  it  unreasonable  to  entertain  a belief  that  if, 
aboard  the  brig  Beelzebub  or  the  bark  Bowie- 
knife,  the  first  officer  did  half  the  damage  to  cot- 
ton that  he  does  to  men,  there  would  presently 
arise  from  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  so  vocifer- 
ous an  invocation  of  the  sweet  little  cherub  who 
sits  calculating  aloft,  keeping  watch  on  the 
markets  that  pay,  that  such  vigilant  cherub 
would,  with  a winged  sword,  have  that  gallant 
officer’s  organ  of  destructiveness  out  of  his  head, 
in  the  space  of  a flash  of  lightning? 

If  it  be  unreasonable,  then  am  I the  most 
unreasonable  of  men,  for  I believe  it  with  all 
my  soul. 

This  was  my  thought  as  I walked  the  dock 
quays  at  Liverpool,  keeping  watch  on  poor 
Mercantile  Jack.  Alas  for  me  ! I have  long 
out-grown  the  state  of  sweet  little  cherub  ; but 
there  I was,  and  there  Mercantile  Jack  was, 
and  very  busy  he  was,  and  very  cold  he  was  ; the 
snow  yet  lying  in  the  frozen  furrows  of  the  land, 
and  the  northeast  winds  snipping  off  the  tops 
of  the  little  waves  in  the  Mersey,  and  rolling 
them  into  hailstones  to  pelt  him  with.  Mercan  • 
tile  Jack  was  hard  at  it  in  the  hard  weather, — aj 
he  mostly  is,  in  all  weathers,  poor  Jack.  He 
was  girded  to  ships’  masts  and  funnels  of 
steamers,  like  a forester  to  a great  oak,  scraping 
and  painting  ; he  was  lying  out  on  yards,  furl- 
ing sails  that  tried  to  beat  him  off ; he  was  dim- 
ly discernible  up  in  a world  of  giant  cobwebs, 
reefing  and  splicing ; he  was  faintly  audible 
down  in  holds,  stowing  and  unshipping  cargo  ; 
he  was  winding  round  and  round  at  capstans’ 
melodious,  monotonous,  and  drunk  ; he  was  of 
a diabolical  aspect,  with  coaling  for  the  Anti- 
podes ; lie  was  washing  decks  barefoot,  with  the 
breast  of  his  red  shirt  open  to  the  blast,  though 


SAILORS 


409 


SAILORS’  DANCE-HOUSE 


it  was  sharper  than  the  knife  in  his  leathern 
girdle  ; he  was  looking  over  bulwarks,  all  eyes 
and  hair  ; he  was  standing  by  at  the  shoot  of 
the  Cunard  steamer,  off  to-morrow,  as  the  stocks 
in  trade  of  several  butchers,  poulterers,  and  fish- 
mongers poured  down  into  the  ice-house  ; he  was 
coming  aboard  of  other  vessels,  with  his  kit  in  a 
tarpaulin,  bag,  attended  by  plunderers  to  the 
very  last  moment  of  his  shore-going  existence. 
As  though  his  senses,  when  released  from  the 
uproar  of  the  elements,  were  under  obligation 
to  be  confused  by  other  turmoil,  there  was  a 
rattling  of  wheels,  a clattering  of  hoofs,  a clash- 
ing of  iron,  a jolting  of  cotton  and  hides  and 
casks  and  timber,  an  incessant  deafening  disturb- 
ance on  the  quays,  that  was  the  very  madness 
of  sound.  And  as,  in  the  midst  of  it,  he  stood 
swaying  about,  with  his  hair  blown  all  manner 
of  wild  ways,  rather  crazedly  taking  leave  of  his 
plunderers,  all  the  rigging  in  the  docks  was 
shrill  in  the  wind,  and  every  little  steamer  com- 
ing and  going  across  the  Mersey  was  sharp  in 
its  blowing-off,  and  every  buoy  in  the  river  bob- 
bed spitefully  up  and  down,  as  if  there  were  a 
general  taunting  chorus  of  “ Come  along,  Mer- 
cantile Jack  ! Ill-lodged,  ill-fed,  ill-used,  ho- 
cussed,  entrapped,  anticipated,  cleaned  out ! 
Come  along ! Poor  Mercantile  Jack,  and  be 
tempest-tossed  till  you  are  drowned  ! ” 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  5. 

SAILORS— Their  characteristics. 

We  have  a pier — a queer  old  wooden  pier,  for- 
tunately without  the  slightest  pretensions  to  ar- 
chitecture, and  very  picturesque  in  consequence. 
Boats  are  hauled  up  upon  it,  ropes  are  coiled  all 
over  it ; lobster-pots,  nets,  masts,  oars,  spars, 
'sails,  ballast,  and  rickety  capstans,  make  a per- 
fect labyrinth  of  it.  Forever  hovering  about 
this  pier,  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  or 
leaning  over  the  rough  bulwark  it  opposes  to 
the  sea,  gazing  through  telescopes  which  they 
carry  about  in  the  same  profound  receptacles, 
are  the  Boatmen  of  our  watering-place.  Look- 
ing at  them,  you  would  say  that  surely  these 
must  be  the  laziest  boatmen  in  the  world.  They 
lounge  about,  in  obstinate  and  inflexible  panta- 
loons that  are  apparently  made  of  wood,  the 
whole  season  through.  Whether  talking  to- 
gether about  the  shipping  in  the  Channel,  or 
1 gruffly  unbending  over  mugs  of  beer  at  the 
public-house,  you  would  consider  them  the 
slowest  of  men.  The  chances  are  a thousand 
to  one  that  you  might  stay  here  for  ten  seasons, 
and  never  see  a boatman  in  a hurry.  A certain 
I expression  about  his  loose  hands,  when  they  are 
not  in  his  pockets,  as  if  he  were  carrying  a con- 
siderable lump  of  iron  in  each,  without  any  in- 
1 convenience,  suggests  strength,  but  he  never 
seems  to  use  it.  He  has  the  appearance  of  per- 
petually strolling — running  is  too  inappropriate 
a word  to  be  thought  of — to  seed.  The  only 
subject  on  which  he  seems  to  feel  any  approach 
■ to  enthusiasm,  is  pitch.  He  pitches  everything 
he  can  lay  hold  of — the  pier,  the  palings,  his 
i boat,  his  house — when  there  is  nothing  else  left 
he  turns  to  and  even  pitches  his  hat,  or  his  rough- 
| weather  clothing.  Do  not  judge  him  by  deceit- 
I ful  appearances.  These  are  among  the  bravest 
and  most  skillful  mariners  that  exist.  Let  a gale 
arise  and  swell  into  a storm,  let  a sea  run  that 
| might  appal  the  stoutest  heart  that  ever  beat, 
i let  the  Light-boat  on  these  dangerous  sands 


throw  up  a rocket  in  the  night,  or  let  them  hear 
through  the  angry  roar  the  signal-guns  of  a 
ship  in  distress,  and  these  men  spring  up  into 
activity  so  dauntless,  so  valiant,  and  heroic,  that 
the  world  cannot  surpass  it.  Cavillers  may  ob- 
ject that  they  chiefly  live  upon  the  salvage  of 
valuable  cargoes.  So  they  do,  and  God  knows 
it  is  no  great  living  that  they  get  out  of  the 
deadly  risks  they  run.  But  put  that  hope  of 
gain  aside.  Let  these  rough  fellows  be  asked, 
in  any  storm,  who  volunteers  for  the  life-boat  to 
save  some  perishing  souls,  as  poor  and  empty- 
handed  as  themselves,  whose  lives  the  perfection 
of  human  reason  does  not  rate  at  the  value  of  a 
farthing  each  ; and  that  boat  will  be  manned, 
as  surely  and  as  cheerfully,  as  if  a thousand 
pounds  were  told  down  on  the  weather-beaten 
pier.  For  this,  and  for  the  recollection  of  their 
comrades  whom  we  have  known,  whom  the  rag- 
ing sea  has  engulfed  before  their  children’s  eyes 
in  such  brave  efforts,  whom  the  secret  sand  has 
buried,  we  hold  the  boatmen  of  our  watering- 
place  in  our  love  and  honor,  and  are  tender  of 
the  fame  they  well  deserve. 

Our  English  Watering  Place.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

SAILORS’  DANCE-HOUSE-A. 

This  was  the  landlord,  in  a Greek  cap  and  a 
dress  half-Greek  and  half-English.  As  master 
of  the  ceremonies,  he  called  all  the  figures, 
and  occasionally  addressed  himself  parentheti- 
cally after  this  manner.  When  he  was  very 
loud,  I use  capitals. 

“Now  den!  Hoy!  One.  Right  and  left. 
(Put  a steam  on,  gib  ’um  powder.)  LA-dies’ 
chail.  BAL-loon  say.  Lemonade!  Two.  Ad- 
warnse  and  go  back  (gib  ’ell  a breakdown,  shake 
it  out  o’  yerselbs,  keep  a movil).  SwiNQ-cor- 
ners,  BAL-loon  say,  and  Lemonade  ! (Hoy  !) 
Three.  Gent  come  for’ard  with  a lady  and  go 
back,  hoppersite  come  for’ard  and  do  what  yer 
can.  (Aeiohoy !)  BAL-loon  say,  and  leetle  lem- 
onade (Dat  hair  nigger  by  ’um  fireplace ’hind  a’ 
time,  shake  it  out  o’  yerselbs,  gib  ’ell  a break- 
down). Now  den  ! Hoy!  Four!  Lemonade. 
BAL-loon  say,  and  swing.  Four  ladies  meets 
in  ’um  middle,  four  gents  goes  round  ’um 
ladies,  Four  gents  passes  out  under  ’um  ladies’ 
arms,  SWING — and  lemonade  till  ’a  moosic  can’t 
play  no  more  ! (Hoy,  Hoy  !)” 

The  male  dancers  were  all  blacks,  and  one 
was  an  unusually  powerful  man  of  six  feet 
three  or  four.  The  sound  of  their  flat  feet 
on  the  floor  was  as  unlike  the  sound  of  white 
feet  as  their  faces  were  unlike  white  faces.  They 
toed  and  heeled,  shuffled,  double-shuffled,  dou- 
ble-double-shuffled, covered  the  buckle,  and  beat 
the  time  out  rarely,  dancing  with  a great  show 
of  teeth,  and  with  a childish  good-humored  en- 
joyment that  was  very  prepossessing.  They 
generally  kept  together,  these  poor  fellows,  said 
Mr.  Superintendent,  because  they  were  at  a dis- 
advantage singly,  and  liable  to  slights  in  the 
neighboring  streets.  But  if  I were  Light  Jack, 
I should  be  very  slow  to  interfere  oppressively 
with  Dark  Jack  ; for,  whenever  I have  had  to 
do  with  him,  I have  found  him  a simple  and  a 
gentle  fellow.  Bearing  this  in  mind,  I asked 
his  friendly  permission  to  leave  him  restoration 
of  beer,  in  wishing  him  good  night,  and  thus  it 
fell  out  that  the  last  words  I heal'd  him  say,  as 
I blundered  down  the  worn  stairs,  were,  “ Jeb- 
blem’s  elth  ! Ladies  drinks  fust ! ” 


SAILOR 


410 


SAIREY  0.0? 


The  night  was  now  well  on  into  the  morning, 
but  for  miles  and  hours  we  explored  a strange 
world,  where  nobody  ever  goes  to  bed,  but 
everybody  is  eternally  sitting  up,  waiting  for 
Jack.  This  exploration  was  among  a labyrinth 
of  dismal  courts  and  blind  alleys,  called  Entries, 
kept  in  wonderful  order  by  the  police,  and  in 
much  better  order  than  by  the  corporation. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  5. 

SAILOR— Description  of  Sol  Gills. 

A weazen,  old,  crab-faced  man,  in  a suit  of 
battered  oilskin,  who  had  got  tough  and  stringy 
from  long  pickling  in  salt  water,  and  who  smelt 
like  a weedy  sea-beach  when  the  tide  is  out. 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  8. 

To  s«iy  nothing  of  his  Welsh  wig,' which  was 
as  plain  and  stubborn  a Welsh  wig  as  ever  was 
worn,  and  in  which  he  looked  like  anything  but 
a Rover,  he  was  a slow,  quiet-spoken,  thought- 
ful old  fellow,  with  eyes  as  red  as  if  they  had 
been  small  suns  looking  at  you  through  a fog  ; 
and  a newly-awakened  manner,  such  as  he 
might  have  acquired  by  having  stared  for  three 
or  four  days  successively  through  every  optical 
instrument  in  his  shop,  and  suddenly  came  back 
to  the  world  again,  to  find  it  green. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  4. 

SAILOR— Home  of  Sol  Gills. 

Such  extraordinary  precautions  were  taken  in 
every  instance  to  save  room,  and  keep  the  thing 
compact ; and  so  much  practical  navigation  was 
fitted,  and  cushioned,  and  screwed  into  every 
box  (whether  the  box  was  a mere  slab,  as  some 
were,  or  something  between  a cocked  hat  and  a 
star-fish,  as  others  were,  and  those  quite  mild 
and  modest  boxes  as  compared  with  others) ; 
that  the  shop  itself,  partaking  of  the  general  in- 
fection, seemed  almost  to  become  a snug,  sea- 
going, ship-shape  concern,  wanting  only  good 
sea-room,  in  the  event  of  an  unexpected  launch, 
to  work  its  way  securely  to  any  desert  island  in 
the  world. 

Many  minor  incidents  in  the  household  life 
of  the  Ships’  Instrument-maker,  who  was  proud 
of  his  little  Midshipman,  assisted  and  bore  out 
this  fancy.  His  acquaintance  lying  chiefly 
among  ship-chandlers  and  so  forth,  he  had  al- 
ways plenty  of  the  veritable  ships’  biscuit  on  his 
table.  It  was  familiar  with  dried  meats  and 
tongues,  possessing  an  extraordinary  flavor  of 
rope-yarn.  Pickles  were  produced  upon  it,  in 
great  wholesale  jars,  with  “ dealer  in  all  kinds 
of  Ships’  Provisions  ” on  the  label  ; spirits  were 
set  forth  in  case  bottles  with  no  throats.  Old 
prints  of  ships  with  alphabetical  references  to 
their  various  mysteries,  hung  in  frames  upon 
the  walls ; the  Tartar  Frigate  under  weigh, 
was  on  the  plates  ; outlandish  shells,  seaweeds, 
and  mosses,  decorated  the  chimneypiece  ; the 
little  wainseotted  back  parlor  was  lighted  by 
a sky-light,  like  a cabin. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  .4. 

SAIREY  GAMP  and  Betsey  Prig-. 

Her  toilet  was  simple.  She  had  merely  to 
“ chuck”  her  bonnet  and  shawl  upon  the  bed  ; 
give  her  hair  two  pulls,  one  upon  the  right  side 
and  one  upon  the  left,  as  if  she  were  ringing  a 
couple  of  bells  ; and  all  was  done.  The  tea 
was  already  made,  Mrs.  Gamp  was  not  long  over 


the  salad,  and  they  were  soon  at  the  height  of 
their  repast. 

The  temper  of  both  parties  was  improved,  for 
the  time  being,  by  the  enjoyments  of  the  table. 
When  the  meal  came  to  a termination  (which  it 
was  pretty  long  in  doing),  and  Mrs.  Gamp  having 
cleared  away,  produced  the  tea-pot  from  the  top- 
shelf,  simultaneously  with  a couple  of  wine- 
glasses, they  were  quite  amiable. 

“ Betsey,”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  filling  her  own 
glass,  and  passing  the  tea-pot,  “ I will  now  pro- 
poge  a toast.  My  frequent  pardner,  Betsey  Prig! 11 

“ Which,  altering  the  name  to  Sairah  Gamp  ; 
I drink,”  said  Mrs.  Prig,  “ with  love  and  tender- 
ness.” 

From  this  moment  symptoms  of  inflammation 
began  to  lurk  in  the  nose  of  each  lady  ; and  per- 
haps, notwithstanding  all  appearances  to  the 
contrary,  in  the  temper  also. 

* * * * * 

The  best  among  us  have  their  failings,  and  it 
must  be  conceded  of  Mrs.  Prig,  that  if  there 
were  a blemish  in  the  goodness  of  her  disposi- 
tion, it  was  a habit  she  had  of  not  bestowing  all 
its  sharp  and  acid  properties  upon  her  patients 
(as  a thoroughly  amiable  woman  would  have 
done),  but  of  keeping  a considerable  remainder 
for  the  service  of  her  friends.  Highly  pickled 
salmon,  and  lettuces  chopped  up  in  vinegar,  may, 
as  viands  possessing  some  acidity  of  their  own, 
have  encouraged  and  increased  this  failing  in 
Mrs.  Prig  ; and  every  application  to  the  tea-pot 
certainly  did  ; for  it  was  often  remarked  of  her 
by  her  friends,  that  she  was  most  contradictory 
when  most  elevated.  It  is  certain  that  her  coun- 
tenance became  about  this  time  derisive  and  de- 
fiant, and  that  she  sat  with  her  arms  folded,  and 
one  eye  shut  up,  in  a somewhat  offensive,  be- 
came obtrusively  intelligent,  manner. 

Mrs.  Gamp  observing  this,  felt  it  the  more 
necessary  that  Mrs.  Prig  should  know  her  place, 
and  be  made  sensible  of  her  exact  station  in  so- 
ciety, as  well  as  of  her  obligations  to  herself. 
She  therefore  assumed  an  air  of  greater  patronage 
and  importance,  as  she  went  on  to  answer  Mrs. 
Prig  a little  more  in  detail. 

“ Mr.  Chuffey,  Betsey,”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  “ is 
weak  in  his  mind.  Excuge  me  if  I makes  remark, 
that  he  may  neither  be  so  weak  as  people  thinks, 
nor  people  may  not  think  he  is  so  weak  as  they 
pretends,  and  what  I knows,  I knows  ; and  what 
you  don’t,  you  don’t  ; so  do  not  ask  me,  Betsey. 
But  Mr.  Chuffey’s  friends'  has  made  propojals 
for  his  bein’  took  care  on,  and  has  said  to  me, 
‘Mrs.  Gamp,  will  you  undertake  it?  We 
couldn’t  think,’  they  says,  ‘ of  trusting  him  to 
nobody  but  you,  for,  Sairey,  you  are  gold  as  has 
passed  the  furnage.  Will  you  undertake  it,  at 
your  own  price,  day  and  night,  and  by  your  own 
self  ? ’ ‘ No,’  I says,  ‘ I will  not.  Do  not  reckon 

on  it.  There  is,’  I says,  ‘but  one  creetur  in  the 
world  as  I would  undertake  on  sech  terms,  and 
her  name  is  Harris.  But,’  I says,  ‘ I am  ac 
quainted  with  a friend,  whose  name  is  Betsey 
Prig,  that  I can  recommend,  and  will  assist  me. 
Betsey,’  I says,  ‘ is  always  to  be  trusted,  under 
me,  and  will  be  guided  as  I could  desire.’  ” 

Here  Mrs.  Prig,  without  any  abatement  of  her 
offensive  manner,  again  counterfeited  abstrac- 
tion of  mind,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  the 
tea-pot.  It  was  more  than  Mrs.  Gamp  could 
bear.  She  stopped  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Prig  with 
her  own,  and  said,  with  great  feeling  : 


SAIREY  GAMP 


411 


SAIREY  GAMP 


“ No,  Betsey  ! Drink  fair,  wotever  you  do  ! ” 

Mrs.  Prig,  thus  baffled,  threw  herself  back  in 
her  chair,  and  closing  the  same  eye  more  em- 
phatically, and  folding  her  arms  tighter,  suffered 
her  head  to  roll  slowly  from  side  to  side,  while 
she  surveyed  her  friend  with  a contemptuous 
smile. 

Mi's.  Gamp  resumed : 

“ Mrs.  Harris,  Betsey — ” 

“ Bother  Mrs.  Harris  ! ” said  Betsey  Prig. 

Mrs.  Gamp  looked  at  her  with  amazement, 
incredulity,  and  indignation  ; when  Mrs.  Prig, 
shutting  her  eye  still  closer,  and  folding  her 
arms  still  tighter,  uttered  these  memorable  and 
tremendous  words : 

“ I don’t  believe  there’s  no  sich  a person  !” 

After  the  utterance  of  which  expressions,  she 
leaned  forward,  and  snapped  her  fingers  once, 
twice,  thrice  ; each  time  nearer  to  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Gamp,  and  then  rose  to  put  on  her  bonnet,  as 
one  who  felt  that  there  was  now  a gulf  between 
them,  which  nothing  could  ever  bridge  across. 

The  shock  of  this  blow  was  so  violent  and 
sudden,  that  Mrs.  Gamp  sat  staring  at  nothing 
with  uplifted  eyes,  and  her  mouth  open  as  if  she 
were  gasping  for  breath,  until  Betsey  Prig  had 
put  on  her  bonnet  and  her  shawl,  and  was  gath- 
ering the  latter  about  her  throat.  Then  Mrs. 
Gamp  rose — morally  and  physically  rose — and 
denounced  her. 

“What  !”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  “you  bage  cree- 
tur,  have  I lcnow’d  Mrs.  Harris  five  and  thirty 
year,  to  be  told  at  last  that  there  ain’t  no  sech  a 
person  livin’  ! Have  I stood  her  friend  in  all 
her  troubles,  great  and  small,  for  it  to  come  at 
last  to  sech  a end  as  this,  which  her  own  sweet 
picter  hanging  up  afore  you  all  the  time,  to 
shame  your  Bragian  words ! But  well  you 
mayn’t  believe  there’s  no  sech  a creetur,  for  she 
wouldn’t  demean  herself  to  look  at  you,  and 
often  has  she  said,  when  I have  made  mention 
of  your  name,  which,  to  my  sinful  sorrow,  I have 
done,  ‘ What,  Sairey  Gamp  ! debage  yourself  to 
her  ! ’ Go  along  with  you  ! ” 

“ I’m  a goin’,  ma’am,  ain’t  I ? ” said  Mrs.  Prig, 
stopping  as  she  said  it. 

“ You  had  better,  ma’am,”  said  Mrs.  Gamp. 

“ Do  you  know  who  you’re  talking  to, 
ma’am  ? ” inquired  her  visitor. 

“ Aperiently,”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  surveying  her 
with  scorn  from  head  to  foot,  “ to  Betsey  Prig. 
Aperiently  so.  I know  her.  No  one  better. 
Go  along  with  you  ! ” 

Hs  * * * * 

Mrs.  Gamp  had  in  the  meantime  sunk  into 
her  chair,  from  whence,  turning  up  her  over- 
flowing eyes,  and  clasping  her  hands,  she  de- 
livered the  following  lamentation  : 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Sweedlepipes,  which  Mr.  Westlock 
also,  if  my  eyes  do  not  deceive,  and  a friend  not 
havin’  the  pleasure  of  bein’  beknown,  wot  I 
have  took  from  Betspy  Prig  this  blessed  night, 
no  mortial  creetur  knows  ! If  she  had  abuged 
me,  bein’  in  liquor,  which  I thought  I smelt  her 
wen  she  come,  but  could  not  so  believe,  not 
bein’  used  myself” — Mrs.  Gamp,  by  the  way, 
was  pretty  far  gone,  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
tea-pot  was  strong  in  the  room — “ I could  have 
bore  it  with  a thankful  art.  But  the  words  she 
spoke  of  Mrs.  Harris,  lambs  could  not  forgive. 
No,  Betsey!”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  in  a violent 
burst  of  feeling,  “ nor  worms  forget  ! ” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit, , Chap . 49. 


SAIREY  GAMP- And  Mrs.  Harris. 

“There  are  some  happy  creeturs,”  Mrs. 
Gamp  observed,  “ as  time  runs  back’ards  with, 
and  you  are  one,  Mrs.  Mould  ; not  that  he  need 
do  nothing  except  use  you  in  his  most  owl- 
dacious  way  for  years  to  come,  I’m  sure  ; for 
young  you  are  and  will  be,  I says  to  Mrs.  Harris,” 
Mrs.  Gamp  continued,  “ only  t’other  day  ; the 
last  Monday  evening  fortnight  as  ever  dawned 
upon  this  Piljian’s  Projiss  of  a mortal  wale  ; I 
says  to  Mrs.  Harris  when  she  says  to  me,  'Years 
and  our  trials,  Mrs.  Gamp,  sets  marks  upon  us 
all,’ — ‘ Say  not  the  words,  Mrs.  Harris,  if  you 
and  me  is  to  -be  continual  friends,  for  sech  is 
not  the  case.  Mrs.  Mould,’  I says,  making  so 
free,  I will  confess,  as  to  use  the  name”  (she  curt- 
seyed here),  “ ‘ is  one  of  them  that  goes  agen 
the  obserwation  straight,  and  never,  Mrs..  Harris, 
whilst  I’ve  a drop  of  breath  to  draw,  will  I set 
by,  and  not  stand  up,  don’t  think  it.’— ‘ I ast 
your  pardon,  ma’am,’  says  Mrs.  Harris,  ‘ and  I 
humbly  grant  your  grace  ; for  if  ever  a woman 
lived  as  would  see  her  feller  creeturs  into  fits  to 
serve  her  friends,  well  do  I know  that  woman’s 
name  is  Sairey  Gamp.’  ” 

At  this  point  she  was  fain  to  stop  for  breath, 
and  advantage  may  be  taken  of  the  circumstance 
to  state,  that  a fearful  mystery  surrounded  this 
lady  of  the  name  of  Harris,  whom  no  one  in 
the  circle  of  Mrs.  Gamp’s  acquaintance  had  ever 
seen,  neither  did  any  human  being  know  her 
place  of  residence,  though  Mrs.  Gamp  appeared 
on  her  own  showing  to  be  in  constant  com- 
munication with  her.  There  were  conflicting 
rumors  on  the  subject  ; but  the  prevalent  opinion 
was  that  she  was  a phantom  of  Mrs.  Gamp’s 
brain — as  Messrs.  Doe  and  Roe  are  fictions  of 
the  law — created  for  the  express  purpose  of 
holding  visionary  dialogues  with  heron  all  man- 
ner of  subjects,  and  invariably  winding  up  with 
a compliment  to  the  excellence  of  her  nature. 

“ And  likewise  what  a pleasure,”  said  Mrs. 
Gamp,  turning  with  a tearful  smile  towards  the 
daughters,  “ to  see'  them  two  young  ladies  as  I 
know’d  afore  a tooth  in  their  pretty  heads  was 
cut,  and  have  many  a day  seen — ah,  the  sweet 
creeturs  ! — playing  at  berryins  down  in  the 
shop,  and  follerin’  the  order-book  to  its  long 
home  in  the  iron  safe  ! ” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  25. 

SAIREY  GAMP— Her  observations. 

“ You  may  say  whatever  you  wish  to  say  here, 
Mrs.  Gamp,”  said  that  gentleman,  shaking  his 
head  with  a melancholy  expression. 

“ It  is  not  much  as  1 have  to  say,  when  people 
is  a mourning  for  the  dead  and  gone,”  said 
Mrs.  Gamp  ; “ but  what  I have  to  say  is  to  the 
pint  and  purpose,  and  no  offence  intended,  must 
be  so  considered.  I have  been  at  a many  places 
in  my  time,  gentlemen,  and  I hope  I knows  what 
my  duties  is,  and  how  the  same  should  be  per- 
formed ; in  course,  if  I did  not,  it  would  be  very 
strange,  and  very  wrong  in  sich  a gentleman  as 
Mr.  Mould,  which  has  undertook  the  highest 
families  in  this  land,  and  given  every  satisfaction, 
so  to  recommend  me  as  he  does.  I have  seen  a 
deal  of  trouble  my  own  self,”  said  Mrs.  Gamp, 
laying  greater  and  greater  stress  upon  her  words, 
“ and  I can  feel  for  them  as  has  their  feelings 
tried,  but  I am  not  a Rooshan  or  a Prooshan, 
and  consequently  cannot  suffer  spies  to  be  set 
over  me.” 


SAIREY  GAMP 


412 


SAIREY  GAMP 


Before  it  was  possible  that  an  answer  could 
be  returned,  Mrs.  Gamp,  growing  redder  in  the 
face,  went  on  to  say  : 

“ It  is  not  a easy  matter,  gentlemen,  to  live 
when  you  are  left  a widder  woman ; particular 
when  your  feelings  works  upon  you  to  that  ex- 
tent that  you  often  find  yourself  a going  out,  on 
terms  which  is  a certain  loss,  and  never  can  re- 
pay. But,  in  whatever  way  you  earns  your 
bread,  you  may  have  rules  and  regulations  of 
your  own,  which  cannot  be  broke  through. 
Some  people,”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  again  entrench- 
ing herself  behind  her  strong  point,  as  if  it  were 
not  assailable  by  human  ingenuity,  “ may  be 
Rooshans,  and  others  may  be  Prooshans  ; they 
are  born  so,  and  will  please  themselves.  Them 
which  is  of  other  naturs  thinks  different.” 

* * * * -* 

“You  have  become  indifferent  since  then,  I 
suppose  ? ” said  Mr.  Pecksniff.  “ Use  is  second 
nature,  Mrs.  Gamp.” 

“You  may  well  say  second  nater,  sir,”  re- 
turned that  lady.  “ One’s  first  ways  is  to  find 
sich  things  a trial  to  the  feelings,  and  so  is  one’s 
lasting  custom.  If  it  wasn’t  for  the  nerve  a 
little  sip  of  liquor  gives  me  (I  never  was  able  to 
do  more  than  taste  it),  I never  could  go  through 
with  what  I sometimes  has  to  do.  ‘ Mrs.  Har- 
ris,’ I says,  at  the  very  last  case  as  ever  I acted 
in,  which  it  was  but  a young  person,  ‘ Mrs.  Har- 
ris,’ I says,  ‘ leave  the  bottle  on  the  chimney- 
piece  and  don’t  ask  me  to  take  none,  but  let  me 
put  my  lips  to  it  when  I am  so  dispoged,  and 
then  I will  do  what  I’m  engaged  to  do,  accord- 
ing to  the  best  of  my  ability.’  ‘ Mrs.  Gamp,’ 
she  says,  in  answer,  ‘if  ever  there  was  a sober 
creetur  to  be  got  at  eighteen-pence  a day  for 
working  people,  and  three  and  six  for  gentle- 
folks— night  watching,”’  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  with 
emphasis,  “ ‘ being  a extra  charge — you  are  that 
inwallable  person.'  ‘ Mrs.  Harris,’  I says  to  her, 
‘ don’t  name  the  charge,  for  if  I could  afford  to 
lay  all  my  feller  creeturs  out  for  nothink,  I would 
gladly  do  it,  sich  is  the  love  I bears  ’em.  But 
what  I always  says  to  them  as  has  the  manage- 
ment of  matters,  Mrs.  Harris  ” here  she  kept 
her  eye  on  Mr.  Pecksniff ; “‘be  they  gents  or 
be  they  ladies,  is,  don’t  ask  me  whether  I won’t 
take  none,  or  whether  I will,  but  leave  the  bot- 
tle on  the  chimney  piece,  and  let  me  put  my 
lips  to  it  when  I am  so  dispoged.’  ” 

The  conclusion  of  this  affecting  narrative 
brought  them  to  the  house. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  19. 

SAIREY  GAMP-On  drinking-. 

Mrs.  Gamp  took  the  chair  that  was  nearest 
the  door,  and  casting  up  her  eyes  towards  the 
ceiling,  feigned  to  be  wholly  insensible  to  the 
fact  of  a glass  of  rum  being  in  preparation,  until 
it  was  placed  in  her  hand  by  one  of  the  young 
ladies,  when  she  exhibited  the  greatest  sur- 
prise. 

“A  thing,”  she  said,  “as  hardly  ever,  Mrs. 
Mould,  occurs  with  me  unless  it  is  when  I am 
indispoged,  and  find  my  half  a pint  of  porter 
settling  heavy  on  the  chest.  Mrs.  Harris  often 
and  often  says  to  me,  ‘ Sairey  Gamp,’  she  says, 
* you  raly  do  amaze  me  ! ’ ‘ Mrs.  Harris,’  T says 

to  her,  ‘ why  so?  Give  it  a name,  I beg.’  ‘ Tell- 
ing the  truth  then,  ma’am,’  says  M is.  Harris,  ‘ and 
shaming  him  as  shall  be  nameless  betwixt  you 
ami  me,  never  did  1 think  till  I know’d  you,  as 


any  woman  could  sick-nurse  and  monthly  like- 
ways,  on  the  little  that  you  takes  to  drink/ 

‘ Mrs.  Harris,’  I says  to  her,  * none  on  us  knows 
what  we  can  do  till  we  tries;  and  wunst,  when 
me  and  Gamp  kept  ouse,  I thought  so  too.  But 
now,’  I says,  ‘ my  half  a pint  of  porter  fully 
satisfies ; penvisin’,  Mrs.  Harris,  that  it  is 
brought  reg’lar,  and  draw’d  mild.  Whether  I 
sicks  or  monthlies,  ma’am,  I hope  I does  my 
duty,  but  I am  but  a poor  woman,  and  I earns 
my  living  hard  ; therefore  I do  require  it,  which 
I makes  confession,  to  be  brought  reg’lar  and 
draw’d  mild.’  ” 

The  precise  connection  between  these  obser- 
vations and  the  glass  of  rum,  did  not  appear  ; 
for  Mrs.  Gamp  proposing  as  a toast  “ The  best 
of  lucks  to  all  ! ” took  off  the  dram  in  quite  a 
scientific  manner,  without  any  further  remarks. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  25. 

SAIREY  GAMP— On  human  anticipations. 

“ That  is  the  Antwerp  packet  in  the  middle,” 
said  Ruth. 

“ And  I wish  it  was  in  Jonadge’s  belly,  I do,” 
cried  Mrs.  Gamp  ; appearing  to  confound  the 
prophet  with  the  whale  in  this  miraculous  as- 
piration. 

Ruth  said  nothing  in  reply;  but  as  Mrs. 
Gamp,  laying  her  chin  against  the  cool  iron  of 
the  rail,  continued  to  look  intently  at  the  Ant- 
werp boat,  and  every  now  and  then  to  give  a 
little  groan,  she  inquired  whether  any  child  of 
hers  was  going  abroad  that  morning  ? Or  per- 
haps her  husband,  she  said  kindly. 

“ Which  shows,”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  casting  up 
her  eyes,  “ what  a little  way  you’ve  travelled  into 
this  wale  of  life,  my  dear  young  creetur  ! As  a 
good  friend  of  mine  has  frequent  made  remark 
to  me,  which  her  name,  my  love,  is  Harris,  Mrs. 
Harris,  through  the  square  and  up  the  steps  a 
turnin’  round  by  the  tobacker  shop,  ‘ Oh  Sairey, 
Sairey,  little  do  we  know  wot  lays  afore  us!’ 
‘ Mrs.  Harris,  ma’am,’  I says,  ‘ not  much,  it’s 
true,  but  more  than  you  suppoge.  Our  calcila- 
tions,  ma’am,’  I says,  ‘ respectin’  wot  the  num- 
ber of  a family  will  be,  comes  most  times  within 
one,  and  oftener  than  you  would  suppoge,  ex- 
act.’ ‘ Sairey,’  says  Mrs.  Harris,  in  an  awful 
way,  ‘Tell  me  wot  is  my  indiwidgle  number/ 
‘No,  Mrs.  Harris/  I says  to  her,  ‘ex-cuge  me, 
if  you  please.  My  own,’  I says,  ‘has  fallen  out 
of  three-pair  backs,  and  had  damp  doorsteps 
settled  on  their  lungs,  and  one  was  turned  up 
smilin’  in  a bedstead,  unbeknown.  Therefore, 
ma’am,’  I says,  ‘ seek  not  to  proticipate,  but  take 
’em  as  they  come  and  as  they  go.’  Mine,”  said 
Mrs.-Gamp,  “ mine  is  all  gone,  my  dear  young 
chick.  And  as  to  husbands,  there’s  a wooden 
leg  gone  likeways  home  to  its  account,  which 
in  its  constancy  of  walkin’  into  wine  vaults, 
and  never  cornin’  out  again  ’till  fetched  by 
force,  was  quite,  as  weak  4s  flesh,  if  not  weak- 
er.” 

When  she  had  delivered  this  oration,  Mrs. 
Gamp  leaned  her  chin  upon  the  cool  iron  again  ; 
and  looking  intently  at  the  Antwerp  packet, 
shook  her  head  and  groaned. 

Martin  Chuzzlezuit , Chap.  40. 

SAIREY  GAMP— On  steamboats. 

She  paused  here,  to  look  over  the  deck  of  the 
packet  in  question,  and  on  the  steps  leading 
down  to  it,  and  on  the  gangways.  Seeming  to 


SAIREY  GAMP 


413 


SAVAGE 


have  thus  assured  herself  that  the  object  of  her 
commiseration  had  not  yet  arrived,  she  raised 
her  eyes  gradually  up  to  the  top  of  the  escape- 
pipe,  and  indignantly  apostrophised  the  vessel : 

“ Oh  drat  you  ! ” said  Mrs.  Gamp,  shaking  her 
umbrella  at  it,  “you’re  a nice  spluttering  nisy 
monster  for  a delicate  young  creetur  to  go  and 
be  a passenger  by  ; ain’t  you  ! You  never  do  no 
harm  in  that  way,  do  you?  With  your  ham- 
mering, and  roaring,  and  hissing,  and  lamp-iling, 
you  brute  ! Them  Confugion  steamers,”  said 
Mrs.  Gamp,  shaking  her  umbrella  again,  “ has 
done  more  to  throw  us  out  of  our  reg’lar  work 
and  bring  ewents  on  at  times  when  nobody 
counted  on  ’em  (especially  them  screeching  rail- 
road ones),  than  all  the  other  frights  that  ever 
was  took.  I have  heerd  of  one  young  man,  a 
guard  upon  a railway,  only  three  years  opened — 
well  does  Mi*s.  Harris  know  him,  which  indeed 
he  is  her  own  relation  by  her  sister’s  marriage 
with  a master  sawyer — as  is  godfather  at  this 
present  time  to  six-and-twenty  blessed  little 
strangers,  equally  unexpected,  and  all  on  ’um 
named  after  the  Ingeins  as  was  the  cause. 
Ugh!”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  resuming  her  apos- 
trophe,“ one  might  easy  know  you  was  a man’s  in- 
vention, from  your  disregardlessness  of  the  weak- 
ness of  our  naturs,  so  one  might,  you  brute  ! ” 

It  would  not  have  been  unnatural  to  suppose, 
from  the  first  part  of  Mrs.  Gamp’s  lamentations, 
that  she  was  connected  with  the  stage-coaching 
or  post-horsing  trade.  She  had  no  means  of 
judging  of  the  effect  of  her  concluding  remarks 
upon  her  young  companion  ; for  she  interrupted 
herself  at  this  point,  and  exclaimed  : 

“ There  she  identically  goes  ! Poor  sweet 
young  creetur,  there  she  goes,  like  a lamb  to 
the  sacrifige  ! If  there’s  any  illness  when  that 
wessel  gets  to  sea,”  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  propheti- 
cally, “ it’s  murder,  and  I’m  the  witness  for  the 
persecution.” — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  40. 

SAIREY  GAMP- Will  not  suffer  “ impo- 
gician.” 

“ I am  but  a poor  woman,  but  I’ve  been 
sought  arter,  sir,  though  you  may  not  think  it. 
I’ve  been  knocked  up  at  all  hours  of  the  night, 
and  warned  out  by  a many  landlords,  in  conse- 
quence of  being  mistook  for  Fire.  I goes  out 
working  for  my  bread,  ’tis  true,  but  I maintains 
my  independency,  with  your  kind  leave,  and 
which  I will  till  death.  I has  my  feelins  as  a 
woman,  sir,  and  I have  been  a mother  likeways, 
but  touch  a pipkin  as  belongs  to  me,  or  make 
the  least  remarks  on  what  I eats  or  drinks,  and 
though  you  was  the  favoritest  young  for’ard 
hussy  of  a servant-gal  as  ever  come  into  a 
house,  either  you  leaves  the  place,  or  me.  My 
earnings  is  not  great,  sir,  but  I will  not  be  im- 
poged  upon.  Bless  the  babe,  and  save  the 
mother,  is  my  mortar,  sir  ; but  I makes  so  free 
as  add  to  that,  Don’t  try  no  impogician  with 
the  Nuss,  for  she  will  not  a bear  it ! ” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  40. 

SALUTATION— A hearty. 

With  great  heartiness,  therefore,  the  Captain 
once  again  extended  his  enormous  hand  (not 
unlike  an  old  block  in  color),  and  gave  him  a 
grip  that  left  upon  his  smoother  flesh  a proof 
impression  of  the  chinks  and  crevices  with 
which  the  Captain’s  palm  was  liberally  tattooed. 

Dombey  dr"  Son , Chap.  17. 


SALUTATION— The  Conventional. 

“ Mrs.  Pipchin,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “ How  do 
you  do  ? ” 

“ Thank  you,  Sir,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  “ I am 
pretty  well,  considering.” 

Mrs.  Pipchin  always  used  that  form  of 
words.  It  meant,  considering  her  virtues,  sac- 
rifices, and  so  forth. 

Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  11. 

SANDWICH- A Mugrby  Station. 

“ Well,”  said  Our  Missis,  with  dilated  nos- 
trils. “ Take  a fresh,  crisp,  long,  crusty,  penny 
loaf  made  of  the  whitest  and  best  flour.  Cut 
it  longwise  through  the  middle.  Insert  a fair 
and  nicely  fitting  slice  of  ham.  Tie  a smart 
piece  of  ribbon  round  the  middle  of  the  whole 
to  bind  it  together.  Add  at  one  end  a neat 
wrapper  of  clean  white  paper  by  which  to  hold 
it.  And  the  universal  French  Refreshment  sang- 
wich  busts  on  your  disgusted  vision.” 

Boy  at  Mugby. 

SANDWICHES— And  entertainment. 

Between  the  pieces  we  almost  all  of  us  went 
out  and  refreshed.  Many  of  us  went  the 
length  of  drinking  beer  at  the  bar  of  the  neigh- 
boring public-house,  some  of  us  drank  spirits, 
crowds  of  us  had  sandwiches  and  ginger-beer 
at  the  refreshment  bars  established  for  us  in 
the  Theatre.  The  sandwich — as  substantial  as 
was  consistent  with  portability,  and  as  cheap 
as  possible — we  hailed  as  one  of  our  greatest 
institutions.  It  forced  its  way  among  us  at 
all  stages  of  the  entertainment,  and  we  were 
always  delighted  to  see  it ; its  adaptability  to 
the  varying  moods  of  our  nature  was  surprising  ; 
we  could  never  weep  so  comfortably  as  when 
our  tears  fell  on  our  sandwich  ; we  could  never 
laugh  so  heartily  as  when  we  choked  with  sand- 
wich ; Virtue  never  looked  so  beautiful  or  Vice 
so  deformed  as  when  we  paused,  sandwich  in 
hand,  to  consider  what  would  come  of  that  res- 
olution of  Wickedness  in  boots  to  sever  Inno- 
cence in  flowered  chintz  from  Honest  Industry 
in  striped  stockings.  When  the  curtain  fell  for 
the  night,  we  still  fell  back  upon  sandwich,  to 
help  us  through  the  rain  and  mire,  and  home 
to  bed. — Uncojinnercial  Traveller , Chap.  4. 

SARCASM— Its  expression. 

The  thin  straight  lines  of  the  setting  of  the 
eyes,  and  the  thin  straight  lips,  and  the  mark- 
ings in  the  nose,  curved  with  a sarcasm  that 
looked  handsomely  diabolic. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  9. 

SAVAGE -The  noble,  a delusion. 

To  come  to  the  point  at  once,  I beg  to  say 
that  I have  not  the  least  belief  in  the  Noble 
Savage.  I consider  him  a prodigious  nuisance, 
and  an  enormous  superstition.  His  calling  rum 
fire-water,  and  me  a pale-face,  wholly  fail  to 
reconcile  me  to  him.  I don’t  care  what  he  calls 
me.  I call  him  a savage,  and  I call  a savage  a 
something  highly  desirable  to  be  civilized  off 
the  face  of  the  earth.  I think  a mere  gent 
(which  I take  to  be  the  lowest  form  of  civdiza- 
tion)  better  than  a howling,  whistling,  e.uck- 
ing,  stamping,  jumping,  tearing  savage.  It  is 
all  one  to  me,  whether  he  sticks  a fish-bone 
through  his  visage,  or  bits  of  trees  through  the 
lobes  of  his  ears,  or  birds’  feathers  in  his  head 


SAVAGE 


414 


SAVAGE 


whether  he  flattens  his  hair  between  two  boards, 
or  spreads  his  nose  over  the  breadth  of  his  face, 
or  drags  his  lower  lip  down  by  great  weights, 
or  blackens  his  teeth,  or  knocks  them  out,  or 
paints  one  cheek  red  and  the  other  blue,  or 
tattooes  himself,  or  oils  himself,  or  rubs  his  body 
with  fat,  or  crimps  it  with  knives.  Yielding  to 
whichsoever  of  these  agreeable  eccentricities, 
he  is  a savage — cruel,  false,  thievish,  murder- 
ous ; addicted  more  or  less  to  grease,  entrails, 
and  beastly  customs  ; a wild  animal  with  the 
questionable  gift  of  boasting  ; a conceited,  tire- 
some, bloodthirsty,  monotonous  humbug. 

Yet  it  is  extraordinary  to  observe  how  some 
people  will  talk  about  him,  as  they  talk  about 
the  good  old  times  ; how  they  will  regret  his 
disappearance,  in  the  course  of  this  world’s  de- 
velopment, from  such  and  such  lands — where  his 
absence  is  a blessed  relief  and  an  indispensable 
preparation  for  the  sowing  of  the  very  first  seeds 
of  any  influence  that  can  exalt  humanity — how, 
even  with  the  evidence  of  himself  before  them, 
they  will  either  be  determined  to  believe,  or 
will  suffer  themselves  to  be  persuaded  into  be- 
lieving, that  he  is  something  which  their  five 
senses  tell  them  he  is  not. 

* % * * * 

Mine  are  no  new  views  of  the  noble  savage. 
The  greatest  writers  on  natural  history  found 
him  out  long  ago.  Buff’ON  knew  what  he  was, 
and  showed  him  why  he  is  the  sulky  tyrant  that 
he  is  to  his  women,  and  how  it  happens  (Heav- 
en be  praised  !)  that  his  race  is  spare  in  num- 
bers. For  evidence  of  the  quality  of  his  moral 
nature,  pass  himself  for  a moment  and  refer  to 
his  “ faithful  dog.”  Has  he  ever  improved  a 
dog,  or  attached  a dog,  since  his  nobility  first 
ran  wild  in  woods,  and  was  brought  down  (at  a 
very  long  shot)  by  Pope?  Or  does  the  animal 
that  is  the  friend  of  man,  always  degenerate  in 
his  low  society? 

It  is  not  the  miserable  nature  of  the  noble 
savage  that  is  the  new  thing  ; it  is  the  whimper- 
ing over  him  with  maudlin  admiration,  and  the 
affecting  to  regret  him,  and  the  drawing  of  any 
comparison  of  advantage  between  the  blemishes 
of  civilization  and  the  tenor  of  his  swinish  life. 
There  may  have  been  a change  now  and  then 
in  those  diseased  absurdities,  but  there  is  none 
in  him. 

sic  sis  % sjs 

The  noble  savage  sets  a king  to  reign  over 
him,  to  whom  he  submits  his  life  and  limbs 
without  a murmur  or  question,  and  whose  whole 
life  is  passed  chin  deep  in  a lake  of  blood  ; but 
who,  after  killing  incessantly,  is  in  his  turn 
killed  by  his  relations  and  friends,  the  moment 
a gray  hair  appears  on  his  head.  All  the  noble 
savage’s  wars  with  his  fellow-savages  (and  he 
takes  no  pleasure  in  anything  else)  are  wars  of 
extermination — which  is  the  best  thing  I know 
of  him,  and  the  most  comfortable  to  my  mind 
when  I look  at  him.  He  has  no  moral  feelings 
of  any  kind,  sort,  or  description  ; and  his  “ mis- 
■ ion  ” may  he  summed  up  as  simply  diabolical. 

The  ceremonies  with  which  he  faintly  diver- 
sifies his  life,  are,  of  course,  of  a kindred 
nature.  If  he  wants  a wife  he  appears  before 
the  kennel  of  the  gentleman  whom  he  has  select- 
ed for  his  father-in-law,  attended  by  a party  of 
male  friends  of  a very  strong  flavor,  who  screech 
and  whistle  and  stamp  an  offer  of so  many  cows  for 
the  yon ng  bdy’s  hand.  The  chosen  father-in-law 


— also  supported  by  a high-flavored  party  of  male 
friends — screeches,  whistles,  and  yells  (being 
seated  on  the  ground,  he  can’t  stamp)  that  there 
never  was  such  a daughter  in  the  market  as  his 
daughter,  and  that  he  must  have  six  more  cows. 
The  son-in-law  and  his  select  circle  of  backers, 
screech,  whistle,  stamp,  and  yell  in  reply,  that 
they  will  give  three  more  cows.  The  father-in- 
law  (an  old  deluder,  over-paid  at  the  beginning), 
accepts  four,  and  rises  to  bind  the  bargain.  The 
whole  party,  the  young  lady  included,  then  falling 
into  epileptic  convulsions,  and  screeching,  whist- 
ling, stamping,  and  yelling  together — and  no- 
body taking  any  notice  of  the  young  lady 
(whose  charms  are  not  to  be  thought  of  without 
a shudder) — the  noble  savage  is  considered  mar- 
ried, and  his  friends  make  demoniacal  leaps  at 
him  by  way  of  congratulation. 

When  the  noble  savage  finds  himself  a little  un- 
well, and  mentions  the  circumstance  to  his  friends, 
it  is  immediately  perceived  that  he  is  under  the 
influence  of  witchcraft.  A learned  personage, 
called  an  Imyanger  or  Witch  Doctor,  is  immedi- 
ately sent  for  to  Nooker  the  Umtargartie,  or  smell 
out  the  witch.  The  male  inhabitants  of  the 
kraal  being  seated  on  the  ground,  the  learned 
doctor,  got  up  like  a grizzly  bear,  appears,  and  ad- 
ministers a dance  of  a most  terrific  nature,  during 
the  exhibition  of  which  remedy  he  incessantly 
gnashes  his  teeth  and  howls  : — “ I am  the  origi- 
nal physician  to  Nooker  the  Umtargartie.  Yow, 
yow,  yow.  No  connection  with  any  other 
establishment.  Till,  till,  till  ! All  other  Um- 
targarties  are  feigned  Umtargarties,  Boroo, 
Boroo  ! but  I perceive  here  a genuine  and  real 
Umtargartie,  Hoosh,  Hoosh,  Hoosh  ! in  whose 
blood  I,  the  original  Imyanger  and  Nookerer 
Blizzerum  Boo  ! will  wash  these  bear’s  claws  of 
mine.  O yow,  yow,  yow  ! ” All  this  time  the 
learned  physician  is  looking  out  among  the  at- 
tentive faces  for  some  unfortunate  man  who 
owes  him  a cow,  or  who  has  given  him  any  small 
offence,  or  against  whom,  without  offence,  he 
has  conceived  a spite.  Him  he  never  fails  to 
Nooker  as  the  Umtargartie,  and  he  is  instant- 
ly killed.  In  the  absence  of  such  an  individual, 
the  usual  practice  is  to  Nooker  the  quietest 
and  most  gentlemanly  person  in  company.  But 
the  nookering  is  invariably  followed  on  the  spot 
by  the  butchering. 

* * * S-!  * 

When  war  is  afoot  among  the  noble  savages 
— which  is  always — the  chief  holds  a council  to 
ascertain  whether,  it  is  the  opinion  of  his 
brothers  and  friends  in  general  that  the  enemy 
shall  be  exterminated.  On  this  occasion,  after 
the  performance  of  an  Umsebeuza,  or  war-song, 
— which  is  exactly  like  all  the  other  songs, — the 
chief  makes  a speech  to  his  brothers  and  friends, 
arranged  in  single  file.  No  particular  order  is 
observed  during  the  delivery  of  this  address, 
but  every  gentleman  who  finds  himself  excited 
by  the  subject,  instead  of  crying  “ Hear,  hear  !” 
as  is  the  custom  with  us,  darts  from  the  rank  and 
tramples  out  the  life,  or  crushes  the  skull,  or 
mashes  the  face,  or  scoops  out  the  eyes,  or  breaks 
the  limbs,  or  performs  a whirlwind  of  atrocities 
on  the  body  of  an  imaginary  enemy.  Several 
gentlemen  becoming  thus  excited  at  once,  and 
pounding  away  without  the  least  regard  to  th** 
orator,  that  illustrious  person  is  rather  in  the 
position  of  an  orator  in  an  Irish  House  of  Com- 
mons. But  several  of  these  scenes  of  savage 


SCHOLAR 


415 


SCHOOL 


life  bear  a strong  generic  resemblance  to  an 
Irish  election,  and  I think  would  be  extremely 
well  received  and  understood  at  Cork. 

* * * * * 

To  conclude  as  I began.  My  position  is,  that 
if  we  have  anything  to  learn  from  the  Noble 
Savage,  it  is  what  to  avoid.  . His  virtues  are  a 
fable  ; his  happiness  is  a delusion  ; his  nobility, 
nonsense.  We  have  no  greater  justification  for 
being  cruel  to  the  miserable  object,  than  for  be- 
ing cruel  to  a William  Shakespeare  or  an 
Isaac  Newton  ; but  he  passes  away  before  an 
immeasurably  better  and  higher  power  than 
ever  ran  wild  in  any  earthly  woods,  and  the 
world  will  be  all  the  better  when  his  place 
knows  him  no  more. 

The  Noble  Savage.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

SCHOLAR-The  new. 

Florence  ran  back  to  throw  her  arms  round 
liis  neck,  and  hers  was  the  last  face  in  the  door- 
way, turned  towards  him  with  a smile  of  en- 
couragement, the  brighter  for  the  tears  through 
which  it  beamed. 

It  made  his  childish  bosom  heave  and  swell 
when  it  was  gone  ; and  sent  the  globes,  the 
books,  blind  Homer  and  Minerva,  swimming 
round  the  room.  But  they  stopped,  all  of  a sud- 
den ; and  then  he  heard  the  loud  clock  in  the 
hall  still  gravely  inquiring,  “ how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie, 
friend?  how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend?”  as  it  had 
done  before. 

He  sat,  with  folded  hands,  upon  his  pedestal, 
silently  listening.  But  he  might  have  answered 
“ weary,  weary  ! very  lonely,  very  sad  ! ” And 
there,  with  an  aching  void  in  his  young  heart, 
and  all  outside  so  cold,  and  bare,  and  strange, 
Paul  sat  as  if  he  had  taken  life  unfurnished,  and 
the  upholsterer  were  never  coming. 

Dombey  dr3  Son,  Chap.  it. 

SCHOLAR— A poor. 

“ Here  he  is  ! ” said  Ralph.  “ My  nephew 
Nicholas,  hot  from  school,  with  everything  he 
learnt  there  fermenting  in  his  head,  and  nothing 
fermenting  in  his  pocket,  is  just  the  man  you 
want.” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  4. 

SCHOLAR— Sissy  Jupe’s  ignorance  of  facts. 

M'Choakumchild  reported  that  she  had  a very 
dense  head  for  figures  ; that,  once  possessed 
with  a general  idea  of  the  globe,  she  took  the 
smallest  conceivable  interest  in  its  exact  meas- 
urements ; that  she  was  extremely  slow  in  the 
acquisition  of  dates,  unless  some  pitiful  incident 
happened  to  be  connected  therewith  ; that  she 
would  burst  into  tears  on  being  required  (by  the 
mental  process)  immediately  to  name  the  cost 
of  two  hundred  and  forty-seven  muslin  caps  at 
fourteenpence  halfpenny  ; that  she  was  as  low 
down,  in  the  school,  as  low  could  be  ; that  after 
eight  weeks  of  induction  into  the  elements  of 
Political  Economy,  she  had  only  yesterday  been 
set  right  by  a prattler  three  feet  high,  for  return- 
ing to  the  question,  “ What  is  the  first  princi- 
ple of  this  science  ? ” the  absurd  answer,  ‘‘To 
do  unto  others  as  I would  that  they  should  do 
unto  me.” 

Mr.  Gradgrind  observed,  shaking  his  head, 
that  all  this  was  very  bad  : that  it  showed  the 
necessity  of  infinite  grinding  at  the  mill  of 
knowledge,  as  per  system,  schedule,  blue  book, 
report,  and  tabular  statements  A to  Z ; and 


that  Jupe  “must  be  kept  to  it.”  So  Jupe  was 
kept  to  it,  and  became  low-spirited,  but  no 
wiser. — Hard  Times,  Book  I.,  Chap.  9. 

SCHOLAR-A. 

A certain  portion  of  his  time  was  passed  at 
Cambridge,  where  he  read  with  undergraduates  as 
a sort  of  tolerated  smuggler  who  drove  a contra- 
band trade  in  European  languages,  instead  of 
conveying  Greek  and  Latin  through  the  Custom 
House.  The  rest  of  his  time  he  passed  in 
London, — Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Chap.  10. 

SCHOOL-  A holiday  in. 

“ I think,  boys,”  said  the  schoolmaster  when 
the  clock  struck  twelve,  “ that  I shall  give  an 
extra  half-holiday  this  afternoon.” 

At  this  intelligence,  the  boys,  led  on  and 
headed  by  the  tall  boy,  raised  a great  shout,  in 
the  midst  of  which  the  master  was  seen  to  speak, 
but  could  not  be  heard.  As  he  held  up  his  hand, 
however,  in  token  of  his  wish  that  they  should 
be  silent,  they  were  considerate  enough  to  leave 
off,  as  soon  as  the  longest-winded  among  them 
were  quite  out  of  breath. 

“ You  must  promise  me  first,”  said  the  school- 
master, “ that  you’ll  not  be  noisy,  or  at  least,  if 
you  are,  that  you’ll  go  away  and  be  so — away  out 
of  the  village,  I mean.  I’m  sure  you  wouldn’t 
disturb  your  old  playmate  and  companion.” 

There  was  a general  murmur  (and  perhaps  a 
very  sincere  one,  for  they  were  but  boys)  in  the 
negative  ; and  the  tall  boy,  perhaps  as  sincerely 
as  any  of  them,  called  those  about  him  to  witness 
that  he  had  only  shouted  in  a whisper. 

“ Then  pray  don’t  forget,  there’s  my  dear 
scholars,”  said  the  schoolmaster,  “ what  I have 
asked  you,  and  do  it  as  a favor  to  me.  Be  as 
happy  as  you  can,  and  don’t  be  unmindful  that 
you  are  blessed  with  health.  Good-bye  all ! ’ 

“ Thank’ee,  sir,”  and  “ good-bye,  sir,”  were 
said  a great  many  times  in  a variety  of  voices, 
and  the  boys  went  out  very  slowly  and  softly. 
But  there  was  the  sun  shining  and  there  were 
the  birds  singing,  as  the  sun  only  shines  and 
the  birds  only  sing  on  holidays  and  half-holi- 
days ; there  were  the  trees  waving  to  all  free 
boys  to  climb  and  nestle  among  their  leafy 
branches ; the  hay,  entreating  them  to  come 
and  scatter  it  to  the  pure  air  ; the  green  corn, 
gently  beckoning  towards  wood  and  stream  ; 
the  smooth  ground,  rendered  smoother  still  by 
blending  lights  and  shadows,  inviting  to  runs 
and  leaps,  and  long  walks,  God  knows  whither. 
It  was  more  than  boy  could  bear,  and  with  a 
joyous  whoop  the  whole  cluster  took  to  their 
heels  and  spread  themselves  about,  shouting 
and  laughing  as  they  went. 

“It’s  natural,  thank  Heaven  !”  said  the  poor 
schoolmaster,  looking  after  them.  “ I’m  very 
glad  they  didn’t  mind  me  !” 

It  is  difficult,  however,  to  please  everybody,  as 
most  of  us  would  have  discovered,  even  without 
the  fable  which  bears  that  moral  ; and  in  the 
course  of  the  afternoon  several  mothers  and 
aunts  of  pupils  looked  in  to  express  their  entire 
disapproval  of  the  schoolmaster’s  proceeding. 
A few  confined  themselves  to  hints,  such  as 
politely  inquiring  what  red-letter  day  or  saint’s 
day  the  almanac  said  it  was  ; a few  (these  were 
the  profound  village  politicians)  argued  that  it: 
was  a slight  to  the  throne,  and  ah  affront  to 
church  and  state,  and  savored  of  revolutionary 


SCHOOL-DAYS 


410 


SCHOOL 


principles,  to  grant  n.  half-holiday  upon  any 
lighter  occasion  than  the  birth  day  of  the  Mon- 
arch ; but  the  majority  expressed  their  displeas- 
ure on  private  grounds  and  in  plain  terms, 
arguing  that  to  put  the  pupils  on  this  short  al- 
lowance of  learning  was  nothing  but  an  act  of 
downright  robbery  and  fraud  ; and  one  old  lady, 
finding  that  she  could  not  inflame  or  irritate  the 
peaceable  schoolmaster  by  talking  to  him, 
bounced  out  of  his  house  and  talked  at  him 
for  half-an-hour  outside  his  own  window,  to 
another  old  lady,  saying  that  of  course  he 
would  deduct  this  half-holiday  from  his  weekly 
charge,  or  of  course  he  would  naturally  expect 
to  have  an  opposition  started  against  him  ; there 
was  no  want  of  idle  chaps  in  that  neighborhood 
(here  the  old  lady  raised  her  voice),  and  some 
chaps  who  were  too  idle  even  to  be  schoolmas- 
ters, might  soon  find  that  there  were  other  chaps 
put  over  their  heads,  and  so  she  would  have 
them  take  care,  and  look  pretty  sharp  about 
them.  But  all  these  taunts  and  vexations  failed 
to  elicit  one  word  from  the  meek  schoolmaster, 
who  sat  with  the  child  by  his  side — a little 
more  dejected  perhaps,  but  quite  silent  and 
uncomplaining. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  25. 

SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Here  I sit  at  the  desk  again,  on  a drowsy 
summer  afternoon.  A buzz  and  hum  go  up 
around  me,  as  if  the  boys  were  so  many  blue- 
bottles. A cloggy  sensation  of  the  lukewarm 
fat  of  meat  is  upon  me  (we  dined  an  hour  or 
two  ago),  and  my  head  is  as  heavy  as  so  much 
lead.  I would  give  the  world  to  go  to  sleep.  I 
sit  with  my  eye  on  Mr.  Creakle,  blinking  at 
him  like  a young  owl ; when  sleep  overpowers 
me  for  a minute,  he  still  looms  through  my 
slumber,  ruling  those  ciphering  books,  until  he 
softly  comes  behind  me  and  wakes  me  to 
plainer  perception  of  him,  with  a red  ridge 
across  my  back. 

Here  I am  in  the  playground,  with  my  eye 
still  fascinated  by  him,  though  I can’t  see  him. 
The  window  at  a little  distance  from  which  I 
know  he  is  having  his  dinner,  stands  for  him, 
and  I eye  that  instead.  If  he  shows  his  face 
near  it,  mine  assumes  an  imploring  and  submis- 
sive expression.  If  he  looks  out  through  the , 
glass,  the  boldest  boy  (Steerforth  excepted)  stops 
in  the  middle  of  a shout  or  yell,  and  becomes 
contemplative.  One  day,  Traddles  (the  most 
unfortunate  boy  in  the  world)  breaks  that  win- 
dow accidentally  with  a ball.  I shudder  at  this 
moment  with  the  tremendous  sensation  of  seeing 
it  done,  and  feeling  that  the  ball  has  bounded 
on  to  Mr.  Creakle’s  sacred  head. 

Poor  Traddles  ! In  a tight  sky-blue  suit  that 
made  his  arms  and  legs  like  German  sausages, 
or  roly-poly  puddings,  he  was  the  merriest  and 
most  miserable  of  all  the  boys.  He  was  always 
being  caned — I think  he  was  caned  every  day 
that  half-year,  except  one  holiday  Monday  when 
he  was  only  ruler’ d on  both  hands — and  was 
always  going  to  write  to  his  uncle  about  it,  and 
never  did.  After  laying  his  head  on  the  desk  for 
a little  while  he  would  cheer  up  somehow,  begin 
to  laugh  again,  and  draw  skeletons  all  over  his 
slate,  before  his  eyes  were  dry.  I used  at  first 
to  wonder  what  comfort  Traddles  found  in  draw- 
ing skeletons  ; and  for  some  time  looked  upon 
him  as  a sort  of  hermit,  who  reminded  himself 
by  those  symbols  of  mortality  that  caning 


couldn’t  last  for  ever.  But  I believe  he  only 
did  it  because  they  were  easy,  and  didn’t  want 
any  features. 

He  was  very  honorable,  Traddles  was,  and 
held  it  as  a solemn  duty  in  the  boys  to  stand  by 
one  another.  He  suffered  for  this  on  several 
occasions  ; and  particularly  once,  when  Steer- 
forth laughed  in  church,  and  the  Beadle  thought 
it  was  Traddles,  and  took  him  out.  I see  him 
now,  going  away  in  custody,  despised  by  the 
congregation.  He  never  said  who  was  the  real 
offender,  though  he  smarted  for  it  next  day,  and 
was  imprisoned  so  many  hours  that  he  came 
forth  with  a whole  churchyardful  of  skeletons 
swarming  all  over  his  Latin  Dictionary.  But 
he  had  his  reward.  Steerforth  said  there  was 
nothing  of  the  sneak  in  Traddles,  and  we  all 
felt  that  to  be  the  highest  praise.  For  my  part, 
I could  have  gone  through  a good  deal  (though 
I was  much  less  brave  than  Traddles,  and 
nothing  like  so  old)  to  have  won  such  a recom- 
pense. 

***** 

The  rest  of  the  half-year  is  a jumble  in  my 
recollection  of  the  daily  strife  and  struggle  of 
our  lives  ; of  the  waning  summer  and  the  chang- 
ing season  ; of  the  frosty  mornings  when  we 
were  rung  out  of  bed,  and  the  cold  cold  smell 
of  the  dark  nights  when  we  were  rung  into  bed  ; 
of  the  evening  schoolroom,  dimly  lighted  and 
indifferently  warmed,  and  the  morning  school- 
room, which  was  nothing  but  a great  shivering- 
machine  ; of  the  alternation  of  boiled  beef  with 
roast  beef,  and  boiled  mutton  with  roast  mut- 
ton ; of  clods  of  bread-and-butter,  dog’s-eared 
lesson-books,  cracked  slates,  tear-blotted  copy- 
books, canings,  rulerings,  hair-cuttings,  rainy 
Sundays,  suet  puddings,  and  a dirty  atmosphere 
of  ink  surrounding  all. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  7. 

SCHOOL— A jumble  of  a. 

The  school  at  which  young  Charley  Hexam 
had  first  learned  from  a book — the  streets  being, 
for  pupils  of  his  degree,  the  great  Preparatory 
Establishment  in  which  very  much  that  is  never 
unlearned  is  learned  without  and  before  book — 
was  a miserable  loft  in  an  unsavory  yard.  Its 
atmosphere  was  oppressive  and  disagreeable  ; it 
was  crowded,  noisy,  and  confusing  ; half  the 
pupils  dropped  asleep,  or  fell  into  a state  < f 
waking  stupefaction  ; the  other  half  kept  them 
in  either  condition  by  maintaining  a monoton- 
ous droning  noise,  as  if  they  were  performing, 
out  of  time  and  tune,  on  a ruder  sort  of  bag- 
pipe. The  teachers,  animated  solely  by  good 
intentions,  had  no  idea  of  execution,  and  a 
lamentable  jumble  was  the  upshot  of  their  kind 
endeavors. 

It  was  a school  for  all  ages,  and  for  both 
sexes.  The  latter  were  kept  apart,  and  the  for- 
mer were  partitioned  off  into  square  assort- 
ments. But  all  the  place  was  pervaded  by  a 
grimly  ludicrous  pretence  that  every  pupil  was 
childish  and  innocent.  This  pretence,  much 
favored  by  the  lady-visitors,  led  to  the  ghastli- 
est absurdities.  Young  women,  old  in  the  vices 
of  the  commonest  and  worst  life,  were  expected 
to  profess  themselves  enthralled  by  the  good 
child’s  book,  the  Adventures  of  Little  Mar- 
gery, who  resided  in  the  village  cottage  by  the 
mill  ; severely  reproved  and  morally  squashed 
the  miller,  when  she  was  five  and  he  was  fifty ; 


SCHOOL 


417 


SCHOOL 


divided  her  porridge  with  singing  birds  ; denied 
herself  a new  nankeen  bonnet,  on  the  ground 
that  the  turnips  did  not  wear  nankeen  bonnets, 
neither  did  the  sheep  who  ate  them ; who 
plaited  straw  and  delivered  the  dreariest  ora- 
tions to  all  comers,  at  all  sorts  of  unseasonable 
times.  So,  unwieldy  young  dredgers  and  hulk- 
ing mudlarks  were  referred  to  the  experiences 
of  Thomas  Twopence,  who,  having  resolved 
not  to  rob  (under  circumstances  of  uncommon 
atrocity)  his  particular  friend  and  benefactor,  of 
eighteenpence,  presently  came  into  supernatu- 
ral possession  of  three  and  sixpence,  and  lived 
a shining  light  ever  afterwards.  (Note,  that 
the  benefactor  came  to  no  good.)  Several 
swaggering  sinners  had  written  their  own  biog- 
raphies in  the  same  strain  ; it  always  appear- 
ing from  the  lessons  of  those  very  boastful  per- 
sons, that  you  were  to  do  good,  not  because  it 
was  good,  but  because  you  were  to  make  a 
good  thing  of  it.  Contrariwise,  the  adult  pu- 
pils were  taught  to  read  (if  they  could  learn) 
out  of  the  New  Testament  ; and  by  dint  of 
stumbling  over  the  syllables  and  keeping  their  be- 
wildered eyes  on  the  particular  syllables  coming 
round  to  their  turn,  were  as  absolutely  ignorant 
of  the  sublime  history  as  if  they  had  never 
seen  or  heard  of  it.  An  exceedingly  and  con- 
foundingly  perplexing  jumble  of  a school,  in 
fact,  where  black  spirits  and  gray,  red  spirits 
and  white,  jumbled,  jumbled,  jumbled,  jum- 
bled, jumbled  every  night.  And  particularly 
every  Sunday  night.  For  then,  an  inclined 
plane  of  unfortunate  infants  would  be  handed 
over  to  the  prosiest  and  worst  of  all  the  teach- 
ers with  good  intentions,  whom  nobody  older 
would  endure.  Who,  taking  his  stand  on  the 
floor  before  them  as  chief  executioner,  would 
be  attended  by  a conventional  volunteer  boy  as 
executioner’s  assistant.  When  and  where  it 
first  became  the  conventional  system  that  a 
weary  or  inattentive  infant  in  a class  must  have 
its  face  smoothed  downwards  with  a hot  hand, 
or  when  and  where  the  conventional  volunteer 
boy  first  beheld  such  system  in  operation,  and 
became  inflamed  with  a sacred  zeal  to  admin- 
ister it,  masters  not.  It  was  the  function  of  the 
chief  executioner  to  hold  forth,  and  it  was  the 
function  of  the  acolyte  to  dart  at  sleeping  in- 
fants, yawning  infants,  restless  infants,  whim- 
pering infants,  and  smooth  their  wretched  faces  ; 
sometimes  with  one  hand,  as  if  he  were  anoint- 
ing them  for  a whisker  ; sometimes  with  both 
hands,  applied  after  the  fashion  of  blinkers. 
And  so  the  jumble  would  be  in  action  in  this 
department  for  a mortal  hour  ; the  exponent 
drawling  on  to  My  Dearerr  Childerrenerr,  let 
us  say,  for  example,  about  the  beautiful  coming 
to  the  Sepulchre  ; and  repeating  the  word  Sep- 
ulchre (commonly  used  among  infants)  five 
hundred  times,  and  never  once  hinting  what  it 
meant ; the  conventional  boy  smoothing  away 
right  and  left,  as  an  infallible  commentary  ; the 
whole  hot-bed  of  flushed  and  exhausted  infants 
exchanging  measles,  rashes,  whooping-cough, 
fever,  and  stomach  disorders,  as  if  they  were  as- 
sembled in  High  Market  for  the  purpose. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap.  I. 

SCHOOL— David  Copperfield  at. 

I gazed  upon  the  school-room  into  which  he 
took  me,  as  the  most  forlorn  and  desolate  place 
I had  ever  seen.  I see  it  now.  A long  room, 


with  three  long  rows  of  desks,  and  six  of  forms, 
and  bristling  all  round  with  pegs  for  hats  and 
slates.  Scraps  of  old  copy-books  and  exercises 
litter  the  dirty  floor.  Some  silkworms’  houses, 
made  of  the  same  materials,  are  scattered  over 
the  desks.  Two  miserable  little  white  mice, 
left  behind  by  their  owner,  are  running  up  and 
down  in  a fusty  castle  made  of  pasteboard  and 
wire,  looking  in  all  the  corners  with  their  red 
eyes  for  anything  to  eat.  A bird,  in  a cage  very 
little  bigger  than  himself,  makes  a mournful 
rattle  now  and  then  in  hopping  on  his  perch, 
two  inches  high,  or  dropping  from  it  ; but 
neither  sings  nor  chirps.  There  is  a strange, 
unwholesome  smell  upon  the  room,  like  mil- 
dewed corduroys,  sweet  apples  wanting  air,  and 
rotten  books.  There  could  not  well  be  more 
ink  splashed  about  it,  if  it  had  been  roofless 
from  its  first  construction,  and  the  skies  had 
rained,  snowed,  hailed,  and  blown  ink  through 
the  varying  seasons  of  the  year. 

Mr.  Mell  having  left  me  while  he  took  his 
irreparable  boots  up-stairs,  I went  softly  to  the 
upper  end  of  the  room,  observing  all  this  as  I 
crept  along.  Suddenly  I came  upon  a paste- 
board placard,  beautifully  written,  which  was 
lying  on  the  desk,  and  bore  these  words  : “ Take 
care  of  him , He  bites." 

I got  upon  the  desk  immediately,  apprehen- 
sive of  at  least  a great  dog  underneath.  But, 
though  I looked  all  round  with  anxious  eyes,  I 
could  see  nothing  of  him.  I was  still  engaged 
in  peering  about  when  Mr.  Mell  came  back, 
and  asked  me  what  I did  up  there  ? 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  says  I,  “ if  you 
please,  I’m  looking  for  the  dog.” 

“Dog?”  says  he.  “What  dog?” 

“ Isn’t  it  a dog,  sir  ? ” 

“ Isn’t  what  a dog  ? ” 

“ That’s  to  be  taken  care  of,  sir  ; that  bites  1 ” 

“No,  Copperfield,”  says  he,  gravely,  “ that’s 
not  a dog.  That’s  a boy.  My  instructions  are, 
Copperfield,  to  put  this  placard  on  your  back. 
I am  sorry  to  make  such  a beginning  with  you, 
but  I must  do  it.” 

With  that  he  took  me  down,  and  tied  the 
placard,  which  was  neatly  constructed  for  the 
purpose,  on  my  shoulders  like  a knapsack  ; and 
wherever  I went,  afterwards,  I had  the  consola- 
tion of  carrying  it. — David  Copperfield,  Chap . 5. 

SCHOOL-Of  Dr.  Blimber. 

The  Doctor’s  was  a mighty  fine  house,  front- 
ing the  sea.  Not  a joyful  style  of  house  w'ith- 
in,  but  quite  the  contrary.  Sad-colored  cur- 
tains, whose  proportions  were  spare  and  lean, 
hid  themselves  despondently  behind  the  win- 
dows. The  tables  and  chairs  were  put  away  in 
rows,  like  figures  in  a sum  ; fires  were  so  rarely 
lighted  in  the  rooms  of  ceremony,  that  they  felt 
like  wells,  and  a visitor  represented  the  bucket  ; 
the  dining-room  seemed  the  last  place  in  the 
world  where  any  eating  or  drinking  was  likely 
to  occur ; there  was  no  sound  through  all  the 
house  but  the  ticking  of  the  great  clock  in  the 
hall,  which  made  itself  audible  in  the  very  gar- 
rets ; and  sometimes  a dull  crying  of  young 
gentlemen  at  their  lessons,  like  the  murmurings 
of  an  assemblage  of  melancholy  pigeons. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  II. 

SCHOOL— First  hours  in. 

The  Doctor,  with  his  half-shut  eyes,  and  his 


school 


413 


SCHOOL-BO  Oil 


usual  smile,  seemed  to  survey  Paul  with  the  sort 
of  interest  that  might  attach  to  some  choice  lit- 
tle animal  he  was  going  to  stuff. 

;[{  :|s  * * * 

Pie  leered  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  tackle 

him  with  the  Greek  alphabet  on  the  spot. 

* * * * * 

Cornelia  took  him  first  to  the  school-room, 

which  was  situated  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  and 
was  approached  through  two  baize  doors,  which 
deadened  and  muffled  the  young  gentlemen’s 
voices.  Here,  there  were  eight  young  gentle- 
men in  various  stages  of  mental  prostration,  all 
very  hard  at  work,  and  very  grave  indeed. 
Toots,  as  an  old  hand,  had  a desk  to  himself  in 
one  corner ; and  a magnificent  man,  of  immense 
ao-e,  he  looked,  in  Paul’s  young  eyes,  behind  it. 

°Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  who  sat  at  another  little 
desk,  had  his  Virgil  stop  on,  and  was  slowly 
grinding  that  tune  to  four  young  gentlemen.  Of 
the  remaining  four,  two,  who  grasped  their  fore- 
heads convulsively,  were  engaged  in  solving 
mathematical  problems  ; one,  with  his  face  like 
a dirty  window,  from  much  crying,  was  endea- 
voring to  flounder  through  a hopeless  number 
of  lines  before  dinner ; and  one  sat  looking  at 
his  task  in  stony  stupefaction  and  despair — 
which  it  seemed  had  been  his  condition  ever 
since  breakfast-time. 

The  appearance  of  a new  boy  did  not  create 
the  sensation  that  might  have  been  expected. 
Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.  (who  was  in  the  habit  of  shav- 
ing his  head  for  coolness,  and  had  nothing  but 
little  bristles  on  it),  gave  him  a bony  hand,  and 
told  him  he  was  glad  to  see  him— which  Paul 
would  have  been  very  glad  to  have  told  him , if 
he  could  have  done  so  with  the  least  sincerity. 
Then  Paul,  instructed  by  Cornelia,  shook  hands 
with  the  four  young  gentlemen  at  Mr.  Feeder’s 
desk  ; then  with  the  two  young  gentlemen  at 
work  on  the  problems,  who  were  very  feverish  : 
then  with  the  young  gentleman  at  work  against 
time,  who  was  very  inky  ; and  lastly  with  the 
young  gentleman  in  a state  of  stupefaction, 
who  was  flabby  and  quite  cold. 

Dombey  of  Son , Chap.  12. 

SCHOOL— The  village. 

A small,  white-headed,  boy  with  a sunburnt 
face  appeared  at  the  door,  while  he  was  speak- 
ing, and  stopping  there  to  make  a rustic  bow, 
came  in  and  took  his  seat  upon  one  of  the  forms. 
The  white-headed  boy  then  put  an  open  book 
astonishingly  dog’s-eared,  upon  his  knees,  and 
thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets  began  count- 
ing the  marbles  with  which  they  were  filled; 
displaying  in  the  expression  of  his  face  a te- 
markable  capacity  of  totally  abstracting  his 
mind  from  the  spelling  on  which  his  eyes  were 
fixed.  Soon  afterwards  another  white-headed 
little  boy  came  straggling  in,  and  after  him  a 
red-headed  lad,  and  after  him  two  more  with 
white  heads,  and  then  one  with  a flaxen  poll, 
and  so  on  until  the  forms  were  occupied  by  a 
dozen  boys  or  thereabouts,  with  heads  of  cveiy 
< olor  but  gra> , and  ranging  in  their  ages  from 
four  years  old  to  fourteen  years  or  more  ; for  the 
]Cgs  of  the  youngest  were  a long  way  from  the 

it  ■ 1 1 upon  the  form,  and  the  < lde  it 

was  a heavy,  good-tempered,  foolish  fellow 
about  half  a head  taller  than  the  schoolmaster. 

top  of  the  first  the  post  of  h< >n< 

in  the  school— was  the  vacant  place  of  the  littl 


sick  scholar,  and  at  the  head  of  the  row  of  pegf 
on  which  those  who  came  in  hats  or  caps  were 
wont  to  hang  them  up,  one  was  left  empty.  No 
boy  attempted  to  violate  the  sanctity  of  scat, or 
peg,  but  many  a one  looked  from  the  empty 
spaces  to  the  schoolmaster,  and  whispered  his 
idle  neighbor  behind  his  hand. 

Then  began  the  hum  of  conning  over  lessons 
and  getting  them  by  heart,  the  whispered  jest, 
and  stealthy  game,  and  all  the  noise  and  drawl 
of  school  ; and  in  the  midst  of  the  din  sat  the 
poor  schoolmaster,  the  very  image  of  meekness 
and  simplicity,  vainly  attempting  to  fix  his  mind 
upon  the  duties  of  the  day,  and  to  forget  his 
little  friend.  But  the  tedium  of  his  office  re- 
minded him  more  strongly  of  the  willing  scholar, 
and  his  thoughts  were  rambling  from  his  pupils 
— it  was  plain.  # > j 

None  knew  this  better  than  the  idlest  boys, 
who,  growing  bolder  with  impunity,  waxed 
louder  and  more  daring  ; playing  odd-or-evcti 
under  the  master’s  eye,  eating  apples  openly  and 
without  rebuke,  pinching  each  other  in  sport  or 
malice  without  the  least  reserve,  and  cutting 
their  autographs  in  the  very  legs  of  his  desk. 
The  puzzled  dunce,  who  stood  beside  it  to  say 
his  lesson  out  of  book,  looked  no  longer  at  the  I 
ceiling  for  forgotten  words,  but  drew  closer  to  j 
the  master’s  elbow  and  boldly  cast  his  eye  upon 
the  page;  the  wag  of  the  little  troop  squinted 
and  made  grimaces  (at  the  smallest  boy,  of 
course),  holding  no  book  before  his  face,  and  his 
approving  audience  knew  no  constraint  in  their 
delight.  If  the  master  did  chance  to  rouse  him- 
self and  seem  alive  to  what  was  going  on,  the 
noise  subsided  for  a moment  and  no  eyes  met 
his  but  wore  a studious  and  a deeply  humble  loolt ; 
but  the  instant  he  relapsed  again,  it  broke  out 
afresh,  and  ten  times  louder  than  before.  j 

Oh  ! how  some  of  those  idle  fellows  longed 
to  be  outside,  and  how  they  looked  at  the  open 
door  and  window,  as  if  they  half  meditated 
rushing  violently  out,  plunging  into  the  woods, 
and  being  wild  boys  and  savages  from  that  time 
forth.  What  rebellious  thoughts  of  the  cool 
river,  and  some  shady  bathing-place  beneath 
willow  trees  with  branches  dipping  in  the  water,) 
kept  tempting  and  urging  that  sturdy  boy,  who, 
with  his  shirt-collar  unbuttoned  and  flung  bac,< 
as  far  as  it  could  go,  sat  fanning  his  flushed  face 
with  a spelling-book,  wishing  himself  a whale,, 
or  a tittlebat,  or  a fly,  or  anything  but  a boy  at 
school  on  that  hot,  broiling  day  ! Heat  ! ask 
that  other  boy,  whose  seat  being  nearest  to  the 
door  gave  him  opportunities  of  gliding  out  mtQi 
the  garden  and  driving  his  companions  to  mad- 
ness by  dipping  his  face  into  the  bucket  of  the 
well  and  then  rolling  on  the  grass,— ask  him  if 
there  were  ever  such  a day  as  that,  when  even  the 
bees  were  diving  deep  down  into  the  cups  of 
flowers  and  stopping  there,  as  if  they  had  made 
up  their  minds  to  retire  from  business  and  he 
manufacturers  of  honey  no  more.  The  day  was 
made  for  laziness,  and  lying  on  one’s  back  in 
green  places,  and  staring  at  the  sky  till  its  blight- 
ness  forced  one  to  shut  one’s  eyes  and  go  to  sleep  : 
and  was  this  a time  to  be  poring  over  musty  book? 
in  a dark  room,  slighted  by  the  very  sun  ltselii 
Monstrous  ! — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  25. 

SCHOOL-BOOM  -The  old  master  and  schol- 
ar. , I J 

The  child  looked  round  the  room  as  she  took 


SCHOOL 


419 


SCHOOL 


her  seat.  There  were  a couple  of  forms,  notched 
' and  cut  and  inked  all  over ; a small  deal  desk, 
j perched  on  four  legs,  at  which  no  doubt  the 
; master  sat ; a few  dog’s-eared  books  upon  a 
high  shelf;  and  beside  them  a motley  collection 
of  peg-tops,  balls,  kites,  fishing-lines,  marbles, 
; half-eaten  apples,,  and  other  confiscated  property 
of  idle  urchins.  Displayed  on  hooks  upon  the  wall 
in  all  their  terrors,  were  the  cane  and  ruler  ; and 
near  them,  on  a small  shelf  of  its  own,  the 
dunce’s  cap,  made  of  old  newspapers,  and  deco- 
] rated  with  glaring  wafers  of  the  largest  size. 
But  the  great  ornaments  of  the  walls  were  cer- 
tain moral  sentences  fairly  copied  in  good  round 
! text,  and  well-worked  sums  in  simple  addition 
and  multiplication,  evidently  achieved  by  the 
! same  hand,  which  were  plentifully  pasted  all 
I round  the  room  ; for  the  double  purpose,  as  it 
j seemed,  of  bearing  testimony  to  the  excellence 
of  the  school,  and  kindling  a worthy  emulation 
in  the  bosoms  of  the  scholars. 

“Yes,”  said  the  old  schoolmaster,  observ- 
ing that  her  attention  was  caught  by  these  lat- 
[ ter  specimens.  “ That’s  beautiful  writing,  my 
| dear.” 

“Very,  sir,”  replied  the  child  modestly;  “is 
, it  yours  ? ” 

“ Mine  !”  he  returned,  taking  out  his  specta- 
cles and  putting  them  on,  to  have  a better  view 
of  the  triumphs  so  dear  to  his  heart.  “ / couldn’t 
; write  like  that  now-a-days.  No.  They’re  all 
done  by  one  hand  ; a little  hand  it  is,  not  so  old 
' as  yours,  but  a very  clever  one.” 

As  the  schoolmaster  said  this,  he  saw  that  a 
small  blot  of  ink  had  been  thrown  on  one  of  the 
copies,  so  he  took  a penknife  from  his  pocket, 
and  going  up  to  the  wall,  carefully  scraped  it 
out.  When  he  had  finished,  he  walked  slowly 
backward  from  the  writing,  admiring  it  as  one 
might  contemplate  a beautiful  picture,  but  with 
something  of  sadness  in  his  voice  and  manner 

■ which  quite  touched  the  child,  though  she  was 
1 unacquainted  with  its  cause. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  24. 

SCHOOL— Of  Squeers  (Dotheboys  Hall). 

j Pale  and  haggard  faces,  lank  and  bony  figures, 
children  with  the  countenances  of  old  men,  de- 
formities with  irons  upon  their  limbs,  boys  of 
. stunted  growth,  and  others  whose  long,  meagre 
legs  would  hardly  bear  their  stooping  bodies, 
all  crowded  on  the  view  together;  there  were 

■ the  bleared  eye,  the  hare-lip,  the  crooked  foot, 

' and  every  ugliness  or  distortion  that  told  of  un- 
natural aversion  conceived  by  parents  for  their 

| offspring,  or  of  young  lives  which,  from  the  ear- 
j jliest  dawn  of  infancy,  had  been  one  horrible  en- 
! durance  of  cruelty  and  neglect.  Thete  were 
| little  faces  which  should  have  been  handsome, 
[darkened  with  the  scowl  of. sullen,  dogged  suf- 
I fering  ; there  was  childhood,  with  the  light  of 
I .its  eye  quenched,  its  beauty  gone,  and  its  help- 
t lessness  alone  remaining  ; there  were  vicious- 
J faced  boys,  brooding,  with  leaden  eves,  like 
.malefactors  in  a jail ; and  there  were  young 
cieatures  on  whom  the  sins  of  their  frail  parents 
J, had  descended,  weeping  even  for  the  mercenary 
j nurses  they  had  known,  and  lonesome  even  in 
| their  loneliness.  With  every  kindly  sympathy 
;,and  affection  blasted  in  its  birth,  with  every 
j young  and  healthy  feeling  flogged  and  starved 
I clown,  with  every  revengeful  passion  that  can 
1 fester  in  swollen  hearts,  eating  its  evil  way  to  ! 


their  core  in  silence,  what  an  incipient  Hell 
was  breeding  here  ! 

And  yet  this  scene,  painful  as  it  was,  had  its 
grotesque  features,  which,  in  a less-interested  ob- 
server than  Nicholas,  might  have  provoked  a 
smile.  Mrs.  Squeers  stood  at  one  of  the  desks, 
presiding  over  an  immense  basin  of  brimstone 
and  treacle,  of  which  delicious  compound  she 
administered  a large  instalment  to  each  boy  in 
succession  : using  for  the  purpose  a common 
wooden  spoon,  which  might  have  been  origin- 
ally manufactured  for  some  gigantic  top,  and 
which  widened  every  young  gentleman’s  mouth 
considerably  : they  being  all  obliged,  under 
heavy  corporal  penalties,  to  take  in  the  whole 
of  the  bowl  at  a gasp.  In  another  corner,  hud- 
dled together  for  companionship,  were  the  little 
boys  who  had  arrived  on  the  preceding  night, 
three  of  them  in  very  large  leather  breeches, 
and  two  in  old  trousers,  a somewhat  tighter  fit 
than  drawers  are  usually  worn  ; at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  these  was  seated  the  juvenile  son 
and  heir  of  Mr.  Squeers — a striking  likeness  of 
his  father — kicking,  with  great  vigor,  under  the 
hands  of  Smike,  who  was  fitting  upon  him  a 
pair  of  new  boots  that  bore  a most  suspicious 
resemblance  to  those  which  the  least  of  the  lit- 
tle boys  had  worn  on  the  journey  down — as  the 
little  boy  himself  seemed  to  think,  for  he  was 
regarding  the  appropriation  with  a look  of  most 
rueful  amazement.  Besides  these,  there  was  a 
long  row  of  boys  waiting,  with  countenances  of 
no  pleasant  anticipation,  to  be  treacled  ; and 
another  file,  who  had  just  escaped  from  the  in- 
fliction, making  a variety  of  wry  mouths  indica- 
tive of  anything  but  satisfaction.  The  whole 
were  attired  in  such  motley,  ill-sorted,  extraor- 
dinary garments,  as  would  have  been  irresistibly 
ridiculous,  but  for  the  foul  appearance  of  dirt, 
disoi'der,  and  disease,  with  which  they  were 
associated. 

“ Now,”  said  Squeers,  giving  the  desk  a great 
rap  with  his  cane,  which  made  half  the  little 
boys  nearly  jump  out  of  their  boots,  “is  that 
physicking  over  ? ” 

“ Just  over,”  said  Mrs.  Squeers,  choking  the 
last  boy  in  her  hurry,  and  tapping  the  crown  of 
his  head  with  the  wooden  spoon  to  restore  him. 
“ Here,  you  Smike  ; take  away  now.  Look 
sharp  ! ” 

Smilce  shuffled  out  with  the  basin,  and  Mrs. 
Squeers  having  called  up  a little  boy  with  a 
curly  head,  and  wiped  her  hands  upon  it,  hur- 
ried out  after  him  into  a species  of  wash-house, 
where  there  was  a small  fire  and  a large  kettle, 
together  with  a number  of  little  wooden  bowls 
which  were  arranged  upon  a board. 

Into  these  bowls,  Mrs.  Squeers,  assisted  by 
the  hungry  servant,  poured  a brown  composition 
which  looked  like  diluted  pincushions  without 
the  covert,  and  was  called  porridge.  A minute 
wedge  of  brown  bread  was  inserted  in  each 
bowl,  and  when  they  had  eaten  their  porridge 
by  means  of  the  bread,  the  boys  ate  the  bread 
itself,  and  had  finished  their  breakfast  ; where- 
upon Mr.  Squeers  said,  in  a solemn  voice,  “ For 
what  we  have  received,  may  the  Lord  make 
us  truly  thankful  ! ” — and  went  away  to  his 
own. 

Nicholas  distended  his  stomach  with  a bowl 
of  porridge,  for  much  the  same  reason  which 
induces  some  savages  to  swallow  earth — lest 
they  should  be  inconveniently  hungry  when 


SCHOOL-DAYS 


420 


SCHOOL-BOY 


there  is  nothing  to  eat.  Having  further  dispos- 
ed of  a slice  of  bread  and  butter,  allotted  to  him 
in  virtue  of  his  office,  he  sat  himself  down  to 
wait  for  school  time. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap . 8. 

SCHOOL-DAYS — A retrospect. 

My  school-days  ! The  silent  gliding  on  of 
my  existence — the  unseen,  unfelt  progress  of  my 
life — from  childhood  up  to  youth  ! Let  me 
think,  as  I look  back  upon  that  flowing  water, 
now  a dry  channel  overgrown  with  leaves,  whe- 
ther there  are  any  marks  along  its  course,  by 
which  I can  remember  how  it  ran. 

A moment,  and  I occupy  my  place  in  the  Ca- 
thedral, where  we  all  went  together,  every  Sun- 
day morning,  assembling  first  at  school  for  that 
purpose.  The  earthy  smell,  the  sunless  air,  the 
sensation  of  the  world  being  shut  out,  the  re- 
sounding of  the  organ  through  the  black  and 
white  arched  galleries  and  aisles,  are  wings  that 
take  me  back,  and  hold  me  hovering  above 
those  days,  in  a half-sleeping  and  half-waking 
dream. 

I am  not  the  last  boy  in  the  school.  I have 
risen,  in  a few  months,  over  several  heads.  But 
the  first  boy  seems  to  me  a mighty  creature, 
dwelling  afar  off,  whose  giddy  height  is  unat- 
tainable. Agnes  says,  “ No,”  but  I say,  “ Yes,” 
and  tell  her  that  she  little  thinks  what  stores  of 
knowledge  have  been  mastered  by  the  wonder- 
ful Being,  at  whose  place  she  thinks  I,  even  I, 
weak  aspirant,  may  arrive  in  time.  He  is  not 
my  private  friend  and  public  patron,  as  Steer- 
forth  was  ; but  I hold  him  in  a reverential  re- 
spect. I chiefly  wonder  what  he’ll  be,  when  he 
leaves  Dr.  Strong’s,  and  what  mankind  will 
do  to  maintain  any  place  against  him. 

But  who  is  this  that  breaks  upon  me  ? This 
is  Miss  Shepherd,  whom  I love. 

Miss  Shepherd  is  a boarder  at  the  Misses  Net- 
tingall’s  establishment.  I adore  Miss  Shepherd. 
She  is  a little  girl,  in  a spencer,  with  a round 
face  and  curly  flaxen  hair.  The  Misses  Nettin- 
gall’s  young  ladies  come  to  the  Cathedral  too. 
I cannot  look  upon  my  book,  for  I must  look 
upon  Miss  Shepherd.  When  the  choristers 
chaunt,  I hear  Miss  Shepherd.  In  the  service 
I mentally  insert  Miss  Shepherd’s  name  : I put 
her  in  among  the  Royal  Family.  At  home,  in 
my  own  room,  I am  sometimes  moved  to  cry 
out,  “ Oh,  Miss  Shepherd  ! ” in  a transport  of 
love. 

For  some  time,  I am  doubtful  of  Miss  Shep- 
herd’s feelings,  but,  at  length,  Fate  being  propi- 
tious, we  meet  at  the  dancing-school.  I have 
Miss  Shepherd  for  my  partner.  I touch  Miss 
Shepherd’s  glove,  and  feel  a thrill  go  up  the 
right  arm  of  my  jacket,  and  come  out  at  my  hair. 
I say  nothing  tender  to  Miss  Shepherd,  but  we 
understand  each  other.  Miss  Shepherd  and  my- 
self live  but  to  be  united. 

Why  do  I secretly  give  Miss  Shepherd  twelve 
Brazil  nuts  for  a present,  I wonder?  They  are 
not  expressive  of  affection,  they  are  difficult  to 
pack  into  a parcel  of  any  regular  shape,  they 
arc  hard  to  crack,  even  in  room  doors,  and  they 
are  oily  when  cracked  ; yet  I feel  that  they  are 
appropriate  to  Miss  Shepherd.  Soft,  seedy  bis- 
cuits, also,  I bestow  upon  Miss  Shepherd  ; and 
oranges  innumerable.  Once,  I kiss  Miss  Shep- 
herd in  the  cloak  room.  Ecstasy  ! What  are 
my  agony  and  indignation  next  day,  when  I hear 


a flying  rumor  that  the  Misses  Ncttingall  hav< 
stood  Miss  Shepherd  in  the  stocks  for  turning  i> 
her  toes ! 

Miss  Shepherd  being  the  one  pervading  them' 
and  vision  of  my  life,  how  do  I ever  come  t< 
break  with  her?  I can’t  conceive.  And  yet 
coolness  grows  between  Miss  Shepherd  and  m> 
self.  Whispers  reach  me  of  Miss  Shepherd  ha\ 
ing  said  she  wished  I wouldn’t  stare  so,  an 
having  avowed  a preference  for  Master  Jones- 
for  Jones  ! a boy  of  no  merit  whatever  ! Th 
gulf  between  me  and  Miss  Shepherd  widen 
At  last,  one  day,  I meet  the  Misses  Nettingall’ 
establishment  out  walking.  Miss  Shepher 
makes  a face  as  she  goes  by,  and  laughs  to  lu 
companion.  All  is  over.  The  devotion  of 
life — it  seems  a life,  it  is  all  the  same — is  at  aJ 
end  : Miss  Shepherd  comes  out  of  the  morninj 
service,  and  the  Royal  Family  know  her  n 
more. — David  Copperfield , Chap.  18. 

SCHOOL— Influence  of  cruelty  in. 

In  a school  carried  on  by  sheer  cruelty 
whether  it  is  presided  over  by  a dunce  or  not 
there  is  not  likely  to  be  much  learned.  I believi 
our  boys  were,  generally,  as  ignorant  a set  as  an 
schoolboys  in  existence  ; they  were  too  muci 
troubled  and  knocked  about  to  learn  : the 
could  no  more  do  that  to  advantage,  than  an 
one  can  do  anything  to  advantage,  in  a life  oi 
constant  misfortune,  torment,  and  worry. 

David  Copperfield,  Ch  ip.  7. 

SCHOOL-BOY— Death  of  the. 

He  was  a very  young  boy  ; quite  a little  child 
H is  hair  still  hung  in  curls  about  his  face,  and 
his  eyes  were  very  bright  ; but  their  light  wa 
of  Heaven,  not  earth.  The  schoolmaster  tool 
a seat  beside  him,  and  stooping  over  the  pillow 
whispered  his  name.  The  boy  sprung  iq: 
stroked  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  threw  hi 
wasted  arms  round  his  neck,  crying  out  that  hi 
was  his  dear  kind  friend. 

“ I hope  I always  was.  I meant  to  be,  GoJ 
knows,”  said  the  poor  schoolmaster. 

“Who  is  that?”  said  the  boy,  seeing  Nell 
“ I am  afraid  to  kiss  her,  lest  I should  make  he] 
ill.  Ask  her  to  shake  hands  with  me.” 

The  sobbing  child  came  closer  up,  and  tool 
the  little  languid  hand  in  hers.  Releasing  hi 
again  after  a time,  the  sick  boy  laid  him  genth 
down. 

“You  remember  the  garden,  Harry,”  whis 
pered  the  schoolmaster,  anxious  to  rouse  him 
for  a dullness  seemed  gathering  upon  the  child 
“ and  how  pleasant  it  used  to  be  in  the  eveninj 
time?  You  must  make  haste  to  visit  it  again 
for  I think  the  very  flowers  have  missed  you 
and  are  less  gay  than  they  used  to  be.  Yo- 
will  come  soon,  my  dear,  very  soon  now, — won’ 
you  ? ” 

The  boy  smiled  faintly — so  very,  very  faintl 
— and  put  his  hand  upon  his  friend’s  grayheac 
He  moved  his  lips  too,  but  no  voice  came  froc 
them  ; no,  not  a sound. 

In  the  silence  that  ensued,  the  hum  of  dia 
tant  voices  borne  upon  the  evening  air  cami 
floating  through  the  open  window.  “ What*! 
that?”  said  the  sick  child,  opening  his  eyes. 

“ The  boys  at  play  upon  the  green.” 

lie  took  a handkerchief  from  his  pillow,  an* 
tried  to  wave  it  above  his  head.  But  the  feebli 
arm  dropped  powerless  down. 


SCHOOL-BOYS 


421 


SCHOOL-MASTER 


; “ Shall  I do  it  ? ” said  the  schoolmaster. 

* “ Please  wave  it  at  the  window,”  was  the 
iaint  reply.  “ Tie  it  to  the  lattice.  Some  of 
hem  may  see  it  there.  Perhaps  they’ll  think 
*f  me,  and  look  this  way.” 

!|»  He  raised  his  head,  and  glanced  from  the 
(uttering  signal  to  his  idle  bat,  that  lay  with 
late  and  book  and  other  boyish  property  upon  a 
able  in  the  room.  And  then  he  laid  him 
oftly  down  once  more,  and  asked  if  the  little 
jirl  were  there,  for  he  could  not  see  her. 

V She  stepped  forward,  and  pressed  the  passive 
fiiand  that  lay  upon  the  coverlet.  The  two  olck 
Triends  and  companions — for  such  they  were, 
hough  they  were  man  and  child — held  each  other 
n a long  embrace,  and  then  the  little  scholar 
filmed  his  face  towards  the  wall,  and  fell  asleep, 
sj  The  poor  schoolmaster  sat  in  the  same  place, 
lolding  the  small  cold  hand  in  his,  and  chafing 
i t.  It  was  but  the  hand  of  a dead  child.  He 
elt  that  ; and  yet  he  chafed  it  still,  and  could 
lot  lay  it  down. — Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  25. 

3CHOOL-BOYS— Squeers  on  the  diet  of. 

>i  “He  had  as  good  grazing,  that  boy  had,  as 
.here  is  about  us.” 

Ralph  looked  as  if  he  did  not  quite  under- 
stand the  observation. 

“ Grazing,”  said  Squeers,  raising  his  voice, 
under  the  impression  that  as  Ralph  failed  to 
comprehend  him,  he  must  be  deaf.  “ When 
t boy  gets  weak  and  ill  and  don’t  relish  his 
meals,  we  give  him  a change  of  diet— turn  him 
but,  lor  an  hour  or  so  every  day,  into  a neigh- 
Dor’s  turnip-field,  or  sometimes,  if  it’s  a delicate 
case,  a turnip-field  and  a piece  of  carrots  al- 
ternately, and  let  him  eat  as  many  as  he  likes. 
There  an’t  better  land  in  the  county  than  this 
perwerse  lad  grazed  on,  and  yet  he  goes  and 
catches  cold  and  indigestion,  and  what  not, 
ind  then  his  friends  bring  a lawsuit  against 
■ ne!  Now,  you’d  hardly  suppose,”  added 
Squeers,  moving  in  his  chair  with  the  impatience 
}f  an  ill-used  man,  “ that  people’s  ingratitude 
would  carry  them  quite  as  far  as  that ; would 
you  ? ” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  34. 

SCHOOL-BOOKS— The. 

They  comprised  a little  English,  and  a deal 
of  Latin — names  of  things,  declensions  of  arti- 
cles and  substantives,  exercises  thereon,  and 
preliminary  rules — a trifle  of  orthography,  a 
glance  at  ancient  history,  a wink  or  two  at 
[modern  ditto,  a few  tables,  two  or  three  weights 
and  measures,  and  a little  general  information. 
■V\  hen  poor  Paul  had  spelt  out  number  two,  he 
found  he  had  no  idea  of  number  one  ; frag- 
ments whereof  afterwards  obtruded  themselves 
nto  number  three,  which  slided  into  number 
our,  which  grafted  itself  on  to  number  two. 
So  that  whether  twenty  Romuluses  made  a 
Remus,  or  hie  hcec  hoc  was  troy  weight,  or  a 
verb  always  agreed  with  an  ancient  Briton,  or 
/three  times  four  was  Taurus,  a bull,  were  open 
questions  with  him. — Dombey  Son , Chap.  12. 

SCHOOL— V acation. 

Oh,  Saturdays  ! Oh,  happy  Saturdays,  when 
Florence  always  came  at  noon,  atid  never 
would;  in  any  weather,  stay  away,  though  Mrs. 
Pipchin  snarled,  and  growled,  and  worried  her 
bitterly.  Those  Saturdays  were  Sabbaths  for  at 
least  two  little  Christians  among  all  the  Jews, 


and  did  the  holy  Sabbath  work  of  strengthen- 
ing and  knitting  up  a brother’s  and  a sister’s  love. 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  12. 

When  the  Midsummer  vacation  approached, 
no  indecent  manifestations  of  joy  were  exhibit- 
ed by  the  leaden-eyed  young  gentlemen  as- 
sembled at  Doctor  Blimber’s.  Any  such  violent 
expression  as  “ breaking  up,”  would  have  been 
quite  inapplicable  to  that  polite  establishment. 
The  young  gentlemen  oozed  away,  semi-annu- 
ally, to  their  own  homes  ; but  they  never  broke 
up.  They  would  have  scorned  the  action. 

Dombey  6°  Son , Chap.  3. 

SCHOOL-MASTER— Love  as  a teacher. 

There  is  no  school  in  which  a pupil  gets  on 
so  fast,  as  that  in  which  Kit  became  a scholar 
when  he  gave  Barbara  the  kiss.  He  saw  what 
Barbara  meant  now — he  had  his  lesson  by 
heart  all  at  once — she  was  the  book — there  it 
was  before  him,  as  plain  as  print. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  69. 

SCHOOL-MASTER-The  old. 

He  is  an  old  man  now.  Of  the  many  who 
once  crowded  round  him  in  all  the  hollow 
friendship  of  boon  companionship,  some  have 
died,  some  have  fallen  like  himself,  some  have 
prospered — all  have  forgotten  him.  Time  and 
misfortune  have  mercifully  been  permitted  to 
impair  his  memory,  and  use  has  habituated  him 
to  his  present  condition.  Meek,  uncomplain- 
ing, and  zealous  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties, 
he  has  been  allowed  to  hold  Ris  situation  long 
beyond  the  usual  period  ; and  he  will  no  doubt 
continue  to  hold  it,  until  infirmity  renders  him 
incapable,  or  death  releases  him.  As  the  grey- 
headed old  man  feebly  paces  up  and  down  the 
sunny  side  of  the  little  court-yard  between 
school  hours,  it  would  be  difficult,  indeed,  for 
the  most  intimate  of  his  former  friends  to 
recognize  their  once  gay  and  happy  associate, 
in  the  person  of  the  Pauper  Schoolmaster. 

Sketches  ( Scenes),  Chap.  1. 

SCHOOL-MASTER-The  kind. 

Some  of  the  higher  scholars  boarded  in  the 
Doctor’s  house,  and  through  them  I learned,  at 
second-hand,  some  particulars  of  the  Doctor’s 
history.  As,  how  he  had  not  yet  been  married 
twelve  months  to  the  beautiful  young  lady  I 
had  seen  in  the  study,  whom  he  had  married 
for  love  ; for  she  had  not  a sixpence,  and  had  a 
world  of  poor  relations  (so  our  fellows  said) 
ready  to  swarm  the  Doctor  out  of  house  and 
home.  Also,  how  the  Doctor’s  cogitating  man- 
ner was  atti'butable  to  his  being  always  engaged 
in  looking  out  for  Greek  roots  ; which,  in  my 
innocence  and  ignorance,  I supposed  to  be  a 
botanical  furor  on  the  Doctor’s  part,  especially 
as  he  always  looked  at  the  ground  when  he 
walked  about,  until  I understood  that  they  were 
roots  of  words,  with  a view  to  a new  Dictionary 
which  he  had  in  contemplation.  Adams,  our 
head-boy,  who  had  a turn  for  mathematics,  had 
made  a calculation,  I was  informed,  of  the  time 
this  Dictionary  would  take  in  completing,  on  the 
Doctor’s  plan,  and  at  the  Doctor’s  rate  of  going. 
He  considered  that  it  might  be  done  in  one  thou- 
sand six  hundred  and  forty-nine  years,  counting 
from  the  Doctor’s  last,  or  sixty-second  birthday. 

But  the  Doctor  himself  was  the  idol  of  the 


SCHOOL-MASTER 


422 


SCHOOL-MASTER 


whole  school : and  it  must  have  been  a badly- 
composed  school  if  he  had  been  anything  else, 
for  he  was  the  kindest  of  men  ; with  a simple 
faith  in  him  that  might  have  touched  the  stone 
hearts  of  the  very  urns  upon  the  wall.  As  he 
walked  up  and  down  that  part  of  the  court-yard 
which  was  at  the  side  of  the  house,  with  the 
stray  rooks  and  jackdaws  looking  after  him  with 
their  heads  cocked  slyly,  as  if  they  knew  how 
much  more  knowing  they  were  in  worldly  affairs 
than  he.  if  any  sort  of  vagabond  could  only  get 
near  enough  to  his  creaking  shoes  to  attract  his 
attention  to  one  sentence  of  a tale  of  distress, 
that  vagabond  was  made  for  the  next  two  days. 
It  was  so  notorious  in  the  house,  that  the  masters 
and  head-boys  took  pains  to  cut  these  marauders 
off  at  angles,  and  to  get  out  of  windows,  and 
turn  them  out  of  the  court-yard,  before  they 
could  make  the  Doctor  aware  of  their  presence  ; 
which  was  sometimes  happily  effected  within  a 
few  yards  of  him,  without  his  knowing  anything 
of  the  matter,  as  he  jogged  to  and  fro.  Outside 
of  his  own  domain,  and  unprotected,  he  was  a 
very  sheep  for  the  shearers.  He  would  have 
taken  his  gaiters  off  his  legs,  to  give  away.  In 
fact,  there  was  a story  current  among  us  (I  have 
no  idea,  and  never  had,  on  what  authority,  but 
I have  believed  it. for  so  many  years  that  I feel 
quite  certain  it  is  true),  that  on  a frosty  day,  one 
winter-time,  he  actually  did  bestow  his  gaiters 
on  a beggar-woman,  who  occasioned  some  scan- 
dal in  the  neighborhood  by  exhibiting  a fine  in- 
fant from  door  to  door,  wrapped  in  those  gar- 
ments, which  were  universally  recognised,  being 
as  well  known  in  the  vicinity  as  the  Cathedral. 
The  legend  added  that  the  only  person  who  did 
not  identify  them  was  the  Doctor  himself,  who, 
when  they  were  shortly  afterwards  displayed  at 
the  door  of  a little  second-hand  shop  of  no  very 
good  repute,  where  such  things  were  taken  in 
exchange  for  gin,  was  more  than  once  observed 
to  handle  them  approvingly,  as  if  admiring 
some  curious  novelty  in  the  pattern,  and  con- 
sidering them  an  improvement  on  his  own. 

'David  Copper  fie  Id,  Chap.  16. 

SCHOOL-MASTER  - Bradley  Headstone, 
the. 

Bradley  Headstone,  in  his  decent  black  coat 
and  waistcoat,  and  decent  white  shirt,  and  de- 
cent formal  black  tie,  and  decent  pantaloons  of 
pepper  and  salt,  with  his  decent  silver  watch  in 
his  pocket  and  its  decent  hair-guard  round  his 
neck,  looked  a thoroughly  decent  young  man 
of  six-and-twenty.  He  was  never  seen  in  any 
other  dress,  and  yet  there  was  a certain  stiffness 
in  his  manner  of  wearing  this,  as  if  there  were 
a want  of  adaptation  between  him  and'it,  re- 
calling some  mechanics  in  their  holiday  clothes. 
He  had  acquired  mechanically  a great  store  of 
teacher’s  knowledge.  He  could  do  mental 
arithmetic  mechanically,  sing  at  sight  mechan- 
ically, blow  various  wind  instruments  mechan- 
ically, even  play  the  great  church  organ  mechan- 
ically. From  his  early  childhood  up,  his  mind 
had  been  a place  of  mechanical  stowage.  The 
arrangement  of  his  wholesale  warehouse,  so  that 
it  might  be  always  ready  to  meet  the  demands 
of  retail  dealers-  -history  here,  geography  there, 
astronomy  to  the  right,  political  economy  to  the 
left — natural  history,  the  physical  sciences,  fig- 
ure-;, music,  the  lower  mathematics,  and  what 
not,  all  in  their  several  places — this  care  had 


imparted  to  his  countenance  a look  of  care; 
while  the  habit  of  questioning  and  being  ques- 
tioned had  given  him  a suspicious  manner,  or  a 
manner  that  would  be  better  described  as  one 
of  lying  in  wait.  There  was  a kind  of  settled 
trouble  in  the  face.  It  was  the  face  belonging 
to  a naturally  slow  or  inattentive  intellect,  that 
had  toiled  hard  to  get  what  it  had  won,  and 
that  had  to  hold  it  now  that  it  was  gotten,  lie 
always  seemed  to  be  uneasy  lest  anything  should 
be  missing  from  his  mental  warehouse,  and  tak- 
ing stock  to  assure  himself. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  //.,  Chap.  I. 

SCHOOL-MASTER-  Creakle,  the. 

Half  the  establishment  was  writhing  and  cry- 
ing, before  the  day’s  work  began  ; and  how 
much  of  it  had  writhed  and  cried  before  the 
day’s  work  was  over,  I am  really  afraid  to  recol- 
lect, lest  I should  seem  to  exaggerate. 

I should  think  there  never  can  have  been  a 
man  who  enjoyed  his  profession  more  than  Mr. 
Creakle  did.  He  hadadelight  in  cutting  at  the 
boys,  which  was  like  the  satisfaction  of  a craving 
appetite.  I am  confident  that  he  couldn’t  resist 
a chubby  boy,  especially  ; that  there  was  a fasci- 
nation in  such  a subject,  which  made  him  rest- 
less in  his  mind,  until  he  had  scored  and  marked 
him  for  the  day.  I was  chubby  myself,  and 
ought  to  know.  I am  sure  when  I think  of  the 
fellow  now,  my  blood  rises  against  him  with  the 
disinterested  indignation  I should  feel  if  T could 
have  known  all  about  him  without  having  ever 
been  in  his  power  ; but  it  rises  hotly,  because  I 
know  him  to  have  been  an  incapable  brute,  who 
had  no  more  right  to  be  possessed  of  the  great 
trust  he  held,  than  to  be  Lord  High  Admiral,  or 
Commander-in-chief — in  either  of  which  capa- 
cities, it  is  probable,  that  he  would  have  done 
infinitely  less  mischief. 

Miserable  little  propitiators  of  a remorseless 
Idol,  how  abject  we  were  to  him  ! What  a 
launch  in  life  I think  it  now,  on  looking  back, 
to  be  so  mean  and  servile  to  a man  of  such 
parts  and  pretensions  ! 

Here  I sit  at  the  desk  again,  watching  his  eye 
— humbly  watching  his  eye,  as' he  rules  a cipher- 
ing book  for  another  victim  whose  hands  have 
just  been  flattened  by  that  identical  ruler,  and 
who  is  trying  to  wipe  the  sting  out  with  a pock- 
et-handkerchief. I have  plenty  to  do.  I don’t 
watch  his  eye  in  idleness,  but  because  I am  mor- 
bidly attracted  to  it,  in  a dread  desire  to  know 
what  he  will  do  next,  and  whether  it  will  be  my 
turn  to  suffer,  or  somebody  else’s.  A lane  of 
small  boys  beyond  me,  with  the  same  interest  in 
his  eye,  watch  it  too.  I think  he  knows  it, 
though  he  pretends  he  don’t.  He  makes  dread- 
ful mouths  as  he  rules  the  ciphering  book  ; and 
now  he  throws  his  eyes  sideways  down  our  lane, 
and  we  all  droop  over  our  books  and  tremble. 
A moment  afterwards  we  are  again  eyeing  him. 
An  unhappy  culprit,  found  guilty  of  imperfect 
exercise,  approaches  at  his  command.  The  cul- 
prit falters  excuses,  and  professes  a determina- 
tion to  do  better  to-morrow.  Mr.  Creakle  cuts 
a joke  before  he  beats  him,  and  we  laugh  at  it 
— miserable  little  dogs,  we  laugh,  with  our  vis- 
ages as  white  as  ashes,  and  our  hearts  sinking 
into  our  boots. — David  Copperfield , Chap.  7. 

SCHOOL-MASTER  —Mr.  M^hoakumchild. 

Mr.  M'Choakumchild  began  in  his  best  man- 


SCHOOL-MASTER, 


423 


SCHOOL  OF  FACTS 


ner.  lie  and  some  one  hundred  and  forty  other 
schoolmasters  had  been  lately  turned  at  the 
same  time,  in  the  same  factory,  on  the  same  prin- 
ciples, like  so  many  pianoforte  legs.  He  had 
been  put  through  an  immense  variety  of  paces, 
and  had  answered  volumes  of  head-breaking 
questions.  Orthography,  etymology,  syntax,  and 
prosody,  biography,  astronomy,  geography,  and 
general  cosmography,  the  sciences  of  compound 
proportion,  algebra,  land-surveying  and  level- 
ling, vocal  music,  and  drawing  from  models, 
were  all  at  the  ends  of  his  ten  chilled  fingers. 
He  had  worked  his  stony  way  into  Her  Majes- 
ty’s most  Honorable  Privy  Council’s  Schedule 
B,  and  had  taken  the  bloom  off  the  higher 
branches  of  mathematics  and  physical  science, 
French,  German,  Latin,  and  Greek.  He  knew 
all  about  all  the  Water  Sheds  of  all  the  world 
(whatever  they  are),  and  all  the  histories  of  all 
the  peoples,  and  all  the  names  of  all  the  rivers 
and  mountains,  and  all  the  productions,  man- 
ners, and  customs  of  all  the  countries,  and  all 
their  boundaries  and  bearings  on  the  two-and- 
thirty  points  of  the  compass.  Ah,  rather  over- 
done, M'Choakumchild.  If  he  had  only  learned 
a little  less,  how  infinitely  better  he  might  have 
taught  much  more  ! 

He  went  to  work  in  this  preparatory  lesson, 
not  unlike  Morgiana  in  the  Forty  Thieves  : look- 
ing into  all  the  vessels  ranged  before  him,  one 
after  another,  to  see  what  they  contained.  Say, 
good  M'Choakumchild  ! when,  from  thy  boil- 
ing store,  thou  shalt  fill  each  jar  brim-full  by- 
and-bye,  dost  thou  think  that  thou  wilt  always 
kill  outright  the  robber  Fancy  lurking  within — 
or  sometimes  only  maim  him  and  distort  him? 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

SCHOOL-MASTER. 

The  only  branches  of  education  with  which  he 
showed  the  least  acquaintance,  were,  ruling  and 
corporally  punishing.  He  was  always  ruling 
ciphering-books  with  a bloated  mahogany  ruler, 
or  smiting  the  palms  of  offenders  with  the  same 
diabolical  instrument,  or  viciously  drawing  a 
pair  of  pantaloons  tight  with  one  of  his  large 
hands,  and  caning  the  wearer  with  the  other. 
We  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  this  occupation 
was  the  principal  solace  of  his  existence. 

* * * * * 

Our  remembrance  of  Our  School,  presents 
the  Latin  master  as  a colorless,  doubled-up, 
near-sighted  man  with  a crutch,  who  was  always 
cold,  and  always  putting  onions  into  his  ears 
for  deafness,  and  always  disclosing  ends  of  flan- 
nel under  all  his  garments,  and  almost  always 
applying  a ball  of  pocket-handkerchief  to  some 
part  of  his  face  with  a screwing  action  round 
and  round.  He  was  a very  good  scholar,  and 
took  great  pains- where  he  saw  intelligence  and 
a desire  to  learn  ; otherwise,  perhaps  not.  Our 
memory  presents  him  (unless  teased  into  a pas- 
sion) with  as  little  energy  as  color — as  having 
been  worried  and  tormented  into  monotonous 
feebleness — as  having  had  the  best  part  of  his 
life  ground  out  of  him  in  a Mill  of  boys. 

Our  School.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

SCHOOL — Master  and  mistress. 

Here  is  Doctor  Blimber,  with  his  learned  legs  ; 
and  here  is  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  her  sky-blue 
cap  ; and  here  is  Cornelia,  with  her  sandy  little 
row  of  curls,  and  her  bright  spectacles,  still 


working  like  a sexton  in  the  graves  of  langua- 
ges.— Dombey  Son,  Chap.  41. 

As  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  Dr.  Blimber’s  assist- 
ant, he  was  a kind  of  human  barrel  organ,  with 
a little  list  of  tunes  at  which  he  was  continually 
working  over  and  over  again,  without  any  vari- 
ation. He  might  have  been  fitted  up  with  a 
change  of  -barrels,  perhaps,  in  early  life,  if  his 
destiny  had  been  favorable  ; but  it  had  not  been  ; 
and  he  had  only  one,  with  which,  in  a monoto- 
nous round,  it  was  his  occupation  to  bewilder 
the  young  ideas  of  Dr.  Blimber’s  young  gentle- 
men. 

But  he  went  on  blow,  blow,  blowing,  in  the 
Doctor’s  hothouse,  all  the  time  ; and  the  Doc- 
tor’s glory  and  reputation  were  great,  when  he 
took  his  wintry  growth  home  to  his  relations 
and  friends. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  11. 


Miss  Blimber,  too,  although  a slim  and  grace- 
ful maid,  did  no  soft  violence  to  the  gravity  of 
the  house.  There  was  no  light  nonsense  about 
Miss  Blimber.  She  kept  her  hair  short  and 
crisp,  and  wore  spectacles.  She  was  dry  and 
sandy  with  working  in  the  graves  of  deceased 
languages.  None  of  your  live  languages  for  Miss 
Blimber.  They  must  be  dead — stone  dead — 
and  then  Miss  Blimber  dug  them  up  like  a Ghoul. 

***** 

She  said,  at*evening  parties,  that  if  she  could 
have  known  Cicero,  she  thought  she  could  have 
died  contented.  It  was  the  steady  joy  of  her 
life  to  see  the  Doctor’s  young  gentlemen  go  out 
walking,  unlike  all  other  young  gentlemen,  in 
the  largest  possible  shirt-collars,  and  the  stiff- 
est  possible  cravats.  It  was  so  classical,  she 
said. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  11. 


A learned  enthusiasm  is  very  contagious. 

* * * * * 

Paul  looked  upon  the  young  lady  with  con- 
sternation, as  a kind  of  learned  Guy  Faux,  or 
artificial  Bogle,  stuffed  full  of  scholastic  straw. 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  12. 

SCHOOL-MISTRESS  -Miss  Peecher  in  love. 

Small,  shining,  neat,  methodical,  and  buxom 
was  Miss  Peecher  ; cherry-cheeked  and  tuneful 
of  voice.  A little  pincushion,  a little  house- 
wife, a little  book,  a little  workbox,  a little  set 
of  tables  and  weights  and  measures,  and  a little 
woman,  all  in  one.  She  could  write  a little  es- 
say on  any  subject,  exactly  a slate  long,  begin- 
ning at  the  left-hand  top  of  one  side  and  ending 
at  the  right-hand  bottom  of  the  other,  and  the 
essay  should  be  strictly  according  to  rule.  If 
Mr.  Bradley  Headstone  had  addressed  a writ- 
ten proposal  of  marriage  to  her,  she  would 
probably  have  replied  in  a complete  little  essay 
on  the  theme,  exactly. a slate  long,  but  would 
certainly  have  replied  Yes.  For  she  loved  him. 
The  decent  hair-guard  that  went  round  his  neck 
and  took  care  of  his  decent  silver  watch  was  an 
object  of  envy  to  her.  So  would  Miss  Peecher 
have  gone  round  his  neck  and  taken  care  of 
him.  Of  him,  insensible.  Because  he  did  not 
love  Miss  Peecher. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  II.,  Chap.  1. 

SCHOOL  OF  FACTS. 

“ Tell  me  some  of  your  mistakes.” 

“I  am  almost  ashamed,”  said  Sissy,  with 


SCENERY 


reluctance.  “But  to-day,  for  instance,  Mr. 
M'Choakumchild  was  explaining  to  us  about 
Natural  Prosperity.” 

“National,  I think  it  must  have  been,”  ob- 
served Louisa. 

“Yes,  it  was.  But  isn’t  it  the  same?”  she 
timidly  asked. 

“ You  had  better  say  National,  as  he  said  so,” 
returned  Louisa,  with  her  dry  reserve. 

“National  Prosperity.  And  he  said,  Now, 
this  schoolroom  is  a Nation.  And  in  this  na- 
tion, there  are  fifty  millions  of  money.  Isn’t 
this  a prosperous  nation  ? Girl  number  twenty, 
isn’t  this  a prosperous  nation,  and  a’n’t  you  in  a 
thriving  state.” 

* •Sfr  * -x*  * 

“ Then  Mr.  M'Choakumchild  said  he  would 
try  me  once  more.  And  he  said,  Here  are  the 
stutterings — ” 

“ Statistics,”  said  Louisa. 

“Yes,  Miss  Louisa — they  always  remind  me 
of  stutterings,  and  that’s  another  of  my  mistakes 
— of  accidents  upon  the  sea.  And  I find  (Mr. 
M'Choakumchild  said)  that  in  a given  time  a 
hundred  thousand  persons  went  to  sea  on  long 
voyages,  and  only  five  hundred  of  them  were 
drowned  or  burnt  to  death.  What  is  the 
percentage?  And  I said,  Miss” — here  Sissy 
fairly  sobbed  as  confessing  with  extreme  con- 
trition to  her  greatest  error — “ I said  it  was 
nothing.” 

“ Nothing,  Sissy?” 

“ Nothing,  Miss — to  the  relations  and  friends 
of  the  people  who  were  killed.  I shall  never 
learn,”  said  Sissy.  “ And  the  worst  of  all  is, 
that  although  my  poor  father  wished  me  so 
much  to  learn,  and  although  I am  so  anxious  to 
learn,  because  he  wished  me  to,  I am  afraid  I 
don’t  like  it.” — Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  g. 

SCENERY— A Western  swamp. 

On  we  go,  all  night,  and  by-and-bye  the  day 
begins  to  break,  and  presently  the  first  cheerful 
rays  of  the  warm  sun  come  slanting  on  us 
brightly.  It  sheds  its  light  upon  a miserable 
waste  of  sodden  grass,  and  dull  trees,  and 
squalid  huts,  whose  aspect  is  forlorn  and  griev- 
ous in  the  last  degree, — a very  desert  in  the 
wood,  whose  growth  of  green  is  dank  and  nox- 
ious, like  that  upon  the  top  of  standing  water  ; 
where  poisonous  fungus  grows  in  the  rare  foot- 
print on  the  oozy  ground,  and  sprouts  like 
witches’  coral  from  the  crevices  in  the  cabin 
wall  and  floor.  It  is  a hideous  thing  to  lie  up- 
on the  very  threshold  of  a city.  But  it  was  pur- 
chased years  ago,  and,  as  the  owner  cannot  be 
discovered,  the  State  has  been  unable  to  reclaim 
it.  So  there  it  remains,  in  the  midst  of  culti- 
vation and  improvement,  like  ground  accursed, 
and  made  obscene  and  rank  by  some  great 
crime. — American  Notes , Chap.  14. 

SCENERY  -Country. 

It  was,  by  this  time,  within  an  hour  of  noon, 
and  although  a dense  vapor  still  enveloped  the 
city  they  had  left,  as  if  the  very  breath  of  its 
busy  people  hung  over  their  schemes  of  gain 
and  profit,  and  found  greater  attraction  there 
than  in  the  quiet  region  above,  in  the  open 
country  it  was  clear  and  fair.  Occasionally,  in 
some  low  spots  they  came  upon  patches  of  mist 
which  the  sun  had  not  yet  driven  from  their 
strongholds  ; but  these  were  soon  passed,  and, 


SCENER  r 


as  they  labored  up  the  hills  beyond,  it  was  pleas- 
ant to  look  down,  and  see  how  the  sluggish  mass 
rolled  heavily  off,  before  the  cheering  influence  of 
day.  Abroad,  fine,  honest  sun  lighted  up  the  green 
pastures  and  dimpled  water  with  the  semblance 
of  summer,  while  it  left  the  travellers  all  the  in- 
vigorating freshness  of  that  early  time  of  year. 
The  ground  seemed  elastic  under  their  feet ; the 
sheep-bells  were  music  to  their  ears  ; and  exhil- 
arated by  exercise,  and  stimulated  by  hope, 
they  pushed  onward  with  the  strength  of 
lions. 

The  day  wore  on,  and  all  these  bright  colors 
subsided,  and  assumed  a quieter  tint,  like  young 
hopes,  softened  down  by  time,  or  youthful  fea- 
tures by  degrees  resolving  into  the  calm  and 
serenity  of  age.  But  they  were  scarcely  less 
beautiful  in  their  slow  decline,  than  they  had 
been  in  their  prime  ; for  nature  gives  to  every 
time  and  season  some  beauties  of  its  own  ; and 
from  morning  to  night,  as  from  the  cradle  to 
the  grave,  is  but  a succession  of  changes  so  gen- 
tle and  easy,  that  we  can  scarcely  mark  their 
progress. 

***** 

Here,  there  shot  up,  almost  perpendicularly, 
into  the  sky,  a height  so  steep  as  to  be  hardly 
accessible  to  any  but  the  sheep  and  goats  that 
fed  upon  its  sides  ; and  there,  stood  a mound  of 
green,  sloping  and  tapering  off  so  delicately, 
and  merging  so  gently  into  the  level  ground 
that  you  could  scarce  define  its  limits.  Hills 
swelling  above  each  other ; and  undulations, 
shapely  and  uncouth,  smooth  and  rugged,  grace- 
ful and  grotesque,  thrown  negligently  side  by 
side,  bounded  the  view  in  each  direction  ; while 
frequently,  with  unexpected  noise,  there  uprose 
from  the  ground  a flight  of  crows,  cawing  and 
wheeling  round  the  nearest  hills,  as  if  uncertain 
of  their  course,  suddenly  poised  themselves  up- 
on the  wing  and  skimmed  down  the  long  vista 
of  some  opening  valley,  with  the  speed  of  light 
itself. — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  22. 

SCENERY— From  Rochester  bridge. 

On  the  left  of  the  spectator  lay  the  ruined 
wall,  broken  in  many  places,  and  in  some,  over- 
hanging the  narrow  beach  below  in  rude  and 
heavy  masses.  Huge  knots  of  sea-weed  hung 
upon  the  jagged  and  pointed  stones,  trembling 
in  every  breath  of  wind  ; and  the  green  ivy 
clung  mournfully  round  the  dark  and  ruined 
battlements.  Behind  it  rose  the  ancient  castle, 
its  towers  roofless,  and  its  massive  walls  crum- 
bling away,  but  telling  as  proudly  of  its  own 
might  and  strength,  as  when,  seven  hundred 
years  ago,  it  rang  with  the  clash  of  arms,  or 
resounded  with  the  noise  of  feasting  and  revel- 
ry. On  either  side,  the  banks  of  the  Medway, 
covered  with  corn-fields  and  pastures,  with  here 
and  there  a wind-mill,  or  a distant  church, 
stretched  away  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see  ; pre- 
senting a rich  and  varied  landscape,  rendered 
more  beautiful  by  the  changing  shadows  which 
passed  swiftly  across  it,  as  the  thin  and  half- 
formed  clouds  skimmed  away  in  the  light  of 
the  morning  sun.  The  river,  reflecting  the 
clear  blue  of  the  sky,  glistened  and  sparkled  as 
it  flowed  noiselessly  on  ; and  the  oars  of  the 
fishermen  dipped  into  the  water  with  a clear 
and  liquid  sound,  as  the  heavy  but  picturesque 
boats  glided  slowly  down  the  stream. 

Pickwick , Chap . 5. 


424 


SCENERY 


425 


SCENERY 


SCENERY— Landscape. 

Oh,  the  solemn  woods  over  which  the  light 
and  shadow  travelled  swiftly,  as  if  Heavenly 
wings  were  sweeping,  on  benignant  errands 
through  the  summer  air ; the  smooth  green 
slopes,  the  glittering  water,  the  garden  where 
the  flowers  were  so  symmetrically  arranged  in 
clusters  of  the  richest  colors,  how  beautiful  they 
looked  ! The  house,  with  gable,  and  chimney, 
and  tower,  and  turret,  and  dark  doorway,  and 
broad  terrace-walk,  twining  among  the  balus- 
trades of  which,  - and  lying  heaped  upon  the 
vases,  there  was  one  great  flush  of  roses,  seem- 
ed scarcely  real  in  its  light  solidity,  and  in  the 
serene  and  peaceful  hush  that  rested  on  all 
around  it.  To  Ada  and  to  me,  that,  above  all, 
appeared  the  pervading  influence.  On  every- 
thing, house,  garden,  terrace,  green  slopes,  wa- 
ter, old  oaks,  fern,  moss,  woods  again,  and 
far  away  across  the  openings  in  the  prospect,  to 
the  distance  lying  wide  before  us  with  a pur- 
ple bloom  upon  it,  there  seemed  to  be  such 
undisturbed  repose. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  18. 

SCENERY— Of  an  American  prairie. 

Looking  toward  the  setting  sun,  there  lay, 
stretched  out  before  my  view,  a vast  expanse  of 
level  ground  ; unbroken,  save  by  one  thin  line 
of  trees,  which  scarcely  amounted  to  a scratch 
upon  the  great  blank,  until  it  met  the  glowing 
sky,  wherein  it  seemed  to  dip,  mingling  with  its 
rich  colors,  and  mellowing  in  its  distant  blue. 
There  it  lay,  a tranquil  sea  or  lake  without  water, 
if  such  a simile  be  admissible,  with  the  day 
going  down  upon  it  ; a few  birds  wheeling  here 
and  there,  and  solitude  and  silence  reigning 
paramount  around.  But  the  grass  was  not  yet 
high ; there  were  bare,  black  patches  on  the 
ground  ; and  the  few  wild-flowers  that  the  eye 
could  see  were  poor  and  scanty.  Great  as  the 
picture  was,  its  very  flatness  and  extent,  which 
left  nothing  to  the  imagination,  tamed  it  down 
and  cramped  its  interest.  I felt  little  of  that 
sense  of  freedom  and  exhilaration  which  a Scot- 
tish heath  inspires,  or  even  our  English  downs 
awaken.  It  was  lonely  and  wild,  but  oppressive 
in  its  barren  monotony.  I felt  that,  in  travers- 
ing the  Prairies,  I could  never  abandon  myself 
to  the  scene,  forgetful  of  all  else,  as  I should  do 
instinctively,  were  the  heather  under  my  feet,  or 
an  iron-bound  coast  beyond  ; but  should  often 
glance  towards  the  distant  and  frequently  receding 
line  of  the  horizon,  and  wish  it  gained  and  past.  It 
is  not  a scene  to  be  forgotten,  but  it  is  scarcely 
one,  I think  (at  all  events,  as  I saw  it),  to  remem- 
ber with  much  pleasure,  or  to  covet  the  looking 
on  again,  in  after-life. 

American  Notes , Chap.  13. 

SCENERY— On  the  Mississippi. 

If  the  coming  up  this  river,  slowly  making 
head  against  the  stream,  be  an  irksome  journey, 
the  shooting  down  it  with  the  turbid  current  is 
almost  worse  ; for  then  the  boat,  proceeding  at 
the  rate  of  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  an  hour,  has 
to  force  its  passage  through  a labyrinth  of  float- 
ing  logs,  which,  in  the  dark,  it  is  often  impossi- 
ble to  see  beforehand  or  avoid.  All  that  night 
the  bell  was  never  silent  for  five  minutes  at  a 
time ; and  after  every  ring  the  vessel  reeled 
again,  sometimes  beneath  a single  blow,  some- 
times beneath  a dozen  dealt  in  quick  succession, 
the  lightest  of  which  seemed  more  than  enough 


to  beat  in  her  frail  keel  as  though  it  had  been 
pie-crust.  Looking  down  upon  the  filthy  river 
after  dark,  it  seemed  to  be  alive  with  monsters, 
as  these  black  masses  rolled  upon  the  surface, 
or  came  starting  up  again,  head-first,  when  the 
boat,  in  ploughing  her  way  among  a shoal  ol 
such  obstructions,  drove  a few  among  them,  for 
the  moment,  underwater.  Sometimes  the  engine 
stopped  during  a long  interval,  and  then  before 
her,  and  behind,  and  gathering  close  about  her 
on  all  sides,  were  so  many  of  these  ill-favored 
obstacles,  that  she  was  fairly  hemmed  in, — the 
centre  of  a floating  island, — and  was  constrained 
to  pause  until. they  parted  somewhere,  as  dark 
clouds  will  do  before  the  wind,  and  opened  by 
degrees  a channel  out. 

American  Notes , Chap.  14. 

SCENERY— On  the  Mississippi.  Cairo. 

Nor  was  the  scenery,  as  we  approached  the 
junction  of  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  Rivers,  at 
all  inspiriting  in  its  influence.  The  trees  were 
stunted  in  their  growth;  the  banks  were  low 
and  flat ; the  settlements  and  log-cabins  fewer 
in  number  ; their  inhabitants  more  wan  and 
wretched  than  any  we  had  encountered  yet. 
No  songs  of  bii'ds  were  in  the  air,  no  pleasant 
scents,  no  moving  lights  and  shadows  from  swift 
passing  clouds.  Hour  after  hour  the  changeless 
glare  of  the  hot  unwinking  sky  shone  upon  the 
same  monotonous  objects.  Hour  after  hour  the 
river  rolled  along  as  wearily  and  slowly  as  the 
time  itself. 

At  length,  upon  the  morning  of  the  third  day, 
we  arrived  at  a spot  so  much  more  desolate  than 
any  we  had  yet  beheld,  that  the  forlornest  places 
we  had  passed  were,  in  comparison  with  it,  full 
of  interest.  At  the  junction  of  the  two  rivers, 
on  ground  so  flat,  and  low,  and  marshy,  that  at 
certain  seasons  of  the  year  it  is  inundated  to 
the  house-tops,  lies  a breeding-place  for  fever, 
ague,  and  death  ; vaunted  in  England  as  a mine 
of  Golden  Hope,  and  speculated  in,  on  the  faith 
of  monstrous  representations,  to  many  people’s 
ruin.  A dismal  swamp,  on  which  the  half-built 
houses  rot  away  ; cleared  here  and  there  for  the 
space  of  a few  yards  ; and  teeming,  then,  with 
rank,  unwholesome  vegetation,  in  whose  bale- 
ful shade  the  wretched  wanderers  who  are 
tempted  hither  droop,  and  die,  and  lay  their 
bones ; the  hateful  Mississippi  circling  and 
eddying  before  it,  and  turning  off  upon  its  south- 
ern course,  a slimy  monster,  hideous  to  behold  ; 
a hotbed  of  disease,  an  ugly  sepulchre,  a gi*ave 
uncheered  by  any  gleam  of  promise  ; a place 
without  ^one  single  quality,  in  earth  or  air  or 
water,  to  commend  it ; such  is  this  dismal 
Cairo. 

But  what  words  shall  describe  the  Mississippi, 
the  great  father  of  rivers,  who  (praise  be  to 
Heaven  !)  has  no  young  children  like  him  ! An 
enormous  ditch,  sometimes  two  or  three  miles 
wide,  running  liquid  mud,  six  miles  an  hour  ; 
its  strong  and  frothy  current  choked  and  ob- 
structed everywhere  by  huge  logs  and  whole 
forest  trees  ; now  twining  themselves  together 
in  great  rafts,  from  the  interstices  of  which  a 
sedgy,  lazy  foam  works  up,  to  float  upon  the 
watei'’s  top  ; now  rolling  past,  like  monstrous 
bodies,  their  tangled  roots  showing  like  matted 
hair  ; now  glancing  singly  by,  like  giant  leeches ; 
and  now  writhing  round  and  round  in  the  vor- 
tex of  some  small  whirlpool,  like  wounded 


SCENERY  AND  WEATHER 


420 


SCIENCE 


snakes.  The  banks  low,  the  trees  dwarfish,  the 
marshes  swarming  with  frogs,  the  wretched 
cabins  few  and  far  apart,  their  inmates  hollow- 
cheeked and  pale,  the  weather  very  hot,  mos- 
quitoes penetrating  into  every  crack  and  crevice 
of  the  boat,  mud  and  slime  on  everything; 
nothing  pleasant  in  its  aspect  but  the  harmless 
lightning  which  flickers  every  night"  upon  the 
dark  horizon. — American  A7otest  Chap.  12. 

SCENERY  AND  WEATHER. 

Every  day  had  been  so  bright  and  blue,  that 
to  ramble  in  the  woods,  and  to  see  the  light 
striking  down  among  the  transparent  leaves, 
and  sparkling  in  the  beautiful  interlacings  of 
the  shadows  of  the  trees,  while  the  birds  poured 
out  their  songs,  and  the  air  was  drowsy  with 
the  hum  of  insects,  had  been  most  delightful. 
We  had  one  favorite  spot,  deep  in  moss  and 
last  year’s  leaves,  where  there  were  some  felled 
trees  from  which  the  bark  was  all  stripped  off. 
Seated  among  these,  we  looked  through  a green 
vista  supported  by  thousands  of  natural  columns, 
the  whitened  stems  of  trees,  upon  a distant 
prospect  made  so  radiant  by  its  contrast  with 
the  shade  in  which  we  sat,  and  made  so  precious 
by  the  arched  perspective  through  which  we  saw 
it,  that  it  was  like  a glimpse  of  the  better  land. 
Upon  the  Saturday  we  sat  here,  Mr.  Jarndyce, 
Ada,  and  I,  until  we  heard  thunder  muttering  in 
the  distance,  and  felt  the  large  rain-drops  rattle 
through  the  leaves. 

* * * * * 

The  lattice-windows  were  all  thrown  open, 
and  we  sat,  just  within  the  doorway,  watching 
the  storm.  It  was  grand  to  see  how  the  wind 
awoke,  and  bent  the  trees,  and  drove  the  rain 
before  it  like  a cloud  of  smoke  ; and  to  hear 
the  solemn  thunder,  and  to  see  the  lightning  ; 
and  while  thinking  with  awe  of  the  tremen- 
dous powers  by  which  our  little  lives  are  en- 
compassed, to  consider  how  beneficent  they 
are,  and  how  upon  the  smallest  flower  and  leaf 
there  was  already  a freshness  poured  from  all 
this  seeming  rage,  which  seemed  to  make  crea- 
tion new  again. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  18. 

SCIENCE— The  mistakes  of. 

“ That  ’ere  blessed  lantern  ’ull  be  the  death 
on  us  all,”  exclaimed  Sam,  peevishly.  “Take 
care  wot  you’re  a doin’  on,  sir  ; you’re  a sendin’ 
a blaze  o’  light  right  into  the  back  parlor  win- 
der.” 

“ Dear  me  ! ” said  Mr.  Pickwick,  turning 
hastily  aside,  “ I didn’t  mean  to  do  that.” 

“ Now  it’s  in  the  next  house,  sir,”  remon- 
strated Sam. 

“ Bless  my  heart  ! ” exclaimed  Mr.  Pickwick, 
turning  round  again. 

“ Now  it's  in  the  stable,  and  they’ll  think 
the  place  is  a-fire,”  said  Sam.  “ Shut  it  up,, 
sir,  can’t  you  ? ” 

“ It’s  the  most  extraordinary  lantern  I ever 
met  with  in  all  my  life!”  exclaimed  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, greatly  bewildered  by  the  effects  he  had 
so  unintentionally  produced.  “ I never  saw 
such  a powerful  reflector.” 

“ It'll  be  vim  loo  powerful  for  us,  if  you  keep 
blazin’  avay  in  that  manner,  sir,”  replied  Sam, 
as  Mr.  Pickwick,  after  various  unsuccessful 
efforts,  managed  to  close  the  slide. 

* * :H  sj<  * 

While  these  things  were  going  on  in  the 


open  air,  an  elderly  gentleman  of  scientific 
attainments  was  seated  in  his  library,  two  or 
three  houses  off,  writing  a philosophical  treatise, 
and  ever  and  anon  moistening  his  clay  and  his 
labors  with  a glass  of  claret  from  a venerable- 
looking  bottle  which  stood  by  his  side.  In  the 
agonies  of  composition,  the  elderly  gentleman 
looked  sometimes  at  the  carpet,  sometime! 
at  the  ceiling,  and  sometimes  at  the  wall  ; and 
when  neither  carpet,  ceiling,  nor  wall  afforded 
the  requisite  degree  of  inspiration,  he  looked 
out  of  the  window. 

In  one  of  these  pauses  of  invention,  the  scien- 
tific gentleman  was  gazing  abstractedly  on  the 
thick  darkness  outside,  when  he  was  very  much 
surprised  by  observing  a most  brilliant  light 
glide  through  the  air,  at  a short  distance  above 
the  ground,  and  almost  instantaneously  vanish. 
After  a short  time  the  phenomenon  was  repeat- 
ed, not  once  or  twice,  but  several  times : at 
last  the  scientific  gentleman,  laying  down  his 
pen,  began  to  consider  to  what  natural  causes 
these  appearances  were  to  be  assigned. 

They  were  not  meteors  ; they  were  too  low. 
They  were  not  glow  worms  ; they  were  too  high. 
They  were  not  will-o’-the-wisps  ; they  were  not 
fire-flies  ; they  were  not  fire-works.  What 
could  they  be?  Some  extraordinary  and  won- 
derful phenomenon  of  nature,  which  no  philoso- 
pher had  ever  seen  before  ; something  which 
it  had  been  reserved  for  him  alone  to  discover, 
and  which  he  should  immortalize  his  name  by 
chronicling  for  the  benefit  of  posterity.  Full  of 
this  idea,  the  scientific  gentleman  seized  his  pen 
again,  and  committed  to  paper  sundry  notes  of 
these  unparalleled  appearances,  with  the  date, 
day,  hour,  minute,  and  precise  second  at  which 
they  were  visible  : all  of  which  were  to  form 
the  data  of  a voluminous  treatise  of  great  re- 
search and  deep  learning,  which  should  aston- 
ish all  the  atmospherical  sages  that  ever  drew 
breath  in  any  part  of  the  civilized  globe. 

He  threw  himself  back  in  his  easy-chair,  wrap- 
ped in  contemplations  of  his  future  greatness. 
The  mysterious  light  appeared  more  brilliantly 
than  before  : dancing,  to  all  appearance,  up  and 
down  the  lane,  crossing  from  side  to  side,  and 
moving  in  an  orbit  as  eccentric  as  comets  them- 
selves. 

The  scientific  gentleman  was  a bachelor.  He 
had  no  wife  to  call  in  and  astonish,  so  he  rang 
the  bell  for  his  servant. 

“ Pruffle,”  said  the  scientific  gentleman,  “ there 
is  something  very  extraordinary  in  the  air  to- 
night. Did  you  see  that?”  said  the  scientific 
gentleman,  pointing  out  of  the  window,  as  the 
light  again  became  visible. 

“ Yes,  I did,  sir.” 

“ What  do  you  think  of  it,  Pruffle?” 

“ Think  of  it,  sir?  ” 

“ Yes.  You  have  been  bred  up  in  this  country. 
What  should  you  say  was  the  cause  of  those 
lights,  now  ? ” 

The  scientific  gentleman  smilingly  anticipated 
Pruffle’s  reply  that  he  could  assign  no  cause  for 
them  at  all.  Pruffle  meditated. 

“ I should  say  it  was  thieves,  sir,”  said  Pruffle 
at  length. 

“You're  a fool,  and  may  go  down  stairs,” 
said  the  scientific  gentleman. 

“Thank  you,  sir,”  said  Pruffle.  And  down 
he  went. 

But  the  scientific  gentleman  could  not  rest 


SCIENCE 


427 


SEA 


under  the  idea  of  the  ingenious  treatise  he  had 
projected  being  lost  to  the  world,  which  must 
inevitably  be  the  case  if  the  speculation  of  the 
ingenious  Mr.  Pruffie  were  not  stifled  in  its  birth. 
He  put  on  his  hat  and  walked  quickly  down  the 
garden,  determined  to  investigate  the  matter  to 
the  very  bottom. 

Now,  shortly  before  the  scientific  gentleman 
walked  out  into  the  garden,  Mr.  Pickwick  had 
run  down  the  lane  as  fast  as  he  could,  to  convey 
a false  alarm  that  somebody  was  coming  that 
way  ; occasionally  drawing  back  the  slide  of  the 
dark  lantern  to  keep  himself  from  the  ditch. 
The  alarm  was  no  sooner  given  than  Mr.  Winkle 
scrambled  back  over  the  wall,  and  Arabella  ran 
into  the  house  ; the  garden-gate  was  shut,  and 
the  three  adventurers  were  making  the  best  of 
their  way  down  the  lane,  when  they  were 
startled  by  the  scientific  gentleman  unlocking 
his  garden  gate. 

“ Hold  hard,”  whispered  Sam,  who  was,  of 
course,  the  first  of  the  party.  “ Show  a light  for 
just  vun  second,  sir.” 

Mr.  Pickwick  did  as  he  was  desired,  and  Sam, 
seeing  a man’s  head  peeping  out  very  cautiously 
within  half-a-yard  of  his  own,  gave  it  a gentle 
tap. with  his  clenched  fist,  which  knocked  it, 
with  a hollow  sound,  against  the  gate.  Having 
performed  this  feat  with  great  suddenness  and 
dexterity,  Mr.  Weller  caught  Mr.  Pickwick  up 
on  his  back,  and  followed  Mr.  Winkle  down  the 
lane  at  a pace  which,  considering  the  burden  he 
carried,  was  perfectly  astonishing. 

“ Have  you  got  your  vind  back  agin,  sir,”  in- 
quired Sam,  when  they  had  reached  the  end. 

“ Quite.  Quite,  now,”  replied  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Then  come  along,  sir,”  said  Sam,  setting  his 
master  on  his  feet  again.  “ Come  betveen  us, 
sir.  Not  half  a mile  to  run.  Think  you’re 
vinnin  a cup,  sir.  Now  for  it.” 

Thus  encouraged,  Mr.  Pickwick  made  the 
very  best  use  of  his  legs.  It  may  be  confidently 
stated  that  a pair  of  black  gaiters  never  got  over 
the  ground  in  better  style  than  did  those  of  Mr. 
Pickwick  on  this  memorable  occasion. 

The  coach  was  waiting,  the  horses  were  fresh, 
the  roads  were  good,  and  the  driver  was  willing. 
The  whole  party  arrived  in  safety  at  the  Bush 
before  Mr.  Pickwick  had  recovered  his  breath. 

“In  vith  you  at  once,  Sir,”  said  Sam,  as  he 
helped  his  master  out.  “ Don’t  stop  a second  in 
the  street,  aider  that  ’ere  exercise.  Beg  your 
pardon,  sir,”  continued  Sam,  touching  his  hat 
as  Mr.  Winkle  descended.  “ Hope  there  warn’t 
a priory  ’tachment,  sir.” 

Mr.  Winkle  grasped  his  humble  friend  by  the 
hand,  and  whispered  in  his  ear,  “ It’s  all  right, 
Sam  ; quite  right.”  Upon  which  Mr.  Weller 
struck  three  distinct  blows  upon  his  nose  in 
token  of  intelligence,  smiled,  winked,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  put  the  steps  up,  with  a countenance 
expressive  of  lively  satisfaction. 

As  to  the  scientific  gentleman,  he  demon- 
strated, in  a masterly  treatise,  that  these  won- 
derful lights  were  the  effect  of  electricity  ; and 
clearly  proved  the  same  by  detailing  how  a flash 
of  fire  danced  before  his  eyes  when  he  put  his 
head  out  of  the  gate,  and  how  he  received  a 
shock  which  stunned  him  for  a quarter  of  an 
hour  afterwards  ; which  demonstration  delighted 
all  the  Scientific  Associations  beyond  measure, 
and  caused  him  to  be  considered  a light  of  sci- 
ence ever  afterwards. — Pickwick , Chap.  39. 


SCOUNDRELS— Night-birds  of  prey. 

Wintry  morning,  looking  with  dull  eyes  and 
sallow  face  upon  the  neighborhood  of  Leicester 
Square,  finds  its  inhabitants  unwilling  to  get  out 
of  bed.  Many  of  them  are  not  early  risers  at 
the  brightest  of  times,  being  birds  of  night  who 
roost  when  the  sun  is  high,  and.  are  wide  awake 
and  keen  for  prey  when  the  stars  shine  out.  Be- 
hind dingy  blind  and  curtain,  in  upper  story 
and  garret,  skulking  more  or  less  under  false 
names,  false  hair,  false  titles,  false  jewelry,  and 
false  histories,  a colony  of  brigands  lie  in  their 
first  sleep.  Gentlemen  of  the  green  baize  road, 
who  could  discourse,  from  personal  experience, 
of  foreign  galleys  and  home  treadmills  ; spies 
of  strong  governments  that  eternally  quake  with 
weakness  and  miserable  fear,  broken  traitors, 
cowards,  bullies,  gamesters,  shufflers,  swindlers, 
and  false  witnesses  ; some  not  unmarked  by  the 
branding-iron,  beneath  their  dirty  braid  ; all 
with  more  cruelty  in  them  than  was  in  Nero, 
and  more  crime  than  is.  in  Newgate.  For,  how- 
soever bad  the  devil  can  be  in  fustian  or  smock- 
frock  (and  he  can  be  very  bad  in  both),  he  is  a 
more  designing,  callous,  and  intolerable  devil 
wbeh  he  sticks  a pin  in  his  shirt-front,  calls 
himself  a gentleman,  backs  a card  or  color, 
plays  a game  or  so  of  billiards,  and  knows  a 
little  about  bills  and  promissory  notes,  than  in 
any  other  form  he  wears. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  26. 

SEA— Storm  at. 

The  tremendous  sea  itself,  when  I could  find 
sufficient  pause  to  look  at  it,  in  the  agitation  of 
the  blinding  wind,  the  flying  stones  and  sand, 
and  the  awful  noise,  confounded  me.  As  the 
high  watery  walls  came  rolling  in,  and,  at  their 
^highest,  tumbled  into  surf,  they  looked  as  if 
the  least  would  engulf  the  town.  As  the  reced- 
ing wave  swept  back  with  a hoarse  roar,  it 
seemed  to  scoop  out  deep  caves  in  the  beach, 
as  if  its  purpose  were  to  undermine  the  earth. 
When-  some  white-headed  billows  thundered 
on,  and  dashed  themselves  to  pieces  before  they 
reached  the  land,  every  fragment  of  the  late 
whole  seemed  possessed  by  the  full  might  of  its 
wrath,  rushing  to  be  gathered  to  the  composi- 
tion of  another  monster.  Undulating  hills  were 
changed  to  valleys,  undulating  valleys  (with  a 
solitary  storm-bird  sometimes  skimming  through 
them)  were  lifted  up  to  hills  ; masses  of  water 
shivered  and  shook  the  beach  with  a booming 
sound  ; every  shape  tumultuously  rolled  on,  as 
soon  as  made,  to  change  its  shape  and  place, 
and  beat  another  shape  and  place  away  ; the 
ideal  shore  on  the  horizon,  with  its  towers  and 
buildings,  rose  and  fell ; the  clouds  flew  fast 
and  thick  ; I seemed  to  see  a rending  and  up- 
heaving of  all  nature. 

David  Copper  field.  Chap.  55. 

SEA— An  excursion  party  at. 

The  throbbing  motion  of  the  engine  was  but 
too  perceptible.  There  was  a large,  substantial, 
cold  boiled  leg  of  mutton,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
table,  shaking  like  blanc-mange  ; a previously 
hearty  sirloin  of  beef  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
suddenly  seized  with  the  palsy ; and  sonia 
tongues,  which  were  placed  on  dishes  rather  too 
large  for  them,  went  through  the  most  surpris- 
ing evolutions  ; darting  from  side  to  side,  and 
from  end  to  end,  like  a fly  in  an  inverted  wine- 


SEA 


428 


SEA  AND  LOVE 


glass.  Then,  the  sweets  shook  and  trembled, 
till  it  was  quite  impossible  to  help  them,  and 
people  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair  ; and  the 
pigeon-pies  looked  as  if  the  birds,  whose  legs 
were  stuck  outside,  were  trying  to  get  them  in. 
The  table  vibrated  and  started  like  a feverish 
pulse,  and  the  very  legs  were  convulsed — every- 
thing was  shaking  and  jarring.  The  beams 
in  the  roof  of  the  cabin  seemed  as  if  they 
were  put  there  for  the  so'e  purpose  of  giving 
people  headaches,  and  several  elderly  gentle- 
men became  ill-tempered  in  consequence.  As 
fast  as  the  steward  put  the  fire-irons  up,  they 
would  fall  down  again  ; and  the  more  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  tried  to  sit  comfortably  on  their 
seats,  the  more  the  seats  seemed  to  slide  away 
from  the  ladies  and  gentlemen.  Several  omi- 
nous demands  were  made  for  small  glasses  of 
brandy  ; the  countenances  of  the  company 
gradually  underwent  most  extraordinary  changes; 
one  gentleman  was  observed  suddenly  to  rush 
from  table  without  the  slightest  ostensible 
reason,  and  dart  up  the  steps  with  incredible 
swiftness  ; thereby  greatly  damaging  both  him- 
self and  the  steward,  who  happened  to  be  com- 
ing down  at  the  same  moment. 

The  cloth  was  removed  ; the  dessert  was  laid 
on  the  table , and  the  glasses  were  filled.  The 
motion  of  the  boat  increased  ; several  members 
of  the  party  began  to  feel  rather  vague  and 
misty,  and  looked  as  if  they  had  only  just  got 
up.  The  young  gentleman  with  the  spectacles, 
who  had  been  in  a fluctuating  state  for  some 
time — at  one  moment  bright,  and  at  another 
dismal,  like  a revolving  light  on  the  sea-coast — 
rashly  announced  his  wish  to  propose  a toast. 
After  several  ineffectual  attempts  to  preserve 
his  pei'pendicular,  the  young  gentleman,  having 
managed  to  hook  himself  to  the  centre  leg  of 
the  table  with  his  left  hand,  proceeded. 

Tales , Chap . 7. 

SEA— Impartiality  of  the. 

The  sea  has  no  appreciation  of  great  men,  but 
knocks  them  about  like  the  small  fry.  It  is 
habitually  hard  upon  Sir  Leicester,  whose  coun- 
tenance it  greenly  mottles  in  the  manner  of  *sage- 
cheese,  and  in  whose  aristocratic  system  it  effects 
a dismal  revolution.  It  is  the  Radical  of  Nature. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  12. 

SEA— Mark  Tapley’s  opinion  of  the. 

For  the  first  objects  Mr.  Taplev  recognized 
when  he  opened  his  eyes  were  his  own  heels — 
looking  down  to  him,  as  he  afterwards  observed, 
from  a nearly  perpendicular  elevation. 

“Well,”  said  Mark,  getting  himself  into  a 
sitting  posture,  after  various  ineffectual  strug- 
gles with  the  rolling  of  the  ship.  “This  is 
the  first  time  as  ever  I stood  on  my  head  all 
night.” 

“ You  shouldn’t  go  to  sleep  upon  the  ground 
with  your  head  to  leeward,  then,”  growled  a 
man  in  one  of  the  berths. 

“ With  my  head  to  where?"  asked  Mark. 

The  man  repeated  his  previous  sentiment. 

“ No,  I won’t  another  time,”  said  Mark, 
“ when  I know  whereabouts  on  the  map  that 
country  is.  In  the  meanwhile  I can  give  you  a 
better  piece  of  advice.  Don’t  you  nor  any  other 
friend  of  mine  never  go  to  sleep  with  his  head 
in  a ship,  any  more.” 

The  man  gave  a grunt  of  discontented  ac- 


quiescence, turned  over  in  his  berth,  and  drew 
his  blanket  over  his  head. 

“ — For, ’’said  Mr.  Tapley,  pursuing  the  theme 
by  way  of  soliloquy,  in  a low  tone  of  voice  ; 
“ the  sea  is  as  nonsensical  a thing  as  any  going. 
It  never  knows  what  to  do  with  itself.  It  hasn’t 
got  no  employment  for  its  mind,  and  is  always 
in  a state  of  vacancy.  Like  them  Polar  bears 
in  the  wild-beast-shows  as  is  constantly  a nod- 
ding their  heads  from  side  to  side,  it  never  can 
be  quiet.  Which  is  entirely  owing  to  its  un- 
common stupidity.” 

Martin  Cliuzzlewit , Chap.  15. 

SEA— “ On  the  bar.” 

Early  in  the  morning  I was  on  the  deck  of 
the  steam-packet,  and  we  were  aiming  at  the 
bar  in  the  usually  intolerable  manner,  and  the 
bar  was  aiming  at  us  in  the  usually  intolerable 
manner,  and  the  bar  got  by  far  the  best  of  it, 
and  we  got  by  far  the  worst, — all  in  the  usual 
intolerable  manner. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  7. 

SEA  -The. 

A taunting  roar  comes  from  the  sea,  and  the 
far-out  rollers  mount  upon  one  another,  to  look 
at  the  entrapped  impostors,  and  to  join  in  imp- 
ish and  exultant  gambols. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  /.,  Chap.  10. 

SEA— Breakers. 

The  grim  row  of  breakers  enjoying  themselves 
fanatically  on  an  instrument  of  torture  called 
“ the  Bar.” — Reprinted  Pieces. 

SEA— The  voice  of  the  waves. 

Awaking  suddenly,  he  listened,  started  up, 
and  sat  listening. 

Florence  asked  him  what  he  thought  he 
heard. 

“ I want  to  know  what  it  says,”  he  answered, 
looking  steadily  in  her  face.  “ The  sea,  Floy, 
what  is  it  that  it  keeps  on  saying?” 

She  told  him  that  it  was  only  the  noise  of  the 
rolling  waves. 

“ Yes,  yes,”  he  said.  “ But  I know  that  they 
are  always  saying  something.  Always  the  same 
thing.  What  place  is  over  there  ? ” He  rose  up, 
looking  eagerly  at  the  horizon. 

She  told  him  that  there  was  another  country 
opposite,  but  he  said  he  didn’t  mean  that : he 
meant  farther  away — farther  away  ! 

Very  often  afterwards,  in  the  midst  of  their 
talk,  he  would  break  off,  to  try  to  understand 
what  it  was  that  the  waves  were  always  saying  ; 
and  would  rise  up  in  his  couch  to  look  towards 
that  invisible  region,  far  away. 

Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  8. 

SEA  AND  LOVE. 

“ As  1 hear  the  sea,”  says  Florence,  “and  sit 
watching  it,  it  brings  so  many  days  into  my 
mind.  It  makes  me  think  so  much — ” 

“ Of  Paul,  my  love.  I know  it  does.” 

Of  Paul  and  Walter.  And  the  voices  in  the 
waves  are  always  whispering  to  Florence,  in 
their  ceaseless  murmuring,  of  love — of  love,  eter- 
nal and  illimitable,  not  bounded  by  the  confines 
of  this  world,  or  by  the  end  of  time,  but  ranging 
still,  beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sky,  to  the  in- 
visible country  far  away  ! 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  57. 


SEA 


429 


SEA-SICKNESS 


SEA— Its  associations. 

All  is  going  on  as  it  was  wont.  The  waves 
are  hoarse  with  repetition  of  their  mystery  ; the 
dust  lies  piled  upon  the  shore  ; the  sea-birds 
soar  and  hover ; the  winds  and  clouds  go  forth 
upon  their  trackless  flight ; the  white  arms 
beckon,  in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible  coun- 
try far  away. 

With  a tender,  melancholy  pleasure,  Florence 
finds  herself  again  on  the  old  ground  so  sadly 
trodden,  yet  so  happily,  and  thinks  of  him  in  the 
quiet  place  where  he  and  she  have  many  and 
many  a -time  conversed  together,  with  the  water 
welling  up  about  his  couch.  And  now,  as  she 
sits  pensive  there,  she  hears  in  the  wild  low 
murmur  of  the  sea,  his  little  story  told  again,  his 
very  words  repeated  ; and  finds  that  all  her  life, 
and  hopes,  and  griefs,  since — in  the  solitary 
house,  and  in  the  pageant  it  has  changed  to — 
have  a portion  in  the  burden  of  the  marvellous 
song. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  41. 

SEA— In  a storm. 

“ Aye,”  said  the  Captain,  reverentially  ; “ it’s  a 
almighty  element.  There’s  wonders  in  the  deep, 
my  pretty.  Think  on  it  when  the  winds  is  roar- 
ing, and  the  waves  is  rowling.  Think  on  it 
when  the  stormy  nights  is  so  pitch  dark,”  said, 
the  Captain,  solemnly  holding  up  his  hook,  “ as 
you  can’t  see  your  hand  afore  you,  excepting 
when  the  wiwid  lightning  reweals  the  same  ; 
and  when  you  drive,  drive,  drive  through  the 
storm  and  dark,  as  if  you  was  a driving,  head 
on,  to  the  world  without  end,  evermore,  amen, 
and  when  found  making  a note  of.  Them’s  the 
times,  my  beauty,  when  a man  may  say  to  his 
messmate  (previously  a overhauling  of  the  wol- 
ume),  ‘ A stiff  nor-wester’s  blowing,  Bill  ; hark, 
don’t  you  hear  it  roar  now  ! Lord  help  ’em, 
how  I pitys  all  unhappy  folks  ashore  now  !”’ 
Which  quotation,  as  particularly  applicable  to 
the  terrors  of  the  ocean,  the  Captain  delivered 
in  a most  impressive  manner,  concluding  with  a 
sonorous  “ Stand  by  ! ” 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  49. 

SEA-CAPTAIN— His  face. 

What  have  we  here  ? The  captain’s  boat ! 
and  yonder  the  captain  himself.  Now,  by  all 
our  hopes  and  wishes,  the  very  man  he  ought  to 
be ! A well-made,  tight-built,  dapper  little  fel- 
low, with  a ruddy  face,  which  is  a letter  of  invi- 
tation to  shake  him  by  both  hands  at  once,  and 
with  a clear,  blue  honest  eye,  that  it  does  one 
good  to  see  one’s  sparkling  image  in. 

American  Notes , Chap.  1. 

SEAPORT— (Dover) . 

The  little,  narrow,  crooked  town  of  Dover  hid 
itself  away  from  the  beach,  and  ran  its  head  into 
the  chalk-cliffs,  like  a marine  ostrich.  The  beach 
was  a desert  of  heaps  of  sea  and  stones  tumb- 
ling wildly  about,  and  the  sea  did  what  it  liked, 
and  what  it  liked  was  destruction.  It  thundered 
at  the  town,  and  thundered  at  the  cliffs,  and 
brought  the  coast  down,  madly.  The  air  among 
the  houses  was  of  so  strong  a piscatory  flavor 
that  one  might  have  supposed  sick  fish  went  up 
to  be  dipped  in  it,  as  sick  people  went  down  to 
be  dipped  in  the  sea.  A little  fishing  was  done 
in  the  port,  and  a quantity  of  strolling  about  by 
night,  and  looking  seaward  : particularly  at  those 
times  when  the  tide  made,  and  was  near  flood. 


Small  tradesmen,  who  did  no  business  whatever 
sometimes  unaccountably  realized  large  fortunes, 
and  it  was  remarkable  that  nobody  in  the  neigh- 
borhood could  endure  a lamplighter. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Chap.  4. 

SEA— Scenery. 

Sitting,  on  a bright  September  morning,  among 
my  books  and  papers,  at  my  open  window  on 
the  cliff  overhanging  the  sea-beach,  I have  the 
sky  and  ocean  framed  before  me  like  a beautiful 
picture.  A beautiful  picture,  but  with  such 
movement  in  it,  such  changes  of  light  upon  the 
sails  of  ships  and  wake  of  steamboats,  such 
dazzling  gleams  of  silver  far  out  at  sea,  such 
fresh  touches  on  the  crisp  wave-tops  as  they 
break  and  roll  towards  me — a picture  with  such 
music  in  the  billowy  rush  upon  the  shingle,  the 
blowing  of  the  morning  wind  through  the  corn- 
sheaves,  where  the  farmers’  wagons  are  busy,  the 
singing  of  the  larks,  and  the  distant  voices  of 
children  at  play — such  charms  of  sight  and 
sound  as  all  the  Galleries  on  earth  can  but  poorly 
suggest. — Out  of  Town.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

SEA-SHORE-At  the. 

Never  had  I seen  a year  going  out,  or  going 
on,  under  quieter  circumstances.  Eighteen  hun- 
dred and  fifty-nine  had  but  another  day  to  live, 
and  truly  its  end  was  Peace  on  that  sea-shore 
that  morning. 

So  settled  and  orderly  was  everything  sea- 
ward, in  the  bright  light  of  the  sun  and  under 
the  transparent  shadows  of  the  clouds,  that  it 
was  hard  to  imagine  the  bay  otherwise,  for  years 
past  or  to  come,  than  it  was  that  very  day.  The 
Tug  steamer  lying  a little  off  the  shore,  the 
Lighter  lying  still  nearer  to  the  shore,  the  boat 
alongside  the  Lighter,  the  regularly  turning  wind- 
lass aboard  the  Lighter,  the  methodical  figures  at 
work,  all  slowly  and  regularly  heaving  up  and 
down  with  the  breathing  of  the  sea, — all  seemed 
as  much  a part  of  the  nature  of  the  place  as  the 
tide  itself.  The  tide  was  on  the  flow,  and  had 
been  for  some  two  hours  and  a half ; there  was 
a slight  obstruction  in  the  sea  within  a few 
yards  of  my  feet,  as  if  the  stump  of  a tree,  with 
earth  enough  about  it  to  keep  it  from  lying  hori- 
zontally on  the  water,  had  slipped  a little  from 
the  land  : and  as  I stood  upon  the  beach,  and 
observed  it  dimpling  the  light  swell  that  was 
coming  in,  I cast  a stone  over  it. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  2. 

SEA-SICKNESS-The  misery  of. 

I say  nothing  of  what  may  be  called  the  do- 
mestic noises  of  the  ship,  such  as  the  breaking 
of  glass  and  crockery,  the  tumbling  down  of 
stewards,  the  gambols  overhead  of  loose  casks 
and  truant  dozens  of  bottled  porter,  and  the  very 
remarkable  and  far  from  exhilarating  sounds 
raised  in  their  various  state-rooms  by  the  seventy 
passengers  who  were  too  ill  to  get  up  to  break- 
fast— I say  nothing  of  them,  for,  although  I lay 
listening  to  this  concert  for  three  or  four  days, 
I don’t  think  I heard  it  for  more  than  a quarter 
of  a minute,  at  the  expiration  of  which  term  I 
lay  down  again  excessively  sea-sick. 

Not  sea-sick,  be  it  understood,  in  the  ordinary 
acceptation  of  the  term  ; I wish  I had  been  ; 
but  in  a form  which  I have  never  seen  or  heard 
described,  though  I have  no  doubt  it  is  very 
common.  I lay  there  all  the  day  long  quite 


SEA-SICKNESS 


430 


SEA-SIDE 


coolly  and  contentedly,  with  no  sense  of  weari- 
ness, with  no  desire  to  get  up,  or  get  better,  or 
take  the  air,  with  no  curiosity,  or  care,  or  regret 
of  any  sort  or  degree,  saving  that  I think  I can 
remember  in  this  universal  indifference  having 
a kind  of  lazy  joy — of  fiendish  delight,  if  any- 
thing so  lethargic  can  be  dignified  with  the  title 
— in  the  fact  of  my  wife  being  too  ill  to  talk  to 
me.  If  I may  be  allowed  to  illustrate  my  state 
of  mind  by  such  an  example,  I should  say  that 
I was  exactly  in  the  condition  of  the  elder  Mr. 
Willet  after  the  incursion  of  the  rioters  into  his 
bar  at  Chigwell.  Nothing  would  have  surprised 
me.  If,  in  the  momentary  illumination  of  any 
ray  of  intelligence  that  may  have  come  upon 
me  in  the  way  of  thoughts  of  Home,  a goblin 
postman  with  a scarlet  coat  and  bell  had  come 
into  that  little  kennel,  before  me,  broad  awake 
in  broad  day,  and,  apologizing  for  being  damp 
through  walking  in  the  sea,  had  handed 
me  a letter  directed  to  myself  in  familiar  char- 
acters, I am  certain  I should  not  have  felt  one 
atom  of  astonishment.  ; I should  have  been  per- 
fectly satisfied.  If  Neptune  himself  had  walk- 
ed in  with  a toasted  shark  on  his  trident,  I 
should  have  looked  upon  the  event  as  one  of  the 
very  commonest  every-day  occurrences. 

Once — once — I found  myself  on  deck.  I 
don’t  know  how  I got  there,  or  what  possessed 
me  to  go  there,  but  there  I was  ; and  completely 
dressed  too,  with  a huge  pea-coat  on,  and  a pair 
of  boots  such  as  no  weak  man  in  his  senses 
could  ever  have  got  into.  I found  myself  stand- 
ing, when  a gleam  of  consciousness  came  upon 
me,  holding  on  to  something.  I don’t  know 
what.  I think  it  was  the  boatswain  ; or  it  may 
have  been  the  pump  ; or  possibly  the  cow.  I 
can’t  say  how  long  I had  been  there — whether 
a day  or  a minute.  I recollect  trying  to  think 
about  something  (about  anything  in  the  whole 
wide  world,  I was  not  particular),  without  the 
smallest  effect.  I could  not  even  make  out 
which  was  the  sea  and  which  the  sky  ; for  the 
horizon  seemed  drunk,  and  was  flying  wildly 
about  in  all  directions.  Even  in  that  incapable 
state,  however,  I recognized  the  lazy  gentleman 
standing  before  me,  nautically  clad  in  a suit  of 
shaggy  blue,  with  an  oilskin  hat.  But  I was  too 
imbecile,  although  I knew  it  to  be  he,  to  sepa- 
rate him  from  his  dress,  and  tried  to  call  him,  I 
remember,  Pilot.  After  another  interval  of  total 
unconsciousness,  I found  he  had  gone,  and  re- 
cognized another  figure  in  its  place.  It  seemed 
to  wave  and  fluctuate  before  me  as  though  I saw 
it  reflected  in  an  unsteady  looking-glass  ; but  I 
knew  it  for  the  captain  ; and  such  was  the  cheer- 
ful influence  of  his  face,  that  I tried  to  smile  ; 
yes,  even  then  I tried  to  smile.  I saw  by  his 
gestures  that  he  addressed  me  ; but  it  was  a long 
lime  before  I could  make  out  that  he  remon- 
strated against  my  standing  up  to  my  knees  in 
water — as  I was  ; of  course  I don’t  know  why. 

I tried  to  thank  him,  but  couldn’t.  I could  only 
point  to  my  boots — or  wherever  I supposed  my 
boots  to  be — and  say,  in  a plaintive  voice,  “ Cork 
soles  at  the  same  time  endeavoring,  I am  told, 
to  sit  down  in  the  pool.  Finding  that  I was 
quite  insensible,  and  for  the  time  a maniac,  he 
humanely  conducted  me  below. 

There  I remained  until  I got  better;  suffer- 
ing, whenever  I was  recommended  to  eat  any- 
thing, an  amount  of  anguish  only  second  to  that 
which  is  s ai.l  to  be  endured  by  the  apparently  [ 


I drowned  in  the  process  of  restoration  to  life. 
One  gentleman  on  board  had  a letter  of  intro- 
duction to  me  from  a mutual  friend  in  London. 
He  sent  it  below  with  his  card,  on  the  morning 
of  the  head-wind  ; and  I was  long  troubled  with 
the  idea  that  he  might  be  up  and  well,  and  a 
hundred  times  a day  expecting  me  to  call  upon 
him  in  the  saloon.  I imagined  him  one  of  those 
cast-iron  images — I will  not  call  them  men  — 
who  ask,  with  red  faces  and  lusty  voices,  what 
sea-sickness  means,  and  whether  it  really  is 
as  bad  as  it  is  represented  to  be.  This  was 
very  torturing  indeed  ; and  I don’t  think  I ever 
felt  such  perfect  gratification  and  gratitude  of 
heart  as  I did  when  I heard  from  the  ship’s  doc- 
tor that  he  had  been  obliged  to  put  a large  mus- 
tard poultice  on  this  very  gentleman’s  stomach. 
I date  my  recovery  from  the  receipt  of  that  in- 
telligence.— American  Notes,  Chap.  2. 

SEA-SICKNESS. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  the  steward, 
running  up  to  Mr.  Percy  Noakes,  “ I beg  your 
pardon,  sir,  but  the  gentleman  as  just  went  on 
deck — him  with  the  green  spectacled — is  uncom- 
mon bad,  to  be  sure  ; and  the  young  man  as 
played  the  wiolin  says,  that  unless  he  has  some 
brandy  he  can’t  answer  for  the  consequences. 
He  says  he  has  a wife  and  two  children,  whose 
wery  subsistence  depends  on  his  breaking  a wes- 
sel,  and  he  expects  to  do  so  every  moment.  The 
flageolet’s  been  wery  ill,  but  he’s  better,  onlv 
lie’s  in  a dreadful  prusperation.” 

* * * * * 

Mr.  Hardy  was  observed,  some  hours  after- 
wards, in  an  attitude  which  induced  his  friends 
to  suppose  that  he  was  busily  engaged  in  con- 
templating the  beauties  of  the  deep  ; they  only 
regretted  that  his  taste  for  the  picturesque 
should  lead  him  to  remain  so  long  in  a position 
very  injurious  at  all  times,  but  especially  so  to 
an  individual  laboring  under  a tendency  of 
blood  to  the  head. — Tales , Chap.  7. 

SEA-SIDE— Scenes  at  the. 

As  we  walked  by  the  softly  lapping  sea,  all 
the  notabilities  of  Namelesston,  who  are  forever 
going  up  and  down  with  the  changelessness  of 
the  tides,  passed  to  and  fro  in  procession.  Pret- 
ty girls  on  horseback,  and  with  detested  riding- 
masters  ; pretty  girls  on  foot ; mature  ladies  in 
hats, — spectacled,  strong-minded,  and  glaring 
at  the  opposite  or  weaker  sex.  The  Stock  Ex- 
change was  strongly  represented,  Jerusalem 
was  strongly  represented,  the  bores  of  the  pro- 
sier London  clubs  were  strongly  represented. 
Fortune-hunters  of  all  denominations  were 
there,  from  hirsute  insolvency  in  a curricle  to 
closely  buttoned-up  swindlery  in  doubtful 
boots,  on  the  sharp  lookout  for  any  likely  young 
gentleman  disposed  to  play  a game  at  billiards 
round  the  corner.  Masters  of  languages,  their 
lessons  finished  for  the  day,  were  going  to  their 
homes  out  of  sight  of  the  sea  ; mistresses  of 
accomplishments,  carrying  small  portfolios, 
likewise  tripped  homeward  ; pairs  of  scholastic 
pupils,  two  and  two,  went  languidly  along  the 
beach,  surveying  the  face  of  the  waters  as  if 
waiting  for  some  Ark  to  come  and  take  them 
off.  Spectres  of  the  George  the  Fourth  days 
flitted  unsteadily  among  the  crowd,  bearing  the 
outward  semblance  of  ancient  dandies,  of  every 
one  of  whom  it  might  be  said,  not  that  he  had 


SEA-SIDE 


431 


SEA-SIDE 


one  leg  in  the  grave,  or  both  legs,  but  that  he 
was  steeped  in  grave  to  the  summit  of  his  high 
shirt-collar,  and  had  nothing  real  about  him 
but  his  bones.  Alone  stationary  in  the  midst 
of  all  the  movements,  the  Namelesston  boat- 
men leaned  against  the  railings  and  yawned, 
and  looked  out  to  sea,  or  looked  at  the  moored 
fishing-boats  and  at  nothing.  Such  is  the  un- 
changing manner  of  life  with  this  nursery  of 
our  hardy  seamen,  and  very  dry  nurses  they 
are,  and  always  wanting  something  to  drink. 

A Little  Dinner  in  an  Hour.  New  Uncom- 
mercial Samples. 

The  place  seems  to  respond.  Sky,  sea,  beach, 
and  viilage,  lie  as  still  before  us  as  if  they 
were  sitting  for  the  picture.  It  is  dead  low- 
water.  A ripple  plays  among  the  ripening 
corn  upon  the  cliff,  as  if  it  were  faintly  trying 
from  recollection  to  imitate  the  sea  ; and  the 
world  of  butterflies  hovering  over  the  crop  of 
radish-seed  are  as  restless  in  their  little  way  as 
the  gulls  are  in  their  larger  manner  when 
the  wind  blows.  But  the  ocean  lies  winking 
in  the  sunlight  like  a drowsy  lion — its  glassy 
waters  scarcely  curve  upon  the  shore — the  fish- 
ing-boats in  the  tiny  harbor  are  all  stranded 
in  the  mud — our  two  colliers  (our  watering- 
place  has  a maritime  trade  employing  that 
amount  of  shipping)  have  not  an  inch  of  water 
within  a quarter  of  a mile  of  them,  and  turn,  ex- 
hausted, on  their  sides,  like  faint  fish  of  an 
antediluvian  species.  Rusty  cables  and  chains, 
ropes  and  rings,  undermost  parts  of  posts,  and 
piles,  and  confused  timber  defences  against 
the  waves,  lie  strewn  about,  in  a brown  litter 
of  tangled  sea-weed  and  fallen  cliff,  which 
looks  as  if  a family  of  giants  had  been  making 
tea  here  for  ages,  and  had  observed  an  untidy 
custom  of  throwing  their  tea-leaves  on  the  shore. 
Our  English  Watei'ing  Place.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

There  are  some  small  out-of-the-way  landing- 
places  on  the  Thames  and  the  Medway,  where 
I do  much  of  my  summer  idling.  Running 
water  is  favorable  to  day-dreams,  and  a strong 
tidal  river  is  the  best  of  running  water  for  mine. 
I like  to  watch  the  great  ships  standing  out  to 
sea  or  coming  home  richly  laden,  the  active  lit- 
tle steam-tugs  confidently  puffing  with  them  to 
and  from  the  sea  horizon,  the  fleet  of  barges 
that  seem  to  have  plucked  their  brown  and  rus- 
set sails  from  the  ripe  trees  in  the  landscape, 
the  heavy  old  colliers,  light  in  ballast,  flounder- 
ing down  before  the  tide,  the  light  screw  barks 
and  schooners  imperiously  holding  a straight 
course  while  the  others  patiently  tack  and  go 
about,  the  yachts,  with  their  tiny  hulls  and  great 
white  sheets  of  canvas,  the  little  sailing-boats 
bobbing  to  and  fro  on  their  errands  of  pleasure 
or  business,  and — as  it  is  the  nature  of  little 
people  to  do — making  a prodigious  fuss  about 
their  small  affairs.  Watching  these  objects,  I 
still  am  under  no  obligation  to  think  about 
them,  or  even  so  much  as  to  see  them,  unless  it 
perfectly  suits  my  humor.  As  little  am  I obliged 
to  hear  the  plash  and  flop  of  the  tide*  the  ripple 
at  my  feet,  the  clinking  windlass  afar  off,  or  the 
humming  steamship  paddles  farther  away  yet. 
These,  with  the  creaking  little  jetty  on  which  I 
sit,  and  the  gaunt  high-water  marks  and  low- 
water  marks  in  the  mud,  and  the  broken  cause- 
way, and  the  broken  bank,  and  the  broken 


stakes  and  piles,  leaning  forward  as  if  they  were 
vain  of  their  personal  appearance  and  looking 
for  their  reflection  in  the  water,  will  melt  into 
any  train  of  fancy.  Equally  adaptable  to  any 
purpose  or  to  none  are  the  pasturing  sheep  and 
kine  upon  the  marshes,  the  gulls  that  wheel  and 
dip  around  me,  the  crows  (well  out  of  gunshot) 
going  home  from  the  rich  harvest-fields,  the 
heron  that  has  been  out  a-fishing,  and  looks  as 
melancholy,  up  there  in  the  sky,  as  if  it  hadn’t 
agreed  with  him.  Everything  within  the  range 
of  the  senses  will,  by  the  aid  of  the  running 
water,  lend  itself  to  everything  beyond  that 
range,  and  Work  into  a drowsy  whole,  not  un- 
like a kind  of  tune,  but  for  which  there  is  no 
exact  definition. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  24. 


Again  among  the  tiers  of  shipping,  in  and 
out,  avoiding  rusty  chain-cables,  frayed  hempen 
hawsers,  and  bobbing  buoys,  sinking  f6r  the 
moment  floating  broken  baskets,  scattering  float- 
ing chips  of  wood  and  shaving,  cleaving  floating 
scum  of  coal,  in  and  out,  under  the  figure-head 
of  the  John  of  Sunderland  making  a speech  to 
the  winds  (as  is  done  by  many  Johns),  and  the 
Betsy  of  Yarmouth  with  a firm  formality  of 
bosom  and  her  knobby  eyes  starting  two  inches 
out  of  her  head  ; in  and  out,  hammers  going  in 
ship-builders’  yards,  saws  going  at  timber,  clash- 
ing engines  going  at  things  unknown,  pumps 
going  in  leaky  ships,  capstans  going,  ships  go- 
ing out  to  sea,  and  unintelligible  sea-creatures 
roaring  curses  over  the  bulwarks  at  respondent 
lightermen  ; in  and  out — out  at  last  upon  the 
clearer  river,  where  the  ships’  boys  might  take 
their  fenders  in,  no  longer  fishing  in  troubled 
waters  with  them  over  the  side,  and  where  the 
festooned  sails  might  fly  out  to  the  wind. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  54. 

SEA-SIDE— Children  at  the. 

So  many  children  are  brought  down  to  our 
watering-place  that,  when  they  are  not  out  of 
doors,  as  they  usually  are  in  fine  weather,  it  is 
wonderful  where  they  are  put  ; the  whole  vil- 
lage seeming  much  too  small  to  hold  them  un- 
der cover.  In  the  afternoons,  you  see  no  end 
of  salt  and  sandy  little  boots  drying  on  upper 
window-sills.  At  bathing-time  in  the  morning, 
the  little  bay  re-echoes  with  every  shrill  variety 
of  shriek  and  splash — after  which,  if  the  weather 
be  at  all  fresh,  the  sands  team  with  small  blue- 
mottled  legs.  The  sands  are  the  children’s 
great  resort.  They  cluster  there  like  ants  ; so 
busy  burying  their  particular  friends,  and  mak- 
ing castles  with  infinite  labor  which  the  next  tide 
overthrows,  that  it  is  curious  to  consider  how 
their  play,  to  the  music  of  the  sea,  foreshadows 
the  realities  of  their  after  lives. 

It  is  curious,  too,  to  observe  a natural  ease  of 
approach  that  there  seems  to  be  between  the 
children  and  the  boatmen.  They  mutually 
make  acquaintance,  and  take  individual  likings, 
without  any  help.  You  will  come  upon  one  of 
those  slow  heavy  fellows  sitting  down  patiently 
mending  a little  ship  for  a mite  of  a boy,  whom 
he  could  crush  to  death  by  throwing  his  lightest 
pair  of  trowsers  on  him.  You  will  be  sensible 
of  the  oddest  contrast  between  the  smooth  little 
creature,  and  the  rough  man  who  seems  to  be 
carved  out  of  hard-grained  wood — between  the 
delicate  hand,  expectantly  held  out,  and  the  im- 


SEA-SIDE 


432 


SEA-VOYAGE 


mense  thumb  and  finger  that  can  hardly  feci 
the  rigging  of  thread  they  mend — between  the 
small  voice  and  the  gruff  growl — and  yet  there 
is  a natural  propriety  in  the  companionship, 
always  to  be  noted  in  confidence  between 
a child  and  a person  who  has  any  merit  of 
reality  and  genuineness,  which  is  admirably 
pleasant. 

Our  English  Watering  Place.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

SEA-SIDE-The. 

We  have  a fine  sea,  wholesome  for  all  peo- 
ple ; profitable  for  the  body,  profitable  for  the 
mind.  The  poet’s  words  are  sometimes  on  its 
awful  lips  ; 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  ttie  hill ; 
liii t O for  the  touch  of  a vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a voice  that  is  still. 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O sea  I 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me  1 

Yet  it  is  not  always  so,  for  the  speech  of  the 
sea  is  various,  and  wants  not  abundant  resource 
of  cheerfulness,  hope,  and  lusty  encouragement. 
And  since  I have  been  idling  at  the  window 
here,  the  tide  has  risen.  The  boats  are  dancing 
on  the  bubbling  water ; the  colliers  are  afloat 
again  ; the  white-bordered  waves  rush  in  ; the 
children 

Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back : 

the  radiant  sails  are  gliding  past  the  shore,  and 
shining  on  the  far  horizon  ; all  the  sea  is  spark- 
ling, heaving,  swelling  up  with  life  and  beauty, 
this  bright  morning. 

Our  English  Watering  Place.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

SEA-SIDE  VIEWS-The  approach  to 
Calais. 

When  I first  made  acquaintance  with  Calais, 
it  was  as  a maundering  young  wretch  in  a 
clammy  perspiration  and  dripping  saline  parti- 
cles, who  was  conscious  of  no  extremities  but 
the  one  great  extremity,  sea-sickness, — who  was 
a mere  bilious  torso,  with  a mislaid  headache 
somewhere  in  its  stomach — who  had  been  put 
into  a horrible  swing  in  Dover  Harbor,  and  had 
tumbled  giddily  out  of  it  on  the  French  coast, 
or  the  Isle  of  Man,  or  anywhere.  Times  have 
changed,  and  now  I enter  Calais  self-reliant  and 
rational.  I know  where  it  is  beforehand,  I keep  a 
lookout  for  it,  I recognize  its  landmarks  when 
I see  any  of  them,  I am  acquainted  with  its 
ways  and  I know — and  I can  bear — its  worst 
behavior. 

Malignant  Calais  ! Low-lying  alligator,  evad- 
ing the  eyesight  and  discouraging  hope  ! Dodg- 
ing flat  streak,  now  on  this  bow,  now  on  that, 
now  anywhere,  now  everywhere,  now  no- 
where! In  vain  Cape  Grinez,  coming  frank- 
ly forth  into  the  sea,  exhorts  the  failing  to  be 
stout  of  heart  and  stomach  ; sneaking  Calais, 
prone  behind  its  bar,  invites  emetically  to  de- 
spair. Even  when  it  can  no  longer  quite  conceal 
itself  in  its  muddy  dock,  it  has  an  evil  way  of 
falling  '-n,  ha » ( alais,  w hich  is  more  hopeless 
than  it  inv i ibility.  The  pier  is  .-ill  but  on  the 
bowsprit,  and  you  think  you  are  there— roll, 
roar,  wash!— Calais  has  retired  miles  inland, 


and  Dover  has  burst  out  to  look  for  it.  It  has  a 
last  dip  and  slide  in  its  character,  has  Calais,  to 
be  especially  commended  to  the  infernal  gods. 
Thrice  accursed  be  that  garrison  town,  when  it 
dives  under  the  boat’s  keel,  and  comes  up  a 
league  or  two  to  the  right,  with  the  packet 
shivering  and  spluttering  and  staring  about  for 
it  ! — Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  17. 

SEA-SIDE  VIEWS  Landing:  at  Calais. 

The  passengers  were  landing  from  the  packet 
on  the  pier  at  Calais.  A low-lying  place  and  a 
low-spirited  place  Calais  was,  with  the  tide  ebb- 
ing out  toward  low-water  mark.  There  had 
been  no  more  water  on  the  bar  than  had  sufficed 
to  float  the  packet  in  ; and  now  the  bar  itself, 
with  a shallow  break  of  sea  over  it,  looked  like 
a lazy  marine  monster  just  risen  to  the  surface, 
whose  form  was  distinctly  shown  as  it  lay  asleep. 
The  meagre  lighthouse,  all  in  white,  haunting 
the  seaboard,  as  if  it  were  the  ghost  of  an  edi- 
fice that  had  once  had  color  and  rotundity, 
dripped  melancholy  tears  after  its  late  buffeting 
by  the  waves.  The  long  rows  of  gaunt  black 
piles,  slimy  and  wet  and  weather-worn,  with 
funeral  garlands  of  sea-weed  twisted  about  them 
by  the  late  tide,  might  have  represented  an  un- 
sightly marine  cemetery.  Every  wave-dashed, 
storm-beaten  object,  was  so  low  and  so  little, 
under  the  broad  gray  sky,  in  the  noise  of  the 
wind  and  sea,  and  before  the  curling  lines  of 
surf  making  at  it  ferociously,  that  the  wonder 
was  there  was  any  Calais  left,  and  that  its 
low  gates  and  low  wall  and  low  roofs  and  low 
ditches  and  low  sand-hills  and  low  ramparts  and 
flat  streets,  had  not  yielded  long  ago  to  the  un- 
dermining and  besieging  sea,  like  the  fortifica- 
tions children  make  on  the  sea-sliore. 

After  slipping  among  oozy  piles  arid  planks, 
stumbling  up  wet  steps  and  encountering  many 
salt  difficulties,  the  passengers  entered  on  their 
comfortless  peregrination  along  the  pier  ; where  j 
all  the  French  vagabonds  and  English  outlaws  in 
the  town  (half  the  population)  attended  to  pre- 
vent their  recovery  from  bewilderment.  After 
being  minutely  inspected  by  all  the  English, 
and  claimed,  and  reclaimed,  and  counter-claimed 
as  prizes  by  all  the  French,  in  a hand-to-hand 
scuffle,  three-quarters  of  a mile  long,  they  were 
at  last  free  to  enter  the  streets,  and  to  make  off 
in  their  various  directions,  hotly  pursued. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  //.,  Chap.  20. 

SEA-VOYAGE  -The  end  of  a. 

It  was  mid-day,  and  high  water  in  the  English  , 
port  for  which  the  Screw  was  bound,  when, 
borne  in  gallantly  upon  the  fullness  of  the  tide, 
she  let  go  her  anchor  in  the  river. 

Bright  as  the  scene  was;  fresh,  and  full  of 
motion  ; airy,  free,  and  sparkling  ; it  was  noth- 
ing to  the  life  and  exultation  in  the  breasts  of 
the  two  travellers,  at  sight  of  the  old  churches, 
roofs,  and  darkened  chimney-stacks  of  Home. 
The  distant  roar,  that  swelled  up  hoarsely  from 
the  busy  streets,  was  music  in  their  ears  ; the 
lines  of  people  gazing  from  the  wharves,  were 
friends  held  dear  ; the  canopy  of  smoke  that 
overhung  the  town,  was  brighter  and  more  beau- 
tiful to  them,  than  if  the  richest  silks  of  Persia  j 
had  been  waving  in  the  air.  And  though  the 
water,  going  on  its  glistening  track,  turned  ever  , 
and  again  aside,  to  dance  and  sparkle  round  j 
great  ships,  and  heave  them  up,  and  leaped  from 


SECRETS  433  SELFISHNESS, 


off  the  blades  of  oars,  a shower  of  diving  dia- 
monds ; and  wantoned  with  the  idle  boats,  and 
| swiftly  passed,  in  many  a sportive  chase,  through 
! obdurate  old  iron  rings,  set  deep  into  the  stone- 
work of  the  quays  ; not  even  it  was  half  so 
buoyant,  and  so  restless,  as  their  fluttering 
hearts,  when  yearning  to  set  foot,  once  more,  on 
native  ground. 

A year  had  passed,  since  those  same  spires 
and  roofs  had  faded  from  their  eyes.  It  seemed, 
to  them,  a dozen  years.  Some  trifling  changes, 
here  and  there,  they  called  to  mind  ; and  won- 
dered that  they  were  so  few  and  slight.  In 
health  and  fortune,  prospect  and  resource,  they 
came  back  poorer  men  than  they  had  gone 
away.  But  it  was  home.  And  though  home  is 
a name,  a word,  it  is  a strong  one  ; stronger 
than  magician  ever  spoke,  or  spirit  answered  to, 
in  strongest  conjuration. 

* * * * * 

Even  the  street  was  made  a fairy  street,  by 
being  half-hidden  in  an  atmosphere  of  steak  and 
strong,  stout,  stand-up  English  beer.  For,  on 
the  window-glass  hung  such  a mist,  that  Mr. 
lapley  was  obliged  to  rise  and  wipe  it  with  his 
handkerchief,  before  the  passengers  appeared 
like  common  mortals.  And  even  then,  a spiral 
little  cloud  went  curling  up  from  their  two 
glasses  of  hot  grog,  which  nearly  hid  them 
from  each  other. — Martin  Chuzzlezvit , Chap  35. 

SECRETS. 

• “ Such  matters  keep  well,  and,  like  good  wine, 
often  double  their  value  in  course  of  time,”  an- 
swered the  matron,  still  preserving  the  resolute 
indifference  she  had  assumed.  “As  to  lying  dead, 
there  are  those  who  will  lie  dead  for  twelve  thou- 
sand years  to  come,  or  twelve  million,  for  any- 
thing you  or  I know,  who  will  tell  strange  tales 
it  last !” — Oliver  Twist , Chap.  3S. 

SECRETS — Depositories  of. 

As  he  went  along,  upon  a dreary  night,  the 
lim  streets  by  which  he  went  seemed  all  de- 
positories of  oppressive  secrets.  The  deserted 
:ounting-houses,  with  their  secrets  of  books  and 
Papers  locked  up  in  chests  and  safes  ; the  bank- 
,ng  houses,  with  their  secrets  of  strong  rooms 
ind  wells,  the  keys  of  which  were  in  a very  few 
ecret  pockets  and  a very  few  secret  breasts  ; the 
ecrets  of  all  the  dispersed  grinders  in  the  vast 
frill,  among  whom  there  were  doubtless  plun- 
ierers,  forgers,  and  trust-betrayers  of  many  sorts, 
,vhom  the  light  of  any  day  that  dawned  might 
eveal  ; he  could  have  fancied  that  these  things, 

1 hiding,  imparted  a heaviness  to  the  air.  The 
■hadow  thickening  and  thickening  as  he  ap- 
roached  its  source,  he  thought  of  the  secrets 
f the  lonely  church-vaults,  where  the  people 
ho  had  hoarded  and  secreted  in  iron  coffers 
ere  in  their  turn  similarly  hoarded,  not  yet  at 
ist  from  doing  harm  ; and  then  of  the  secrets 
f the  river,  as  it  rolled  its  turbid  tide  between 
vo  frowning  wildernesses  of  secrets,  extend- 
ig,  thick  and  dense,  for  many  miles,  and  ward- 
's off  the  free  air  and  the  free  country,  swept 
y winds  and  wings  of  birds. 

The  shadow  still  darkening  as  he  drew  near 
ie  house,  the  melancholy  room  which  his  father 
ad  once  occupied,  haunted  by  the  appealing 
ice  he  had  himself  seen  fade  away  with  him 
hen  there  was  no  other  watcher  by  the  bed,  arose 
ffore  his  mind.  Its  close  air  was  secret.  The 


gloom,  and  must,  and  dust  of  the  whole  tene- 
ment, were  secret.  At  the  heart  of  it  his  mother 
presided,  inflexible  of  face,  indomitable  of  will, 
firmly  holding  all  the  secrets  of  her  own  and  his 
father  s life,  and  austerely  opposing  herself, 
front  to  front,  to  the  great  final  secret  of  all 
life. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  //.,  Chap.  10. 

SECRETS — Of  humanity. 

A wonderful  fact  to  reflect  upon,  that  every 
human  creature  is  constituted  to  be  that  pro- 
found secret  and  mystery  to  every  other.  A 
solemn  consideration,  when  I enter  a great 
city  by  night,  that  every  one  of  those  darkly 
clustered  houses  encloses  its  own  secret : that 
every  room  in  every  one  of  them  encloses  its 
own  secret ; that  every  beating  heart  in  the  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  breasts  there,  is,  in  some 
of  its  imaginings,  a secret  to  the  heart  nearest 
it ! Something  of  the  awfulness  even  of  Death 
itself,  is  referable  to  this.  No  more  can  I turn 
the  leaves  of  this  dear  book  that  I loved,  and 
vainly  hope  in  time  to  read  it  all.  No  more 
can  I look  into  the  depths  of  this  unfathomable 
water,  wherein,  as  momentary  lights  glanced 
into  it,  I have  had  glimpses  of  buried  ireasure 
and  other  things  submerged.  It  was  appointed 
that  the  book  should  shut  with  a spring,  forever 
and  forever,  when  I had  read  but  a page.  It 
was  appointed  that  the  water  should  be  locked 
in  an  eternal  frost,. when  the  light  was  playing 
on  its  surface,  and  I stood  in  ignorance  on  the 
shore.  My  friend  is  dead,  my  neighbor  is  dead, 
my  love,  the  darling  of  my  soul,  is  dead  ; it  is 
the  inexorable  consolidation  and  perpetuation 
of  the  secret  that  was  always  in  that  individu- 
ality, and  which  I shall  carry  in  mine  to  my  life’s 
end.  In  any  of  the  burial-places  of  this  city 
through  which  I pass,  is  there  a sleeper  more 
inscrutable  than  its  busy  inhabitants  are,  in  their 
innermost  personality,  to  me,  or  than  I am  to 
them? — Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  3. 

SECRET— The  possessor  of  a (Snag-sby). 

To  know  that  he  is  always  keeping  a secret 
from  her  ; that  he  has,  under  all  circumstances, 
to  conceal  and  hold  fast  a tender  double  tooth, 
which  her  sharpness  is  ever  ready  to  twist  out 
of  his  head  ; gives  Mr.  Snagsby,  in  her  dentisti- 
cal  presence,  much  of  the  air  of  a dog,,  who  has 
a reservation  from  his  master,  and  will  look 
anywhere  rather  than  meet  his  eye. 

Bleak  House , Chap . 25  .. 

SELF-DECEIT. 

All  other  swindlers  upon  earth  are  nothing 
to  the  self-swindlers,  and  with  such  pretences 
did  I cheat  myself.  Surely  a curious  thing. 
That  I should  innocently  take  a bad  half-crown 
of  somebody  else’s  manufacture,  is  reasonable 
enough  j but  that  I should  knowingly  reckon, 
the  spurious  coin  of  my  own  make,  as  good 
money  ! An  obliging  stranger,  under  pretence 
of  compactly  folding  up  my  bank-notes  for  se- 
cui  ity  s sake,  abstracts  the  notes  and  gives  me 
nutshells  ; but  what  is  his  sleight  of  hand  to 
mine,  when  I fold  up  my  own  nutshells  and 
pass  them  on  myself  as  notes  ! 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  28. 

SELFISHNESS. 

There  is  a kind  of  selfishness,”  said  Mar- 
tin ; “ I have  learned  it  in  my  own  experience 


SELFISHNESS 


434 


SHAKSPEARE 


of  my  own  breast  : which  is  constantly  upon 
the  watch  for  selfishness  in  others  ; and  hold- 
ing others  at  a distance  by  suspicions  and  dis- 
trusts, wonders  why  they  don’t  approach,  and 
don’t  confide,  and  calls  that  selfishness  in  th£m.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  52. 

“ But  is  it  really  possible  to  please  the 
world  ? ” says  some  doubting  reader.  It  is,  in- 
deed. Nay,  it  is  not  only  very  possible,  but 
very  easy.  The  ways  are  crooked,  and  some- 
times foul  and  low.  What  then?  A man  need 
but  crawl  upon  his  hands  and  knees,  know 
when  to  close  his  eyes  and  when  his  ears,  when 
to  stoop  and  when  to  stand  upright  ; and  if  by 
the  world  is  meant  that  atom  of  it  in  which  he 
moves  himself,  he  shall  please  it,  never  fear. 

Sketches  of  Couples. 

SELFISHNESS— In  love. 

Is  selfishness  a necessary  ingredient  in  the 
composition  of  that  passion  called  love,  or  does 
it  deserve  all  the  fine  things  which  poets,  in  the 
exercise  of  their  undoubted  vocation,  have  said 
of  it  ? There  are,  no  doubt,  authenticated  in- 
stances of  gentlemen  having  given  up  ladies 
and  ladies  having  given  up  gentlemen  to  meri- 
torious rivals,  under  circumstances  of  great  high- 
mindedness ; but  it  is  quite  established  that  the 
majority  of  such  ladies  and  gentlemen  have  not 
made  a virtue  of  necessity,  and  nobly  resigned 
what  was  beyond  their  reach  ; as  a private  sol- 
dier might  register  a vow  never  to  accept  the 
order  of  the  Garter,  or  a poor  curate  of  great 
piety  and  learning,  but  of  no  family — save  a very 
large  family  of  children — might  renounce  a bish- 
opric.— Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  43. 

SENTINEL- Sam  Weller  as  a. 

“ O wery  well,”  said  the  boots ; “ that’s  a 
mere  matter  of  taste — ev’ry  one  to  his  liking. 
Hows’ever,  all  I’ve  go't  to  say  is  this  here  : You 
sit  quietly  down  in  that  chair,  and  I’ll  sit  hop- 
persite  you  here,  and  if  you  keep  quiet  and  don’t 
stir,  I won’t  damage  you  ; but  if  you  move  hand 
or  foot  till  half-past  twelve  o’clock,  I shall  alter 
the  expression  of  your  countenance  so  complete- 
ly, that  the  next  time  you  look  in  the  glass  you’ll 
ask  vether  ydu’re  gone  out  of  town,  and  ven 
you’re  likely  to  come  back  again.  So  sit  down.” 

Tales , Chap.  8. 

SEPARATIONS— In  life. 

Breakings  up  are  capital  things  in  our  school- 
days, but  in  after  life  they  are  painful  enough. 
Death,  self-interest,  and  fortune’s  changes,  are 
every  day  breaking  up  many  a happy  group,  and 
scattering  them  far  and  wide  ; and  the  boys  and 
girls  never  come  back  again. 

Pickwick , Chap.  30. 

SERVANT  The  miseries  of  housekeeping". 

lie  was  taken  to  Bow  Street,  as  well  as  I re- 
member, on  the  completion  of  his  fifteenth  jour- 
ney ; when  four-and-sixpence,  and  a second-hand 
fife  which  he  couldn’t  play,  were  found  upon  his 
person. 

The  surprise  and  its  consequences  would  have 
been  much  less  disagreeable  to  me  if  lie  had  not 
been  penitent.  But  lie  was  very  penitent  in- 
deed, and  in  a peculiar  way — not  in  the  lump, 
.but  by  instalments.  For  example  : the  day  after 
that  on  which  I was  obliged  to  appear  against 


him,  he  made  certain  revelations  touching  a 
hamper  in  the  cellar,  which  we  believed  to  be 
full  of  wine,  but  which  had  nothing  in  it  except 
bottles  and  corks.  We  supposed  he  had  now 
eased  his  mind,  and  told  the  worst  he  knew  of 
the  cook  ; but,  a day  or  two  afterwards,  his  con- 
science sustained  a new  twinge,  and  he  disclosed 
how  she  had  a little  girl,  who,  early  every  morn- 
ing, took  away  our  bread  ; and  also  how  he  him- 
self had  been  suborned  to  maintain  the  milk- 
man in  coals.  In  two  or  three  days  more,  I 
was  informed  by  the  authorities  of  his  having 
led  to  the  discovery  of  sirloins  of  beef  among 
the  kitchen-stuff,  and  sheets  in  the  rag-bag.  A 
little  while  afterwards,  he  broke  out  in  an 
entirely  new  direction,  and  confessed  to  a know- 
ledge of  burglarious  intentions  as  to  our  prem- 
ises, on  the  part  of  the  pot-boy,  who  was  imme- 
diately taken  up.  I got  to  be  so  ashamed  of 
being  such  a victim,  that  I would  have  given 
him  any  money  to  hold  his  tongue,  or  would 
have  offered  a round  bribe  for  his  being  per- 
mitted to  run  away.  It  was  an  aggravating  cir- 
cumstance in  the  case  that  he  had  no  idea  of 
this,  but  conceived  that  he  was  making  me 
amends  in  every  new  discovery : not  to  say, 
heaping  obligations  on  my  head. 

David  Copper  field,  Chap.  48. 

SHADOWS— Evening". 

It  had  grown  darker  as  they  talked,  and  the 
wind  was  sawing  and  the  sawdust  was  whirling 
outside  paler  windows.  The  underlying  church- 
yard was  already  settling  into  deep  dim  shade, 
and  the  shade  was  creeping  up  to  the  house-tops 
among  which  they  sat.  “ As  if,”  said  Eugene, 

“ as  if  the  churchyard  ghosts  were  rising.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  12. 

SHAKERS— American. 

They  are  governed  by  a woman,  and  her  rule 
is  understood  to  be  absolute,  though  she  has  the 
assistance  of  a council  of  elders.  She  lives,  it , 
is  said,  in  strict  seclusion  in  certain  rooms  above 
the  chapel,  and  is  never  shown  to  profane  eyes. 
If  she  at  all  resemble  the  lady  who  presided 
over  the  store,  it  is  a great  charity  to  keep  her ! 
as  close  as  possible,  and  I cannot  too  strongly 
express  my  perfect  concurrence  in  this  benevo- 
lent proceeding. — American  Notes , Chap.  15. 

SHAKSPEARE— Mr.  Wolf’s  idea  of. 

“ ‘ Shakspeare’s  an  infernal  humbug,  Pip! 
What’s  the  good  of  Shakspeare,  Pip?  I never 
read  him.  What  the  devil  is  it  all  about,  Pip? 
There’s  a lot'  of  feet  in  Shakspeare’s  verse,  but 
there  ain’t  any  legs  worth  mentioning  in  Shaks- 
peare’s plays,  are  there,  Pip?  Juliet,  Desde-j 
mona,  Lady  Macbeth,  and  all  the  rest  of  ’em, 
whatever  their  names  are,  might  as  well  have  no 
legs  at  all,  for  anything  the  audience  know  about j 
it,  Pip.  Why,  in  that  respect  they’re  all  Missj 
Biffins  to  the  audience,  Pip.  I’ll  tell  you  what 
it  is.  What  the  people  call  dramatic  poetry  is 
a collection  of  sermons.  Do  I go  to  the  theatiel 
to  be  lectured?  No,  Pip.  If  I want  that,  1’dj 
go  to  church.  What’s  the  legitimate  object  of  iheJ 
drama,  Pip?  Human  nature.  What  are  legsJ 
Human  nature.  Then  let  us  have  plenty  of  ltd 
pieces,  Pip,  and  I’ll  stand  by  you,  my  buck  II 
And  I am  proud  to  say,”  added  Pip,  “that  hi| 
did  stand  by  me,  handsomely.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  28 


SHERRY-COBBLER 


435 


SHIP 


SHERRY-COBBLER— An  American. 

“ I wish  you  would  pull  off  my  boots  for  me,” 
said  Martin,  dropping  into  one  of  the  chairs. 
“ I am  quite  knocked  up.  Dead  beat,  Mark.” 

“You  won’t  say  that  to-morrow  morning, 
sir,”  returned  Mr.  Tapley  ; “ nor  even  to- 

night, sir,  when  you’ve  made  a trial  of  this.” 
With  which  he  produced  a very  large  tumbler, 
piled  up  to  the  brim  with  little  blocks  of  clear 
transparent  ice,  through  which  one  or  two 
thin  slices  of  lemon,  and  a golden  liquid  df 
delicious  appearance,  appealed  from  the  still 
depths  below,  to  the  loving  eye  of  the  spectator. 

“ What  do  you  call  this?  ” said  Martin. 

But  Mr.  Tapley  made  no  answer:  merely 
plunging  a reed  into  the  mixture — which  caus- 
ed a pleasant  commotion  among  the  pieces  of 
ice — and  signifying,  by  an  expressive  gesture, 
that  it  was  to  be  pumped  up  through  that  agency 
by  the  enraptured  drinker. 

Martin  took  the  glass  with  an  astonished 
look  ; applied  his  lips  to  the  reed  ; and  cast  up 
his  eyes  once  in  ecstasy.  He  paused  no  more 
until  the  goblet  was  drained  to  the  last  drop. 

“ There,  sir,”  said  Mark,  taking  it  from  him 
with  a triumphant  face  ; “ If  ever  you  should 
happen  to  be  dead  beat  again,  when  I ain’t  in 
the  way,  all  you’ve  got  to  do  is,  to  ask  the  near- 
est man  to  go  and  fetch  a cobbler.” 

“ To  go  and  fetch  a cobbler?  ” repeated  Mar- 
tin. 

“ This  wonderful  invention,  sir,”  said  Mark, 
tenderly  patting  the  empty  glass,  “ is  called  a 
cobbler.  Sherry  cobbler  when  you  name  it 
long ; cobbler,  when  you  name  it  short. 
Now,  you’re  equal  to  having  your  boots  taken 
off,  and  are,  in  every  particular  worth  men- 
tioning, another  man.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  17. 

SHIP— A hymn  on  board. 

There  was  a Sunday,  when  an  officer  of  the 
ship  read  the  service.  It  was  quiet  and  im- 
pressive, until  we  fell  upon  the  dangerous  and 
perfectly  unnecessary  experiment  of  striking 
up  a hymn.  After  it  was  given  out,  we  all 
rose,  but  everybody  left  it  to  somebody  else  to 
begin.  Silence  resulting,  the  officer  (no  singer 
himself)  rather  reproachfully  gave  us  the  first 
line  again,  upon  which  a rosy  pippin  of  an 
old  gentleman,  remarkable  throughout  the 
passage  for  his  cheerful  politeness,  gave  a little 
stamp  with  his  boot  (as  if  he  were  leading  off 
a country  dance),  and  blithely  warbled  us  into 
a show  of  joining.  At  the  end  of  the  first 
verse  we  became,  through  these  tactics,  so 
much  refreshed  and  encouraged,  that  none  of 
us,  howsoever  unmelodious,  would  submit  to 
be  left  out  of  the  second  verse  ; while  as  to  the 
third,  we  lifted  up  our  voices  in  a sacred  howl 
that  left  it  doubtful  whether  we  were  the  more 
: boastful  of  the  sentiments  we  united  in  pro- 
fessing, or  of  professing  them  with  a most  dis- 
cordant defiance  of  time  and  tune. 

Aboard  Ship.  New  Uncommercial  Samples. 

SHIP— At  sea. 

At  length  and  at  last,  the  promised  wind 
cai|(e  up  in  right  good  earnest,  and  away  we 
went  before  it,  with  every  stitch  of  canvas  set, 
slashing  through  the  water  nobly.  There  was  a 
grandeur  in  the  motion  of  the  splendid  ship,  as, 
overshadowed  by  her  mass  of  sails,  she  rode  at 


a furious  pace  upon  the  waves,  which  filled  one 
with  an  indescribable  sense  of  pride  and  exul- 
tation. As  she  plunged  into  a foaming  valley, 
how  I loved  to  see  the  green  waves,  bordered 
deep  with  white,  come  rushing  on  astern,  to 
buoy  her  upward  at  their  pleasure,  and  curl 
about  her  as  she  stooped  again,  but  always  own 
her  for  their  haughty  mistress  still ! On,  on  we 
flew,  with  changing  lights  upon  the  water,  be- 
ing now  in  the  blessed  region  of  fleecy  skies  ; a 
bright  sun  lighting  us  by  day,  and  a bright 
moon  by  night  ; the  vane  pointing  directly 
homeward,  alike  the  truthful  index  to  the  favor- 
ing wind  and  to  our  cheerful  hearts. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  16. 

SHIP-Cabin  of  a. 

Before  descending  into  the  bowels  of  the  ship 
we  had  passed  from  the  deck  into  a long  narrow 
apartment,  not  unlike  a gigantic  hearse  with 
windows  in  the  sides,  having  at  the  upper  end 
a melancholy  stove,  at  which  three  or  four  chilly 
stewards  were  warming  their  hands,  while  on 
either  side,  extending  down  its  whole  dreary 
length,  was  a long,  long  table,  over  each  of 
which  a rack,  fixed  to  the  low  roof,  and  stuck 
full  of  drinking-glasses  and  cruet-stands,  hinted 
dismally  at  rolling  seas  and  heavy  weather.  I 
had  not  at  that  time  seen  the  ideal  presentment 
of  this  chamber  which  has  since  gratified  me  so 
much,  but  I observed  that  one  of  our  friends 
who  had  made  the  arrangements  for  our  voyage 
turned  pale  on  entering,  retreated  on  the  friend 
behind  him,  smote  his  forehead  involuntarily, 
and  said,  below  his  breath,  “ Impossible ! "it 
cannot  be  !” — American  Notes,  Chap.  1. 

SHIP— Departure  of  an  emigrant. 

It  was  such  a strange  scene  to  me,  and  so 
confined  and  dark,  that,  at  first,  I could  make 
out  hardly  anything  ; but,  by  degrees,  it  cleared, 
as  my  eyes  became  more  accustomed  to  the 
gloom,  and  I seemed  to  stand  in  a picture  by 
Ostade.  Among  the  great  beams,  bulks,  and 
ringbolts  of  the  ship,  and  the  emigrant-berths 
and  chests,  and  bundles,  and  barrels,  and  heaps 
of  miscellaneous  baggage — lighted  up,  here  and 
there,  by  dangling  lanterns  ; and  elsewhere  by 
the  yellow  day-light  straying  down  a windsail 
or  a hatchway — were  crowded  groups  of  people, 
making  new  friendships,  taking  leave  of  one 
another,  talking,  laughing,  crying,  eating,  and 
drinking  ; some,  already  settled  down  into  the 
possession  of  their  few  feet  of  space,  with  their 
little  households  arranged,  and  tiny  children 
established  on  stools,  or  in  dwarf  elbow-chairs  ; 
others,  despairing  of  a resting-place,  and  wan- 
dering disconsolately.  From  babies,  who  had 
but  a week  or  two  of  life  behind  them,  to 
crooked  old  men  and  women  who  seemed  to 
have  but  a week  or  two  of  life  before  them  ; 
and  from  ploughmen  bodily  carrying  out  soil 
of  England  on  their  boots,  to  smiths  taking 
away  samples  of  its  soot  and  smoke  upon  their 
skins  ; every  age  and  occupation  appeared  to 
be  crammed  into  the  narrow  compass  of  the 
’tween  decks. 

* * * * * 

We  went  over  the  side  into  our  boat,  and  lay 
at  a little  distance  to  see  the  ship  wafted  on  her 
course.  It  was  then  calm,  radiant  sunset.  She 
lay  between  us  and  the  red  light  ; and  every 
taper  line  and  spar  was  visible  against  the  glow 


SHIP 


436 


SHIP 


A sight  at  once  so  beautiful,  so  mournful,  and 
so  hopeful,  as  the  glorious  ship,  lying,  still,  on 
the  flushed  water,  with  all  the  life  on  board  her 
crowded  at  the  bulwarks,  and  there  clustering, 
for  a moment,  bare-headed  and  silent,  I never 
saw. — David  Copper  field , Chap.  57. 

SHIP— In  a storm. 

But  what  the  agitation  of  a steam-vessel  is,  on 
a bad  winter’s  night  in  the  wild  Atlantic,  it  is 
impossible  for  the  most  vivid  imagination  to  con- 
ceive. To  say  that  she  is  flung  down  on  her 
side  in  the  waves,  with  her  masts  dipping 
into  them,  and  that,  springing  up  again,  she  rolls 
over  on  the  other  side,  until  a heavy  sea  strikes 
her  with  the  noise  of  a hundred  great  guns,  and 
hurls  her  back — that  she  stops,  and  staggers,  and 
shivers,  as  though  stunned,  and  then,  with  a 
violent  throbbing  at  her  heart,  darts  onward  like 
a monster  goaded  into  madness,  to  be  beaten 
down,  and  battered,  and  crushed,  and  leaped  on 
by  the  angry  sea — that  thunder,  lightning,  hail, 
and  rain,  and  wind,  are  all  in  fierce  contention 
for  the  mastery — that  every  plank  has  its  groan, 
every  nail  its  shriek,  and  every  drop  of  water  in 
the  great  ocean  its  howling  voice — is  nothing. 
To  say  that  all  is  grand,  and  all  appalling  and 
horrible  in  the  last  degree,  is  nothing.  Words 
cannot  express  it.  Thoughts  cannot  convey  it. 
Only  a dream  can  call  it  up  again,  in  all  its  fury, 
rage,  and  passion. 

* * * * * 

Of  the  outrageous  antics  performed  by  that 
ship  next  morning,  which  made  bed  a practical 
joke,  and  getting  up,  by  any  process  short  of 
falling  out,  an  impossibility,  I say  nothing.  But 
anything  like  the  utter  dreariness  and  desolation 
that  met  my  eyes  when  I literally  “ tumbled  up” 
on  deck  at  noon,  I never  saw.  Ocean  and  sky 
were  all  of  one  dull,  heavy,  uniform  lead-color. 
There  was  no  extent  of  prospect  even  over  the 
dreary  waste  that  lay  around  us,  for  the  sea  ran 
high,  and  the  horizon  encompassed  us  like  a large 
black  hoop.  Viewed  from  the  air,  or  some  tall 
bluff  on  shore,  it  would  have  been  imposing  and 
stupendous,  no  doubt  ; but  seen  from  the  wet 
and  rolling  decks,  it  only  impressed  one  giddily 
and  painfully.  In  the  gale  of  last  night  the  life- 
boat had  been  crushed  by  one  blow  of  the  sea, 
like  a walnut-shell  ; and  there  it  hung  dangling 
in  the  air,  a mere  fagot  of  crazy  boards.  The 
planking  of  the  paddle-boxes  had  been  torn 
sheer  away.  The  wheels  were  exposed  and 
bare  ; and  they  whirled  and  dashed  their  spray 
about  the  decks  at  random.  Chimney  white 
with  crusted  salt  ; topmast  struck  ; storm-sails 
set  ; rigging  all  knotted,  tangled,  wet,  and 
drooping  ; a gloomier  picture  it  would  be  hard 
to  look  upon. — American  Notes , Chap.  2. 

SHIP  -Prayer  on  board. 

Thus  the  scene.  Some  seventy  passengers 
assembled  at  the  saloon  tables.  Prayer-books 
on  tables.  Ship  rolling  heavily.  Pause.  No 
Minister.  Rumor  has  related  that  a modest 
young  clergyman  on  board  has  responded  to  the 
captain’s  request  that  he  will  officiate.  Pause 
again,  and  very  heavy  rolling. 

Closed  double  doors  suddenly  burst  open,  and 
two  strong  stewards  skate  in,  supporting  minis- 
ter between  them.  Cencral  appearance  as  of 
somebody  picked  up,  drunk  and  incapable,  and 
under  conveyance  to  station-house.  Stoppage, 


pause,  and  particularly  heavy  rolling.  Stewards 
watch  their  opportunity,  and  balance  themselves, 
but  cannot  balance  minister  ; who,  struggling 
with  a drooping  head  and  a backward  tendency, 
seems  determined  to  return  below,  while  they  are 
as  determined  that  he  shall  be  got  to  the  reading- 
desk  in  mid-saloon.  Desk  portable,  sliding 
away  down  a long  table,  and  aiming  itself  at 
the  breasts  of  various  members  of  the  congrega- 
tion. Here  the  double  doors,  which  have  been 
carefully  closed  by  other  stewards,  fly  open 
again,  and  worldly  passenger  tumbles  in,  seem- 
ingly with  Pale  Ale  designs;  who,  seeking 
friend,  says  “Joe!”  Perceiving  incongruity, 
says,  “ Hullo  ! Beg  yer  pardon  ! ” and  tumbles 
out  again.  All  this  time  the  congregation  have 
been  breaking  up  into  sects — as  the  manner  of 
congregations  often  is — each  sect  sliding  away 
by  itself,  and  all  pounding  the  weakest  sect, 
which  slid  first  into  the  corner.  Utmost  point 
of  dissent  soon  attained  in  every  corner,  and 
violent  rolling.  Stewards  at  length  make  a 
dash  ; conduct  minister  to  the  mast  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  saloon,  which  he  embraces  with  both 
arms  ; skate  out  ; and  leave  him  in  that  con- 
dition to  arrange  affairs  with  flock. 

Aboard  Ship.  New  Uncommercial  Samples. 

SHIP— Preparations  for  departure. 

But  we  are  made  fast  alongside  the  packet, 
whose  huge  red  funnel  is  smoking  bravely,  giv- 
ing rich  promise  of  serious  intentions.  Pack- 
ing-cases, portmanteaus,  carpet-bags,  and  boxes 
are  already  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and 
hauled  on  board  with  breathless  rapidity.  The 
officers,  smartly  dressed,  are  at  the  gangway, 
handing  the  passengers  up  the  side,  and  hurry- 
ing the  men.  In  five  minutes’  time  the  little 
steamer  is  utterly  deserted,  and  the  packet  is 
beset  and  overrun  by  its  late  freight,  who  in- 
stantly pervade  the  whole  ship,  and  are  to  be 
met  with  by  the  dozen  in  every  nook  and  corner : 
swarming  down  below  with  their  own  baggage, 
and  stumbling  over  other  people’s  ; disposing 
themselves  comfortably  in  wrong  cabins,  and 
creating  a most  horrible  confusion  by  having  to 
turn  out  again  ; madly  bent  upon  opening  locked 
doors,  and  on  forcing  a passage  into  all  kinds 
of  out-of-the  way  places,  where  there  is  no 
thoroughfare  : sending  wild  stewards  with  elfin 
hair  to  and  fro  upon  the  breezy  decks  on  unintel- 
ligible errands,  impossible  of  execution  ; and,  in 
short,  creating  the  most  extraordinary  and  be- 
wilderin'g  tumult. 

***** 

The  state-room  had  grown  pretty  fast ; but 
by  this  time  it  had  expanded  into  something 
quite  bulky,  and  almost  boasted  a bay-window 
to  view  the  sea  from.  So  we  went  upon  deck 
again  in  high  spirits  ; and  there  everything  was 
in  such  a state  of  bustle  and  active  preparation, 
that  the  blood  quickened  its  pace,  and  whirled 
through  one’s  veins  on  that  clear  frosty  morn- 
ing with  involuntary  mirthfulness.  For  every 
gallant  ship  was  riding  slowly  up  and  down, 
and  every  little  boat  was  plashing  noisily  in  the 
water ; and  knots  of  people  stood  upon  the 
wharf,  gazing  with  a kind  of  “ dread  delight  ” on 
the  far-famed  fast  American  steamer  ; and  one 
party  of  men  were  “taking  in  the  milk,”  or,  in 
other  words,  getting  the  cow  on  board  ; and 
another  were  tilling  the  ice-houses  to  the  very 
throat  with  fresh  provisions, — with  butchers’- 


SHIP 


437 


SHI* 


meat  and  garden-stuff,  pale  sucking-pigs,  calves’ 
heads  in  scores,  beef,  veal,  and  pork,  and  poul- 
try out  of  all  proportion  ; and  others  were  coil- 
ing ropes,  and  busy  with  oakum  yarns  ; and 
others  were  lowering  heavy  packages  into  the 
hold  : and  the  purser’s  head  was  barely  visible 
as  it  loomed  in  a state  of  exquisite  perplexity 
from  the  midst  of  a vast  pile  of  passengers’  lug- 
gage ; and  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  going  on 
anywhere,  or  uppermost  in  the  mind  of  any- 
body, but  preparations  for  this  mighty  voyage. 
This,  with  the  bright  cold  sun,  the  bracing  air, 
the  crisply  curling  water,  the  thin  white  crust 
of  morning  ice  upon  the  decks,,  which  crackled 
with  a sharp  and  cheerful  sound  beneath  the 
lightest  tread,  was  irresistible.  And  when,  again 
upon  the  shore,  we  turned  and  saw  from  the  ves- 
sel’s mast  her  name  signalled  in  flags  of  joyous 
colors,  and  fluttering  by  their  side  the  beautiful 
American  banner,  with  its  stars  and  stripes,  the 
long  three  thousand  miles  and  more,  and,  long- 
er still,  the  six  whole  months  of  absence,  so 
dwindled  and  faded,  that  the  ship  had  gone 
out  and  come  home  again,  and  it  was  broad 
spring  already  in  the  Coburg  Dock  at  Liver- 
pool.— American  Notes , Chap.  I. 

SHIP— Scanss  on  board. 

My  journeys  as  Uncommercial  Traveller  for 
the  firm  of  Human  Interest  Brothers  have  not 
slackened  since  I last  reported  of  them,  but  have 
kept  me  continually  on  the  move.  I remain  in 
the  same  idle  employment.  I never  solicit  an 
order,  I never  get  any  commission,  I am  the  roll- 
ing stone  that  gathers  no  moss, — unless  any 
should  by  chance  be  found  among  these  Samples. 

Some  half  a year  ago,  I found  myself  in  my 
idlest,  dreamiest,  and  least  accountable  condi- 
tion altogether,  on  board  ship,  in  the  harbor  of 
the  city  of  New  York,  in  the  United  States  of 
America.  Of  all  the  good  ships  afloat,  mine 
was  the  good  steamship  Russia,  Captain  Cook, 
Cunard  Line,  bound  for  Liverpool.  What  more 
could  I wish  for? 

* * * * * 

A bright  sun  and  a clear  sky  had  melted  the 
snow  in  the  great  crucible  of  nature,  and  it  had 
been  poured  out  again  that  morning  over  sea 
and  land,  transformed  into  myriads  of  gold  and 
silver  sparkles. 

The  ship  was  fragrant  with  flowers.  Some- 
thing of  the  old  Mexican  passion  for  flowers 
may  have  gradually  passed  into  North  America, 
where  flowers  are  luxuriously  grown  and  taste- 
fully combined  in  the  richest  profusion  ; but,  be 
that  as  it  may,  such  gorgeous  farewells  in  flowers 
had  come  on  board,  that  the  small  officer’s  cabin 
on  deck,  which  I tenanted,  bloomed  over  into 
the  adjacent  scuppers,  and  banks  of  other  flowers 
that  it  could  n’t  hold,  made  a garden  of  the 
unoccupied  tables  in  the  passengers’  saloon. 
These  delicious  scents  of  the  shore,  mingling 
with  the  fresh  airs  of  the  sea,  made  the  atmos- 
phere a dreamy,  an  enchanting  one.  And  so, 
with  the  watch  aloft  setting  all  the  sails,  and 
with  the  screw  below  revolving  at  a mighty  rate, 
and  occasionally  giving  the  ship  an  angry  shake 
for  resisting, I fell  into  my  idlest  ways  and  lost  my- 
self.— Aboard  Ship.  New  Uncommercial  Samples. 

SHIP— State-room  of  a. 

That  this  state-room  had  been  specially 
engaged  for  “ Charles  Dickens,  Esquire,  and 


Lady”  was  rendered  sufficiently  clear  even  to 
my  scared  intellect  by  a very  small  manuscript, 
announcing  the  fact,  which  was  pinned  on  a 
very  flat  quilt,  covering  a very  thin  mattress, 
spread  like  a surgical  plaster  on  a most  inacces- 
sible shelf. 

***** 

That  this  room  of  state,  in  short,  could  be 
anything  but  a pleasant  fiction  and  cheerful 
jest  of  the  captain’s,  invented  and  put  in  practice 
for  the  better  relish  and  enjoyment  of  the  real 
state-room  presently  to  be  disclosed  ; — these 
were  truths  which  I really  could  not,  for  the 
moment,  bring  my  mind  at  all  to  bear  upon  or 
comprehend.  And  I sat  down  upon  a kind  of 
horse  hair  slab,  or  perch,  of  which  there  were 
two  within  ; and  looked,  without  any  expression 
of  countenance  whatever,  at  some  friends  who 
had  come  on  board  with  us,  and  who  were 
crushing  their  faces  into  all  manner  of  shapes 
by  endeavoring  to  squeeze  them  through  the 
small  doorway. — American  Notes , Chap.  i. 

SHIPS— Their  associations. 

“ Think  of  this  wine,  for  instance,”  said  old 
Sol,  “ which  has  been  to  the  East  Indies  and 
back,  I’m  not  able  to  say  how  often,  and  has 
been  once  round  the  world.  Think  of  the  pitch- 
dark  nights,  the  roaring  winds,  and  rolling  seas.” 

“ The  thunder,  lightning,  rain,  hail,  storm  of 
all  kinds,”  said  the  boy. 

“To  be  sure,”  said  Solomon — “ that  this  wine 
has  passed  through.  Think  what  a straining  and 
creaking  of  timbers  and  masts  ; what  a whist- 
ling and  howling  of  the  gale  through  ropes  and 
rigging  : ” 

“What  a clambering  aloft  of  men,  vying  with 
each  other  who  shall  lie  out  first  upon  the  yards 
to  furl  the  icy  sails,  while  the  ship  rolls  and 
pitches,  like  mad  ! ” cried  his  nephew. 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  4. 

SHIPS— The  rigging  of. 

Arrived  at  the  wharf,  this  great  commander’s 
ship  was  jammed  in  among  some  five  hundred 
companions,  whose  tangled  rigging  looked  like 
monstrous  cobwebs  half  swept  down. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  23. 

SHIPWRECK  — Capt.  Cuttle’s  description 
of  a. 

“ Day  arter  day  that  there  unfort’nate  ship  be- 
haved noble,  I’m  told,  and  did  her  duty  brave, 
my  pretty,  but  at  one  blow  a’most  her  bulwarks 
was  stove  in,  her  masts  and  rudder  carried  away, 
her  best  men  swept  overboard,  and  she  left  to 
the  mercy  of  the  storm  as  had  no  mercy,  but 
bio  wed  harder  and  harder  yet,  while  the  waves 
dashed  over  her,  and  beat  her  in,  and  every  time 
they  come  a thundering  at  her,  broke  her  like  a 
shell.  Every  black  spot  in  every  mountain  of 
water  that  rolled  away  was  a bit  o’  the  ship’s 
life  or  a living  man  ; and  so  she  went  to  pieces, 
Beauty,  and  no  grass  will  never  grow  upon  the 
graves  of  them  as  manned  that  ship.” 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  49. 

SHIP— The  voice  of  the  Screw. 

And  now,  lying  down  again,  awaiting  the  sea- 
son for  broiled  ham  and  tea,  I would  be  com- 
pelled to  listen  to  the  voice  of  conscience, — the 
Screw. 

It  might  be,  in  some  cases,  no  more  than 


SHIP 


438 


SHIPWRECK 


the  voice  of  Stomach,  but  I called  it  in  my 
fancy  by  the  higher  name.  Because  it  seemed 
to  me  that  vve  were  all  of  us,  all  day  long,  en- 
deavoring to  stifle  the  Voice.  Because  it  was 
under  everybody’s  pillow,  everybody’s  plate, 
everybody’s  camp-stool,  everybody’s  book,  every- 
body’s occupation.  Because  we  pretended  not 
to  hear  it,  especially  at  meal-times,  evening 
whist,  and  morning  conversation  on  deck  ; but 
it  was  always  among  us  in  an  under  monotone, 
not  to  be  drowned  in  pea-soup,  not  to  be  shuffled 
with  cards,  not  to  be  diverted  by  books,  not  to 
be  knitted  into  any  pattern,  not  to  be  walked 
away  from.  It  was  smoked  in  the  weediest 
cigar,  and  drunk  in  the  strongest  cocktail  ; it 
was  conveyed  on  deck  at  noon  with  limp  ladies, 
who  lay  there  in  their  wrappers  until  the  stars 
shone;  it  waited  at  table  with  the  stewards ; no- 
body could  put  it  out  with  the  lights.  It  was 
considered  (as  on  shore)  ill-bred  to  acknow- 
ledge the  Voice  of  Conscience.  It  was  not 
polite  to  mention  it.  One  squally  day  an  amia- 
ble gentleman  in  love  gave  much  offence  to  a 
surrounding  circle,  including  the  object  of  his 
attachment,  by  saying  of  it,  after  it  had  goaded 
him  over  two  easy-chairs  and  a skylight, 
“ Screw  ! ” 

Sometimes  it  would  appear  subdued.  In 
fleeting  moments,  when  bubbles  of  champagne 
pervaded  the  nose,  or  when  there  was  “hot 
pot  ” in  the  bill  of  fare,  or  when  an  old  dish  we 
had  had  regularly  every  day  was  described  in 
that  official  document  by  a new  name — under 
such  excitements,  one  would  almost  believe  it 
hushed.  The  ceremony  of  washing  plates  on 
deck,  performed  after  every  meal  by  a circle  as 
of  ringers  of  crockery  triple-bob-majors  for  a 
prize,  would  keep  it  down.  Hauling  the  reel, 
taking  the  sun  at  noon,  posting  the  twenty-four 
hours’  run,  altering  the  ship's  time  by  the  meri- 
dian, casting  the  waste  food  overboard,  and  at- 
tracting the  eager  gulls  that  followed  in  our 
wake ; these  events  would  suppress  it  for  a 
while.  But  the  instant  any  break  or  pause 
took  place  in  any  such  diversion,  the  Voice 
would  be  at  it  again,  importuning  us  to  the  last 
extent.  A newly-married  young  pair,  who 
walked  the  deck  affectionately  some  twenty 
miles  per  day,  would,  in  the  full  flush  of  their 
exercise,  suddenly  become  stricken  by  it,  and 
stand  trembling,  but  otherwise  immovable,  un- 
der its  reproaches. 

***** 

Lights  out,  we  in  our  berths,  and  the  wind 
rising,  the  Voice  grows  angrier  and  deeper. 
Under  the  mattress  and  under  the  pillow,  un- 
der the  sofa  and  under  the  washing-stand,  un- 
der the  ship  and  under  the  sea,  seeming  to  arise 
from  the  foundations  under  the  earth  with  every 
scoop  of  the  great  Atlantic  (and  O,  why  scoop 
so  !),  always  the  Voice.  Vain  to  deny  its  exist- 
ence in  the  night  season  ; impossible  to  be  hard 
of  hearing  ; Screw,  Screw,  Screw.  Sometimes 
it  lifts  out  of  the  water,  and  revolves  with  a 
whirr,  like  a ferocious  firework — except  that  it 
never  expends  itself,  but  is  always  ready  to  go 
off  again  ; sometimes  it  seems  to  be  aguish  and 
shivers;  sometimes  it  seems  to- be  terrified  by 
its  last  plunge,  and  has  a fit  which  causes  it  to 
struggle,  quiver,  and  for  an  instant  stop.  And 
now  the  ship  sets  in  rolling,  as  only  ships  so 
fiercely  screwed  through  time  and  space,  day 
and  night,  fair  weather  and  foul,  can  loll. 


Did  she  ever  take  a roll  before  like  that  last  ? 
Did  she  ever  take  a roll  before  like  this  worse 
one  that  is  coming  now?  Here  is  the  partition 
at  my  ear  down  in  the  deep  on  the  lee  side. 
Are  we  ever  coming  up  again  together?  I think 
not ; the  partition  and  I are  so  long  about  it 
that  I really  do  believe  we  have  overdone  it 
this  time.  Heavens,  what  a scoop  ! What  a 
deep  scoop,  what  a hollow  scoop,  what  a long 
scoop  ! Will  it  ever  end  ! 

***** 

At  last,  at  nine  of  the  clock,  on  a fair  evening 
early  in  May,  we-stopped,  and  the  Voice  ceased. 
A very  curious  sensation,  not  unlike  having  my 
own  ears  stopped,  ensued  upon  that  silence ; 
and  it  was  with  a no  less  curious  sensation  that 
I went  over  the  side  of  the  good  Cunard  ship 
Russia,  (whom  Prosperity  attend  through  all  her 
voyages  !)  and  surveyed  the  outer  hull  of  the 
gracious  monster  that  the  Voice  had  inhabited. 
So,  perhaps,  shall  we  all,  in  the  spirit,  one  day 
survey  the  frame  that  held  the  busier  Voice 
from  which  my  vagrant  fancy  derived  this  simil- 
itude. 

A boai'd  Ship.  New  Uncommercial  Samples. 

SHIPWRECK— (The  death  of  Ham). 

“ A wreck  ! Close  by  ! ” 

I sprung  out  of  bed,  and  asked,  what  wreck  ? 

“ A schooner  from  Spain  or  Portugal,  laden 
with  fruit  and  wine.  Make  haste,  sir,  if  you 
want  to  see  her!  It’s  thought,  down  on  the 
beach,  she’ll  go  to  pieces  every  moment.” 

The  excited  voice  went  clamoring  along  the 
staircase  ; and  I wrapped  myself  in  my  clothes 
as  quickly  as  I could,  and  ran  into  the  street. 

The  wind  might  by  this  time  have  lulled  a 
little,  though  not  more  sensibly  than  if  the  can- 
nonading I had  dreamed  of  had  been  diminish- 
ed by  the  silencing  of  half-a-dozen  guns  out  of 
hundreds.  But  the  sea,  having  upon  it  the  ad- 
ditional agitation  of  the  whole  night,  was  infi- 
nitely more  terrific  than  when  I had  seen  it 
last.  Every  appearance  it  had  then  presented, 
bore  the  expression  of  being  swelled : and  the 
height  to  which  the  breakers  rose,  and,  looking 
over  one  another,  bore  one  another  down,  and 
rolled  in,  in  interminable  hosts,  was  most  ap- 
palling. 

In  the  difficulty  of  hearing  anything  but  wind 
and  waves,  and  in  the  crowd,  and  the  unspeak- 
able confusion,  and  my  first  breathless  efforts  to 
stand  against  the  weather,  I was  so  confused 
that  I looked  out  to  sea  for  the  wreck,  and  saw 
nothing  but  the  foaming  heads  of  the  great 
waves.  A half-dressed  boatman,  standing  next 
me,  pointed  with  his  bare  arm  (a  tattoo’d  arrow 
on  it,  pointing  in  the  same  direction),  to  the 
left.  Then,  O great  Heaven,  I saw  it,  close  in 
upon  us  ! 

One  mast  was  broken  short  off,  six  or  eight 
feet  from  the  deck,  and  lay  over  the  side,  entan- 
gled in  a maze  of  sail  and  rigging  ; and  all  that 
ruin,  as  the  ship  rolled  and  beat — which  she  did 
without  a moment’s  pause,  and  with  a violence 
quite  inconceivable,  beat  the  side  as  if  it  would 
stave  it  in.  Some  efforts  were  even  then  being 
made,  to  cut  this  portion  of  the  wreck  away ; 
for,  as  the  ship,  which  was  broadside  on,  turned 
towards  us  in  her  rolling,  I plainly  descried  her 
people  at  work  with  axes,  especially  one  active 
figure  with  long  curling  hair,  conspicuous  among 
the  rest.  But  a great  cry,  which  was  audible  even 


SHIPWRECK 


439 


SHIPBOARD 


above  the  wind  and  water,  rose  from  the  shore 
at  this  moment ; the  sea,  sweeping  over  the  roll- 
ing wreck,  made  a clean  breach,  and  carried 
men,  spars,  casks,  planks,  bulwarks,  heaps  of 
such  toys,  into  the  boiling  surge. 

The  second  mast  was  yet  standing,  with  the 
rags  of  a rent  sail,  and  a wild  confusion  of  bro- 
ken cordage  flapping  to  and  fro.  The  ship  had 
struck  once,  the  same  boatman  hoarsely  said  in 
my  ear,  and  then  lifted  in  and  struck  again.  I 
understood  him  to  add  that  she  was  parting 
amidships,  and  I could  readily  suppose  so,  for 
the  rolling  and  beating  were  too  tremendous  for 
any  human  work  to  suffer  long.  As  he  spoke, 
there  was  another  great  cry  of  pity  from  the 
beach  : four  men  arose  with  the  wreck  out  of  the 
deep,  clinging  to  the  rigging  of  the  remaining 
mast  ; uppermost,  the  active  figure  with  the 
curling  hair. 

There  was  a bell  on  board  ; and  as  the  ship 
rolled  and  dashed,  like  a desperate  creature 
driven  mad,  now  showing  us  the  whole  sweep 
of  her  deck,  as  she  turned  on  her  beam-ends 
towards  the  shore,  now  nothing  but  her  keel,  as 
she  sprung  wildly  over  and  turned  towards  the  sea, 
the  bell  rang  ; and  its  sound,  the  knell  of  those 
unhappy  men,  was  borne  towards  us  on  the 
wind.  Again  we  lost  her,  and  again  she  rose. 
Two  men  were  gone.  The  agony  on  shore  in- 
creased. Men  groaned,  and  clasped  their  hands  ; 
women  shrieked,  and  turned  away  their  faces. 
Some  ran  wildly  up  and  down  along  the  beach, 
crying  for  help  where  no  help  could  be.  I 
found  myself  one  of  these,  frantically  imploring 
a knot  of  sailors  whom  I knew,  not  to  let  those 
two  lost  creatures  perish  before  our  eyes. 

They  wei'e  making  out  to  me,  in  an  agitated 
way — I don’t  know  how,  for  the  little  I could 
hear  I was  scarcely  composed  enough  to  under- 
stand— that  the  lifeboat  had  been  bravely 
manned  an  hour  ago,  and  could  do  nothing  ; 
and  that,  as  no  man  would  be  so  desperate  as 
to  attempt  to  wade  off  with  a rope,  and  estab- 
lish a communication  with  the  shore,  there  was 
nothing  left  to  try  ; when  I noticed  that  some 
new  sensation  moved  the  people  on  the  beach, 
and  saw  them  part,  and  Ham  come  breaking 
through  them  to  the  front. 

* * * * * 

Then  I saw  him  standing  alone,  in  a sea- 
man’s frock  and  trowsers  : a rope  in  his  hand, 
or  slung  to  his  wrist : another  round  his  body  : 
and  several  of  the  best  men  holding,  at  a little 
distance,  to  the  latter,  which  he  laid  out  him- 
self, slack  upon  the  shore,  at  his  feet. 

The  wreck,  even  to  my  unpractised  eye,  was 
breaking  up.  I saw  that  she  was  parting  in 
the  middle,  and  that  the  life  of  the  solitary  man 
upon  the  mast  hung  by  a thread.  Still,  he 
clung  to  it.  He  had  a singular  red  cap  on, — 
not  like  a sailor’s  cap,  but  of  a finer  color  ; and 
as  the  few  yielding  planks  between  him  and 
destruction  rolled  and  bulged,  and  his  antici- 
pati-ve  death-knell  rung,  he  was  seen  by  all  of 
us  to  wave  it.  I saw  him  do  it  now,  and 
thought  I was  going  distracted,  when  his  action 
brought  an  old  remembrance  to  my  mind  of  a 
once  dear  friend. 

Ham  watched  the  sea,  standing  alone,  with 
the  silence  of  suspended  breath  behind  him, 
and  the  storm  before,  until  there  was  a great 
retiring  wave,  when,  with  a backward  glance  at 
chose  who  held  the  rope  which  was  made  fast 


round  his  body,  he  dashed  in  after  it,  and  in  a 
moment  was  buffeting  with  the  water ; rising 
with  the  hills,  falling  with  the  valleys,  lost  be- 
neath the  foam  : then  drawn  again  to  land. 
They  hauled  in  hastily. 

He  was  hurt.  I saw  blood  on  his  face,  from 
where  I stood  ; but  he  took  no  thought  of  that. 
He  seemed  hurriedly  to  give  them  some  direc- 
tions for  leaving  him  more  free — or  so  I judg- 
ed from  the  motion  of  his  arm — and  was  gone 
as  before. 

And  now  he  made  for  the  wreck,  rising 
with  the  hills,  falling  with  the  valleys,  lost  be- 
neath the  rugged  foam,  borne  in  towards  the 
shore,  borne  on  towards  the  ship,  striving  hard 
and  valiantly.  The  distance  was  nothing,  but 
the  power  of  the  sea  and  wind  made  the  strife 
deadly.  At  length  he  neared  the  wreck.  He 
was  so  near,  that  with  one  more  of  his  vigor- 
ous strokes  he  would  be  clinging  to  it, — when 
a high,  green,  vast  hill-side  of  water,  moving  on 
shoreward  from  beyond  the  ship,  he  seemed 
to  leap  up  into  it  with  a mighty  bound,  and  the 
ship  was  gone. 

Some  eddying  fragments  I saw  in  the  sea,  as 
if  a mere  cask  had  been  broken,  in  running  to 
the  spot  where  they  were  hauling  in.  Consterna- 
tion was  in  every  face.  They  drew  him  to  my 
very  feet — insensible — dead.  He  was  carried 
to  the  nearest  house  ; and,  no  one  preventing 
me  now,  I remained  near  him,  busy,  while  every 
means  of  restoration  were  tried  ! but  he  had 
been  beaten  to  death  by  the  great  wave,  and 
his  generous  heart  was  stilled  for  ever. 

David  Copperjield,  Chap.  55. 

SHIPBOARD— Mark  Tapley’s  jollity  on. 

It  is  due  to  Mark  Tapley  to  state,  that  he  suf- 
fered at  least  as  much  from  sea-sickness  as  any 
man,  woman,  or  child  on  board  ; and  that  he 
had  a peculiar  faculty  of  knocking  himself  about 
on  the  smallest  provocation,  and  losing  his  legs 
at  every  lurch  of  the  ship.  But  resolved,  in  his 
usual  phrase,  to  “come  out  strong”  under  dis- 
advantageous circumstances,  he  was  the  life  and 
soul  of  the  steerage,  and  made  no  more  of 
stopping  in  the  middle  of  a facetious  conversa- 
tion to  go  away  and  be  excessively  ill  by  him- 
self, and  afterwards  come  back  in  the  very  best 
and  gayest  of  tempers  to  resume  it,  than  if  such 
a course  of  proceeding  had  been  the  commonest 
in  the  world. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  as  his  illness  wore  off 
his  cheerfulness  and  good  nature  increased,  be- 
cause they  would  hardly  admit  of  augmentation  ; 
but  his  usefulness  among  the  weaker  members 
of  the  party  was  much  enlarged  ; and  at  all 
times  and  seasons  there  he  was  exerting  it.  If 
a gleam  of  sun  shone  out  of  the  dark  sky,  down 
Mark  tumbled  into  the  cabin,  and  presently  up 
he  came  again  with  a woman  in  his  arms,  or 
half-a-dozen  children,  or  a man,  or  a bed,  or  a 
saucepan,  or  a basket,  or  something  animate  or 
inanimate,  that  he  thought  would  be  the  better 
for  the  air.  If  an  hour  or  two  of  fine  weather 
in  the  middle  of  the  day  tempted  those  who 
seldom  or  never  came  on  deck  at  other  times, 
to  crawl  into  the  long-boat,  or  lie  down  upon 
the  spare  spars,  and  try  to  eat,  there,  in  the 
centre  of  the  group,  was  Mr.  Tapley,  handing 
about  salt  beef  and  biscuit,  or  dispensing  tastes 
of  grog,  or  cutting  up  the  children’s  provisions 
with  his  pocket-knife,  for  their  greater  ease  and 


SHIPBOARD 


440 


SHIPBOARD 


comfort,  or  reading  aloud  from  a venerable 
newspaper,  or  singing  some  roaring  old  song  to 
a select  party,  or  writing  the  beginnings  of  let- 
ters to  their  friends  at  home  for  people  who 
couldn’t  write,  or  cracking  jokes  with  the  crew, 
or  nearly  getting  blown  over  the  side,  or  emer- 
ging, half-drowned,  from  a shower  of  spray,  or 
lending  a hand  somewhere  or  other : but  always 
doing  something  for  the  general  entertainment. 
At  night,  when  the  cooking-fire  was  lighted  on 
the  deck,  and  the  driving  sparks  that  flew  among 
the  rigging,  and  the  cloud  of  sails,  seemed  to 
menace  the  ship  with  certain  annihilation  by  fire, 
in  case  the  elements  of  air  and  water  failed  to 
compass  her  destruction  ; there,  again,  was  Mr. 
Tapley,  with  his  coat  off  and  his  shirt-sleeves 
turned  up  to  his  elbows,  doing  all  kinds  of  culi- 
nary offices  ; compounding  the  strangest  dishes  ; 
recognized  by  every  one  as  an  established  au- 
thority ; and  helping  all  parties  to  achieve  some- 
thing, which,  left  to  themselves,  they  never 
could  have  done,  and  never  would  have  dreamed 
of.  In  short,  there  never  was  a more  popular 
character  than  Mark  Tapley  became,  on  board 
that  noble  and  fast-sailing  line-of-packet  ship, 
the  Screw  ; and  he  attained  at  last  to  such  a 
pitch  of  universal  admiration,  that  he  began  to 
have  grave  doubts  within  himself  whether  a man 
might  reasonably  claim  any  credit  for  being 
jolly  under  such  exciting  circumstances. 

“ If  this  was  going  to  last,”  said  Mr.  Tapley, 
“ there’d  be  no  great  difference,  as  I can  per- 
ceive, between  the  .Screw  and  the  Dragon.  I 
never  am  to  get  credit,  I think.  I begin  to  be 
afraid  that  the  Fates  is  determined  to  make  the 
world  easy  to  me.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  15. 

SHIPBOARD— Nig-ht  scenes  on. 

The  perpetual  tramp  of  boot-heels  on  the 
decks  gave  place  to  a heavy  silence,  and  the 
whole  human  freight  w'as  stowed  away  below, 
excepting  a very  few  stragglers,  like  myself,  who 
were  probably,  like  me,  afraid  to  go  there. 

To  one  unaccustomed  to  such  scenes  this  is  a 
very  striking  time  on  shipboard.  Afterwards, 
and  when  its  novelty  had  long  worn  off,  it  never 
ceased  to  have  a peculiar  interest  and  charm  for 
me.  The  gloom  through  which  the  great  black 
mass  holds  its  direct  and  certain  course  ; the 
rushing  water,  plainly  heard,  but  dimly  seen  ; 
the  broad,  white,  glistening  track  that  follows 
in  the  vessel’s  wake  ; the  men  on  the  lookout 
forward,  who  would  be  scarcely  visible  against 
the  dark  sky,  but  for  their  blotting  out  some 
score  of  glistening  stars  ; the  helmsman  at  the 
wheel,  with  the  illuminated  card  before  him, 
shining,  a speck  of  light  amidst  the  darkness, 
like  something  sentient  and  of  Divine  intelli- 
gence ; the  melancholy  sighing  of  the  wind 
through  block,  and  rope,  and  chain  ; the  gleam- 
ing forth  of  light  from  every  crevice,  nook,  and 
tiny  piece  of  glass  about  the  decks,  as  though 
the  snip  were  filled  with  fire  in  hiding,  ready  to 
burst  through  any  outlet,  wild  with  its  resistless 
power  of  death  and  ruin.  At  first,  too,  and  even 
when  the  hour  and  all  the  objects  it  exalts  have 
come  to  be  familiar,  it  is  difficult,  alone  and 
thoughtful,  to  hold  them  to  their  proper  shapes 
and  forms.  They  change  with  the  wandering 
fancy,  assume  the  semblance  of  things  left  far 
away,  put  on  the  well-remembered  aspect  of 
favorite  places  dearly  loved,  and  even  people 


them  with  shadows.  Streets,  houses,  rooms, 
figures  so  like  their  usual  occupants,  that  they 
have  startled  me  by  their  reality,  which  far  ex- 
ceeded, as  it  seemed  to  me,  all  power  of  mine  to 
conjure  up  the  absent,  have  many  and  many  a 
time,  at  such  an  hour,  grown  suddenly  out  of 
objects  with  whose  real  look  and  use  and  pur- 
pose I was  as  well  acquainted  as  with  my  own 
two  hands. — American  Notes , Chap.  2. 

SHIPBOARD -Scenes  on. 

Everything  sloped  the  wrong  way,  which  in 
itself  was  an  aggravation  scarcely  to  be  borne. 
I had  left  the  door  open,  a moment  before,  in 
the  bosom  of  a gentle  declivity,  and,  when  I 
turned  to  shut  it,  it  was  on  the  summit  of  a 
lofty  eminence.  Now,  every  plank  and  timber 
creaked,  as  if  the  ship  were  made  of  wicker- 
work ; and  now  crackled,  like  an  enormous  fire 
of  the  driest  possible  twigs.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  bed  ; so  I went  to  bed. 

It  was  pretty  much  the  same  for  the  next 
two  days,  with  a tolerably  fair  wind  and  dry 
weather.  I read  in  bed  (but  to  this  hour  I don’t 
know  what)  a good  deal,  and  reeled  on  deck  a 
little,  drank  cold  brandy-and-water  with  an  un- 
speakable disgust,  and  ate  hard  biscuit  perse- 
veringly  ; not  ill,  but  going  to  be. 

It  is  the  third  morning.  I am  awakened  out 
of  my  sleep  by  a dismal  shriek  from  my  wife, 
who  demands  to  know  whether  there’s  any  dan- 
ger. I rouse  myself  and  look  out  of  bed.  The 
water-jug  is  plunging  and  leaping  like  a lively 
dolphin  ; all  the  smaller  articles  are  afloat,  ex- 
cept my  shoes,  which  are  stranded  on  a carpet- 
bag high  and  dry,  like  a couple  of  coal-barges. 
Suddenly  I see  them  spring  into  the  air,  and  be- 
hold the  looking-glass,  which  is  nailed  to  the 
wall,  sticking  fast  upon  the  ceiling.  At  the 
same  time  the  door  entirely  disappears  and  a 
new  one  is  opened  in  the  floor.  Then  I begin  to 
comprehend  that  the  state-room  is  standing  on 
its  head. 

Before  it  is  possible  to  make  any  arrangement 
at  all  compatible  with  this  novel  state  of  things, 
the  ship  rights.  Before  one  can  say,  “ Thank 
Heaven  ! ” she  wrongs  again.  Before  one  can 
cry  she  is  wrong,  she  seems  to  have  started  for- 
ward, and  to  be  a creature  actively  running  of 
its  own  accord,  with  broken  knees  and  failing 
legs,  through  every  variety  of  hole  and  pit- 
fall,  and  stumbling  constantly.  Before  one  can 
so  much  as  wonder,  she  takes  a high  leap  into 
the  air.  Before  she  has  well  done  that,  she 
takes  a deep  dive  into  the  water.  Before  she 
has  gained  the  surface,  she  throws  a summerset. 
The  instant  she  is  on  her  legs  she  rushes  back- 
ward. And  so  she  goes  on,  staggering,  heaving, 
wrestling,  leaping,  diving,  jumping,  pitching, 
throbbing,  rolling,  and  rocking,  and  going 
through  all  these  movements,  sometimes  by 
turns,  and  sometimes  all  together,  until  one  feels 
disposed  to  roar  for  mercy. 

A steward  passes.  “Steward!”  “Sir?” 
“What  is  the  matter?  what  do  you  call  this?” 
“ Rather  a heavy  sea  on,  sir,  and  a head-wind.” 

A head-wind  ! Imagine  a human  face  upon 
the  vessel’s  prow,  with  fifteen  thousand  Samsons 
in  one  bent  upon  driving  her  back,  and  hitting 
her  exactly  between  the  eyes  whenever  she  at- 
tempts to  advance  an  inch.  Imagine  the  ship 
herself,  with  every  pulse  and  artery  of  her  huge 
body  swollen  and  bursting  under  this  maltreat- 


SHIP 


441 


SICKNESS 


ment,  sworn  to  go  on  or  die.  Imagine  the  wind 
howling,  the  sea  roaring,  the  rain  beating,  all  in 
furious  array  against  her.  Picture  the  sky  both 
dark  and  wild,  and  the  clouds,  in  fearful  sympa- 
thy with  the  waves,  making  another  ocean  in  the 
air.  Add  to  all  this  the  clattering  on  deck  and 
down  below,  the  tread  of  hurried  feet,  the  loud 
hoarse  shouts  of  seamen,  the  gurgling  in  and  out 
of  water  through  the  scuppers,  with  every  now 
and  then  the  striking  of  a heavy  sea  upon  the 
planks  above,  with  the  deep,  dead,  heavy  sound 
of  thunder  heard  within  a vault— and  there  is 
the  head  wind  of  that  January  morning. 

American  Notes , Chap.  2. 

SHIP— Steam. 

The  steamer — which,  with  its  machinery  on 
deck,  looked,  as  it  worked  its  long,  slim  legs,  like 
some  enormously  magnified  insect  or  antediluv- 
ian monster — dashed  at  great  speed  up  a beauti- 
ful bay  ; and  presently  they  saw  some  heights, 
and  islands,  and  a long,  flat,  straggling  city. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  15, 

SHOP— A curiosity. 

The  place  through  which  he  made  his  way  at 
leisure,  was  one  of  those  receptacles  for  old  and 
curious  things  which  seem  to  crouch  in  odd  cor- 
ners of  this  town,  and  to  hide  their  musty  treas- 
ures from  the  public  eye  in  jealousy  and  distrust. 
There  were  suits  of  mail,  standing  like  ghosts 
in  armor,  here  and  there ; fantastic  carvings 
brought  from  monkish  cloisters  ; rusty  weapons 
of  various  kinds  ; distorted  figures  in  china,  and 
wood,  and  iron,  and  ivory  ; tapestry,  and  strange 
furniture  that  might  have  been  designed  in 
dreams.  The  haggard  aspect  of  the  little  old 
man  was  wonderfully  suited  to  the  place  ; he 
might  have  groped  among  old  churches,  and 
tombs,  and  deserted  houses,  and  gathered  all 
the  spoils  with  his  own  hands.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  the  whole  collection  but  was  in  keeping 
with  himself ; nothing  that  looked  older  or  more 
worn  than  he. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  1. 

SHOP- An  old  clo\ 

I happened  to  pass  a little  shop,  where  it  was 
written  up  that  ladies’  and  gentlemen’s  ward- 
robes were  bought,  and  that  the  best  price  was 
given  for  rags,  bones,  and  kitchen-stuff.  The 
master  of  this  shop  was  sitting  at  the  door  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  smoking:  and  as  there  were  a 
great  many  coats  and  pairs  of  trousers  dangling 
from  the  low  ceiling,  and  only  two  feeble  can- 
dles burning  inside  to  show  what  they  were,  I 
fancied  that  he  looked  like  a man  of  a revengeful 
disposition,  who  had  hung  all  his  enemies  and 
was  enjoying  himself. 

David  Copper field ’,  Chap.  13. 

SHOP-Tetterby’s. 

Tetterby’s  was  the  corner  shop  in  Jerusalem 
Buildings.  There  was  a good  show  of  literature 
in  the  window,  chiefly  consisting  of  picture- 
newspapers  out  of  date,  and  serial  pirates  and 
footpads.  Walking-sticks,  likewise,  and  mar- 
bles, were  included  in  the  stock  in  trade.  It 
had  once  extended  into  the  light  confectionery 
line  ; but  it  would  seem  that  those  elegancies  of 
life  were  not  in  demand  about  Jerusalem  Build- 
ings, for  nothing  connected  with  that  branch  of 
commerce  remained  in  the  window,  except  a 
sort  of  small  glass  lantern  containing  a languish- 


ing mass  of  bull’s-eyes,  which  had  melted  in  the 
summer  and  congealed  in  the  winter  until  all 
hope  of  ever  getting  them  out,  or  of  eating 
them  without  eating  the  lantern  too,  was  gone 
forever.  Tetterby’s  had  tried  its  hand  at  sev- 
eral things.  It  had  once  made  a feeble  little 
dart  at  the  toy  business  ; for,  in  another  lantern, 
there  was  a heap  of  minute  wax  dolls,  all  stick- 
ing  together  upside  down,  in  the  direst  confu- 
sion, with  their  feet  on  one  another’s  heads,  and 
a precipitate  of  broken  arms  and  legs  at  the 
bottom.  It  had  made  a move  in  the  millinery 
direction,  which  a few  dry,  wiry  bonnet-shapes 
remained  in  the  corner  of  the  window  to  attest. 
It  had  fancied  that  a living  might  lie  hidden  in 
the  tobacco  trade,  and  had  stuck  up  a represen- 
tation of  a native  of  each  of  the  three  integral 
portions  of  the  British  empire,  in  the  act  of  con- 
suming that  fragrant  weed  ; with  a poetic  legend 
attached,  importing  that  united  in  one  cause 
they  sat  ancl  joked,  one  chewed  tobacco,  one 
took  snuff,  one  smoked  : but  nothing  seemed  to 
have  come  of  it — except  flies.  Time  had  been 
when  it  had  put  a forlorn  trust  in  imitative  jew- 
elry, for  in  one  pane  of  glass  there  was  a card 
of  cheap  seals,  and  another  of  pencil-cases,  and 
a mysterious  black  amulet  of  inscrutable  inten- 
tion, labelled  ninepence.  But,  to  that  hour, 
Jerusalem  Buildings  had  bought  none  of  them. 
In  short,  Tetterby’s  had  tried  so  hard  to  get  a 
livelihood  out  of  Jerusalem  Buildings  in  one 
way  or  other,  and  appeared  to  have  done  so  in- 
differently in  all,  that  the  best  position  in  the 
firm  was  too  evidently  Co.’s  ; Co.,  as  a bodiless 
creation,  being  untroubled  with  the  vulgar  in- 
conveniences of  hunger  and  thirst,  being  charge- 
able neither  to  the  poor’s-rates  nor  the  assessed 
taxes,  and  having  no  young  family  to  provide 
for. — Haunted  Man , Chap.  2. 

SHREWDNESS. 

“ Ha  ! ha  ! my  dear,”  replied  the  Jew,  “you 
must  get  up  very  early  in  the  morning,  to  win 
against  the  Dodger.” 

“ Morning  !”  said  Charley  Bates : “you  must 
put  your  boots  on  overnight ; and  have  a tele- 
scope at  each  eye,  and  a opera-glass  between 
your  shoulders,  if  you  want  to  come  over  him.” 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  25. 

SICKNESS— The  suspense  of. 

Oh  ! the  suspense,  the  fearful,  acute  suspense, 
of  standing  idly  by  while  the  life  of  one  we 
dearly  love  is  trembling  in  the  balance  ! Oh  ! 
the  racking  thoughts  that  crowd  upon  the  mind, 
and  make  the  heart  beat  violently,  and  the 
breath  come  thick,  by  the  force  of  the  images 
they  conjure  up  before  it : the  desperate  anxiety 
to  be  doing  something  to  relieve  the  pain,  or 
lessen  the  danger,  which  we  have  no  power  to 
alleviate  ; the  sinking  of  soul  and  spirit,  which 
the  sad  remembrance  of  our  helplessness  pro- 
duces : what  tortures  can  equal  these  ; what  re- 
flections or  endeavors  can,  in  the  full  tide  and 
fever  of  the  time,  allay  them  ! 

Morning  came  ; and  the  little  cottage  was 
lonely  and  still.  People  spoke  in  whispers ; 
anxious  faces  appeared  at  the  gate,  from  time  to 
time  ; women  and  children  went  away  in  tears. 
All  the  livelong  day,  and  for  hours  after  it  had 
grown  dark,  Oliver  paced  softly  up  and  down 
the  garden,  raising  his  eyes  every  instant  to  the 
sick  chamber,  and  shuddering  to  see  the  dark- 


SIGH 


442 


SKIMPOLE 


encd  window,  looking  as  if  death  lay  stretched 
inside. 

* * * * * 

The  sun  shone  brightly : as  brightly  as  if  it 
looked  upon  no  misery  or  care  ; and,  with  every 
leaf  and  flower  in  full  bloom  about  her  ; with 
life,  and  health,  and  sounds  and  sights  of  joy, 
surrounding  her  on  every  side  ; the"  fair  young 
creature  lay,  wasting  fast.  Oliver  crept  away  to 
the  old  churchyard,  and  sitting  down  on  one  of 
tlie  green  mounds,  wept  and  prayed  for  her,  in 
silence. 

There  was  such  peace  and  beauty  in  the 
scene  ; so  much  of  brightness  and  mirth  in  the 
sunny  landscape  ; such  blithesome  music  in  the 
songs  of  the  summer  birds  ; such  freedom  in 
the  rapid  flight  of  the  rook,  careering  overhead  ; 
so  much  of  life  and  joyousness  in  all  ; that, 
when  the  boy  raised  his  aching  eyes,  and  looked 
about,  the  thought  instinctively  occurred  to  him, 
that  this  was  not  a time  for  death  ; that  Rose 
could  surely  never  die  when  humbler  things 
were  all  so  glad  and  gay  ; that  graves  were  for 
cold  and  cheerless  winter:  not  for  sunlight  and 
fragrance.  He  almost  thought  that  shrouds 
were  for  the  old  and  shrunken  ; and  that  they 
never  wrapped  the  young  and  graceful  form 
within  their  ghastly  folds. 

* * * * * 

We  need  be  careful  how  we  deal  with  those 
about  us,  when  every  death  carries  to  some 
small  circle  of  survivors,  thoughts  of  so  much 
omitted,  and  so  little  done — of  so  many  things 
forgotten,  and  so  many  more  which  might  have 
been  repaired  ! There  is  no  remorse  so  deep 
as  that  which  is  unavailing  ; if  we  would  be 
spared  its  tortures,  let  us  remember  this  in  time. 

Oliver  Twisty  Chap.  33. 

SIGH. 

“ Poor  Edward  ! ” sighed  Little  Dorrit,  with 
the  whole  family  history  in  the  sigh. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  14. 

SIGN— A tobacco. 

The  business  was  of  too  modest  a character 
to  support  a life-size  Highlander,  but  it  main- 
tained a little  one  on  a bracket  on  the  door  post, 
who  looked  like  a fallen  Cherub  that  had  found 
it  necessary  to  take  to  a kilt. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  18. 

SIGNS— The  g-hosts  of  dead  businesses. 

Very  little  life  was  to  be  seen  on  either  bank  ; 
windows  and  doors  were  shut,  and  the  staring 
black  and  white  letters  upon  wharves  and  ware- 
houses “looked,”  said  Eugene  to  Mortimer, 
“ like  inscriptions  over  the  graves  of  dead  busi- 
nesses.”— Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  I.,  Chap.  14. 

SINCERITY. 

“ What  I want,”  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton, 
pinching  her  shrivelled  throat,  “is  heart.”  It 
was  frightfully  true  in  one  sense,  if  not  in  that 
in  which  she  used  the  phrase.  “What  I want, 
is  frankness,  confidence,  less  conventionality, 
and  freer  play  of  soul.  We  are  so  dreadfully 
artificial.” — Donibey  Son , Chap.  21. 

Miss  Tox's  sympathy  is  such  that  she  can 
scarcely  speak.  She  is  no  chicken,  but  she  has 
not  grown  lough  with  age  and  celibacy.  Her 
heart  is  very  tender,  her  compassion  very  gen- 


uine, her  homage  very  real.  Beneath  the  locket 
with  the  fishy-eye  in  it,  Miss  Tox  bears  better 
qualities  than  many  a less  whimsical  outside  ; 
such  qualities  as  will  outlive,  by  many  courses 
of  the  sun,  the  best  outsides  and  brightest  husks 
that  fall  in  the  harvest  of  the  great  reaper. 

Donibey  & Son , Chap.  59. 

“ Why  are  we  not  more  natural ! Dear  me  ! 
With  all  those  yearnings,  and  gushings,  and  im- 
pulsive throbbings  that  we  have  implanted  in 
our  souls,  and  which  are  so  very  charming,  why 
are  we  not  more  natural?” 

Mr.  Dombey  said  it  was  very  true,  very  true. 

“ We  could  be  more  natural,  I suppose,  if  wc 
tried?”  said  Mrs.  Skewton. 

Mr.  Dombey  thought  it  possible. 

“ Devil  a bit,  Ma’am,”  said  the  Major.  “ We 
couldn’t  afford  it.  Unless  the  world  was  peo- 
pled with  J.  B.’s — tough  and  blunt  old  Joes, 
Ma’am,  plain  red  herrings  with  hard  roes,  Sir — 
we  couldn’t  afford  it.  It  wouldn’t  do.” 

Dombey  dr3  Son,  Chap.  21. 

SKIMPOLE,  HAROLD-His  character. 

When  we  went  down  stairs,  we  were  pre- 
sented to  Mr.  Skimpole,  who  was  standing  be- 
fore the  fire,  telling  Richard  how  fond  he  used 
to  be,  in  his  school-time,  of  football.  Pie  was  a 
little,  bright  creature,  with  a rather  large  head  ; 
but  a delicate  face,  and  a sweet  voice,  and  there 
was  a perfect  charm  in  him.  All  he  said  was 
so  free  from  effort,  and  spontaneous,  and  was 
said  with  such  a captivating  gayety,  that  it  was 
fascinating  to  hear  him  talk.  Being  of  a more 
slender  figure  than  Mr.  Jarndyce,  and  having  a 
richer  complexion,  with  browner  hair,  he  looked 
younger.  Indeed,  he  had  more  the  appearance, 
in  all  respects,  of  a damaged  young  man,  than  a 
well-preserved  elderly  one.  There  was  an  easy 
negligence  in  his  manner  and  even  in  his  dress 
(his  hair  carelessly  disposed,  and  his  neckerchief 
loose  and  flowing,  as  I have  seen  artists  paint 
their  own  portraits),  which  I could  not  separate 
from  the  idea  of  a romantic  youth  who  had  un- 
dergone some  unique  process  of  depreciation. 
It  struck  me  as  being  not  at  all  like  the  manner 
or  appearance  of  a man  who  had  advanced  in 
life  by  the  usual  road  of  years,  cares,  and  ex- 
periences. 

I gathered  from  the  conversation,  that  Mr. 
Skimpole  had  been  educated  for  the  medical 
profession,  and  had  once  lived,  in  his  profes- 
sional capacity,  in  the  household  of  a German 
prince.  He  told  us,  however,  that  as  he  had 
always  been  a mere  child  in  points  of  weights 
and  measures,  and  had  never  known  anything 
about  them  (except  that  they  disgusted  him),  he 
had  never  been  able  to  prescribe  with  the  requi- 
site accuracy  of  detail.  In  fact,  he  said,  he  had 
no  head  for  detail.  And  he  told  us,  with  great 
humor,  that  when  he  was  wanted  to  bleed  the 
prince,  or  physic  any  of  his  people,  he  was  gen- 
erally found  lying  on  his  back,  in  bed,  reading 
the  newspapers,  or  making  fancy  sketches  in 
pencil,  and  couldn’t  come.  The  prince  at  last 
objecting  to  this,  “ in  which,”  said  Mr.  Skimpole, 
in  the  frankest  manner,  “ he  was  perfectly  right,” 
the  engagement  terminated,  and  Mr.  Skimpole 
having  (as  he  added  with  delightful  gayety) 
“ nothing  to  live  upon  but  love,  fell  in  love, 
and  married,  and  surrounded  himself  with  rosy 
cheeks.”  1 1 is  good  friend  Jarndyce  and  some 


SKIMPOLE 


443 


SLEEP 


other  of  his  good  friends  then  helped  him,  in 
quicker  or  slower  succession,  to  several  openings 
in  life  ; but  to  no  purpose,  for  he  must  confess 
to  two  of  the  oldest  infirmities  in  the  world  ; 
one  was  that  he  had  no  idea  of  time  ; the  other, 
that  he  had  no  idea  of  money.  In  consequence 
of  which  he  never  kept  an  appointment,  never 
could  transact  any  business,  and  never  knew  the 
value  of  anything  ! Well ! So  he  had  got  on 
in  life,  and  here  he  was  ! He  was  very  fond  of 
reading  the  papers,  very  fond  of  making  fancy- 
sketches  with  a pencil,  very  fond  of  nature,  very 
fond  of  art.  All  he  asked  of  society  was,  to  let 
him  live.  That  wasn’t  much.  His  wants  were 
few.  Give  him  the  papers,  conversation,  music, 
mutton,  coffee,  landscape,  fruit  in  the  season,  a 
few  sheets  of  Bristol-board,  and  a little  claret, 
and  he  asked  no  more.  He  was  a mere  child  in 
the  world,  but  he  didn’t  cry  for  the  moon.  He 
said  to  the  world,  “ Go  your  several  ways  in 
peace  1 Wear  red  coats,  blue  coats,  lawn  sleeves, 
put  pens  behind  your  ears,  wear  aprons  ; go 
after  glory,  holiness,  commerce,  trade,  any  ob- 
ject you  prefer ; only — let  Harold  Skimpole 
live  ! ” 

All  this,  and  a great  deal  more,  he  told  us,  not 
only  with  the  utmost  brilliancy  and  enjoyment, 
but  with  a certain  vivacious  candor — speaking 
of  himself  as  if  he  wei'e  not  at  all  his  own  affair, 
as  if  Skimpole  were  a third  person,  as  if  he 
knew  that  Skimpole  had  his  singularities,  but 
still  had  his  claims  too,  which  were  the  general 
business  of  the  community,  and  must  not  be 
slighted.  He  was  quite  enchanting.  If  I felt 
at  all  confused  at  that  early  time,  in  endeavoring 
to  reconcile  anything  he  said  with  anything  I 
had  thought  about  the  duties  and  accountabili- 
ties of  life  (which  I am  far  from  sure  of),  I was 
confused  by  not  exactly  understanding  why  he 
was  free  of  them.  That  he  was  free  of  them,  I 
scarcely  doubted  ; he  was  so  very  clear  about  it 
himself. 

“ I covet  nothing,”  said  Mr.  Skimpole,  in  the 
same  light  way.  “ Possession  is  nothing  to  me. 
Here  is  my  friend  Jarndyce’s  excellent  house.  I 
feel  obliged  to  him  for  possessing  it.  I can 
sketch  it,  and  alter  it.  I can  set  it  to  music. 
When  I am  here,  I have  sufficient  possession  of 
it,  and  have  neither  trouble,  cost,  nor  responsi- 
bility. My  steward’s  name,  in  short,  is  Jarndyce, 
and  he  can’t  cheat  me.  We  have  been  men- 
tioning Mrs.  Jellyby.  There  is  a bright-eyed 
woman,  of  a strong  will  and  immense  power  of 
business-detail,  who  throws  herself  into  objects 
with  surprising  ardor  ! I don’t  regret  that  I 
have  not  a strong  will  and  an  immense  power 
of  business  detail,  to  throw  myself  into  objects 
with  surprising  ardor.  I can  admire  her  without 
envy.  I can  sympathize  with  the  objects.  I can 
dream  of  them.  I can  lie  down  on  the  grass — 
in  fine  weather — and  float  along  an  African 
river,  embracing  all  the  natives  I meet,  as  sensi- 
ble of  the  deep  silence,  and  sketching  the  dense 
overhanging  tropical  growth  as  accurately  as  if 
I W^ere  there.  I don’t  know  that  it’s  of  any  di- 
rect use  my  doing  so,  but  it’s  all  I can  do,  and 
I do  it  thoroughly.  Then,  for  Heaven’s  sake, 
having  Harold  Skimpole,  a confiding  child, 
petitioning  you,  the  world,  an  agglomeration  of 
practical  people  of  business  habits,  to  let  him 
live  and  admire  the  human  family,  do  it  some- 
how or  other,  like  good  souls,  and  suffer  him  to 
ride  his  rocking-horse  ! ” — Bleak  House , Chap.  6. 


SLANDER— Of  the  unfortunate. 

At  feasts  and  festivals  also  : in  firmaments 
she  has  often  graced,  and  among  constellations 
she  outshone  but  yesterday,  she  is  still  the 
prevalent  subject.  What  is  it?  Who  is  it? 
When  was  it  ? Where  was  it?  How  was  it  ? 
She  is  discussed  by  her  dear  friends  with  all 
the  genteelest  slang  in  vogue,  the  last  new  word, 
the  last  new  manner,  the  last  new7  drawl,  and 
the  perfection  of  polite  indifference.  A remark- 
able feature  of  the  theme  is,  that  it  is  found  to 
be  so  inspiring,  that  several  people  come  out  upon 
it  who  never  came  out  before — positively  say 
things ! William  Buffiy  carries  one  of  these 
smartnesses  from  the  place  where  he  dines, 
dowm  to  the  House,  where  the  Whip  for  his 
party  hands  it  about  with  his  snuff-box,  to  keep 
men  together  who  want  to  be  off,  with  such 
effect  that  the  Speaker  (who  has  had  it  private- 
ly insinuated  into  his  own  ear  under  the  corner 
of  his  wig),  cries  “ Order  at  the  bar  ! ” three 
times  without  making  an  impression. 

And  not  the  least  amazing  circumstance  con- 
nected with  her  being  vaguely  the  town  talk, 
is,  that  people  hovering  on  the  confines  of  Mr. 
Sladdery’s  high  connection,  people  who  know 
nothing  and  ever  did  know7  nothing  about 
her,  think  it  essential  to  their  reputation 
to  pretend  that  she  is  their  topic  too  ; 
and  to  retail  her  at  second-hand  with  the 
last  new  w'ord,  and  the  last  new  manner,  and 
the  last  new  drawl,  and  the  last  new  polite  in- 
difference, and  all  the  rest  of  it,  all  at  second- 
hand, but  considered  equal  to  new,  in  inferior 
systems  and  to  fainter  stars.  If  there  be  any 
man  of  letters,  art,  or  science,  among  these  lit- 
tle dealers,  how  noble  in  him  to  support  the 
feeble  sisters  on  such  majestic  crutches  ! 

Bleak  House , Chap.  58. 

SLANG-Of  the  pulpit. 

All  slangs  and  twangs  are  objectionable 
everywhere,  but  the  slang  and  twang  of  the 
conventicle — as  bad  in  its  wray  as  that  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  nothing  worse  can  be 
said  of  it — should  be  studiously  avoided  under 
such  circumstances  as  I describe.  The  avoid- 
ance was  not  complete  on  this  occasion.  Nor 
was  it  quite  agreeable  to  see  the  preacher  ad- 
dressing his  pet  “ points  ” to  his  backers  on  the 
stage,  as  if  appealing  to  those  disciples  to  show 
him  up,  and  testify  to  the  multitude  that  each 
of  those  points  was  a clincher. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  4. 

SLEEP. 

Mr.  Riderhood  poetically  remarking  that  he 
would  pick  the  bones  of  his  night’s  rest,  in  his 
wooden  chair,  sat  in  the  window'. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  IV.,  Chap.  7. 

There  is  a drowsy  state,  between  sleeping 
and  waking,  when  you  dream  more  in  five  min- 
utes with  your  eyes  half  open,  and  yourself  half 
conscious  of  everything  that  is  passing  around 
you,  than  you  would  in  five  nights  w'ith  your 
eyes  fast  closed,  and  your  senses  wrapt  in  per- 
fect unconsciousness.  At  such  times,  a mortal 
knows  just  enough  of  what  his  mind  is  doing,  to 
form  some  glimmering  conception  of  its  mighty 
powers,  its  bounding  from  earth  and  spurning 
time  and  space,  when  freed  from  the  restraint 
of  its  corporeal  associate.—  OliverTwisl , Chap.  9. 


SLEEP 


444 


SLEEP 


Gradually,  he  fell  into  that  deep,  tranquil  sleep 
which  ease  from  recent  suffering  alone  imparts  ; 
that  calm  and  peaceful  rest  which  it  is  pain  to 
wake  from.  Who,  if  this  were  death,  would  be 
roused  again  to  all  the  struggles  and  turmoils  of 
life  ; to  all  its  cares  for  the  present ; its  anxieties 
for  the  future  ; more  than  all,  its  weary  recollec- 
tions of  the  past ! — Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  12. 


As  she  stooped  over  him,  her  tears  fell  upon 
his  forehead. 

The  boy  stirred,  and  smiled  in  his  sleep,  as 
though  these  marks  of  pity  and  compassion  had 
awakened  some  pleasant  dream  of  love  and  affec- 
tion he  had  never  known.  Thus,  a strain  of 
gentle  music,  or  the  rippling  of  water  in  a silent 
place,  or  the  odor  of  a flower,  or  even  the  men- 
tion of  a familiar  word,  will  sometimes  call  up 
sudden  dim  remembrances  of  scenes  that  never 
were,  in  this  life  ; which  vanish  like  a breath  ; 
which  some  brief  memory  of  a happier  exist- 
ence, long  gone  by,  would  seem  to  have  awak- 
ened ; which  no  voluntary  exertion  of  the  mind 
can  ever  recall. — Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  30. 

There  is  a kind  of  sleep  that  steals  upon  us 
sometimes,  which,  while  it  holds  the  body  pris- 
oner, does  not  free  the  mind  from  a sense  of 
things  about  it,  and  enable  it  to  ramble  at  its 
pleasure.  So  far  as  an  overpowering  heaviness, 
a prostration  of  strength,  and  an  utter  inability 
to  control  our  thoughts  or  power  of  motion,  can 
be  called  sleep,  this  is  it ; and  yet,  we  have  a con- 
sciousness of  all  that  is  going  on  about  us,  and 
if  we  dream  at  such  a time,  words  which  are 
really  spoken,  or  sounds  which  really  exist  at  the 
moment,  accommodate  themselves  with  surpris- 
ing readiness  to  our  visions,  until  reality  and 
imagination  become  so  strangely  blended  that  it 
is  afterward  almost  matter  of  impossibility  to 
separate  the  two.  Nor  is  this  the  most  striking 
phenomenon  incidental  to  such  a state.  It  is  an 
undoubted  fact,  that  although  our  senses  of  touch 
and  sight  be  for  the  time  dead,  yet  our  sleeping 
thoughts,  and  the  visionary  scenes  that  pass  be- 
fore us,  will  be  influenced,  and  materially  influ- 
enced, by  the  mere  silent  presence  of  some  external 
object,  which  may  not  have  been  near  us  when 
we  closed  our  eyes,  and  of  whose  vicinity  we 
have  had  no  waking  consciousness. 

Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  34. 

SLEEP— After  wine. 

Mr.  Spenlow  being  a little  drowsy  after  the 
champagne — honor  to  the  soil  that  grew  the 
grape,  to  the  grape  that  made  the  wine,  to  the 
sun  that  ripened  it,  and  to  the  merchant  who 
adulterated  it — and  being  fast  asleep  in  a corner 
of  the  carriage,  I rode  by  the  side  and  talked  to 
Dora. — David  Copperfield , Chap.  33. 

SLEEP  A refreshing:  (Sam  Weller  on). 

“ And  if  I might  adwise,  sir,”  added  Mr. 
Weller,  “ I’d  just  have  a good  night’s  rest  arter- 
wards,  and  not  begin  inquiring  arter  this  here 
deep  ’un  'till  mornin\  There's  nothin’  so  re- 
freshin’  as  sleep,  sir,  as  the  servant-girl  said 
afore  she  drank  the  egg-cupful  o’  laudanum.” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  16. 

SLEEP  Dick  Swiveller’s  “ balmy.” 

“In  the  meantime,  as  it’s  rather  late,  I’ll  try 
and  get  a wink  or  two  of  the  balmy.” 


“ The  balmy”  came  almost  as  soon  as  it  was 
courted.  In  a very  few  minutes  Mr.  Swiveller 
was  fast  asleep,  dreaming  that  he  had  married 
Nelly  Trent,  and  come  into  the  property,  and 
that  his  first  act  of  power  was  to  lay  waste  the 
market-garden  of  Mr.  Cheggs,  and  turn  it  into 
a brick  field. — Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  8. 

SLEEP-Of  Uriah  Heep. 

I stole  into  the  next  room  to  look  at  him. 
There  I saw  him,  lying  on  his  back,  with  his 
legs  extending  to  I don’t  know  where,  gurglings 
taking  place  in  his  throat,  stoppages  in  his  nose, 
and  his  mouth  open  like  a post-office.  He  was 
so  much  worse  in  reality  than  in  my  distem- 
pered fancy,  that  afterwards  I was  attracted  to 
him  in  very  repulsion,  and  could  not  help  wan- 
dering in  and  out  every  half  hour  or  so,  and 
taking  another  look  at  him. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  25. 

SLEEP— The  snoring-  of  Mr.  Willet. 

The  room  was  so  very  warm,  the  tobacco  so 
very  good,  and  the  fire  so  very  soothing,  that 
Mr.  Willet  by  degrees  began  to  doze  ; but  as 
he  had  perfectly  acquired,  by  dint  of  long  habit, 
the  art  of  smoking  in  his  sleep,  and  as  his  breath- 
ing was  pretty  much  the  same,  awake  or  asleep, 
saving  that  in  the  latter  case  he  sometimes  ex- 
perienced a slight  difficulty  in  respiration  (such 
as  a carpenter  meets  with  when  he  is  planing 
and  comes  to  a knot),  neither  of  his  companions 
was  aware  of  the  circumstance,  until  he  met 
with  one  of  these  impediments  and  was  obliged 
to  try  again. 

“Johnny’s  dropped  off,”  said  Mr.  Parker,  in 
a whisper. 

“ Fast  as  a top,”  said  Mr.  Cobb. 

Neither  of  them  said  any  more  until  Mr. 
Willet  came  to  another  knot — one  of  surpass- 
ing obduracy — which  bade  fair  to  throw  him 
into  convulsions,  but  which  he  got  over  at  last 
without  waking,  by  an  effort  quite  superhu- 
man. 

“ He  sleeps  uncommon  hard,”  said  Mr.  Cobb. 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  33. 

SLEEP. 

“ The  witch  region  of  sleep.” 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  15. 

SLEEP— And  dreams,  among-  the  poor. 

The  cold,  feeble  dawn  of  a January  morning 
was  stealing  in  at  the  windows  of  the  common 
sleeping-room,  when  Nicholas,  raising  himself 
on  his  arm,  looked  among  the  prostrate  forms 
which  on  every  side  surrounded  him,  as  though 
in  search  of  some  particular  object. 

It  needed  a quick  eye  to  detect,  from  among 
the  huddled  mass  of  sleepers,  the  form  of  any 
given  individual.  As  they  lay  closely  packed  to- 
gether, covered,  for  warmth’s  sake,  with  their 
patched  and  ragged  clothes,  little  could  be  dis- 
tinguished but  the  sharp  outlines  of  pale  faces, 
over  which  the  sombre  light  shed  the  same  dull 
heavy  color,  with  here  and  there  a gaunt  arm 
thrust  forth  : its  thinness  hidden  by  no  covering, 
but  fully  exposed  to  view,  in  all  its  shrunken 
ugliness.  There  were  some  who,  lying  on  their 
backs  with  upturned  faces  and  clenched  hands, 
just  visible  in  the  leaden  light,  bore  more  the 
aspect  of  dead  bodies  than  of  living  creatures  ; 
and  there  were  others  coiled  up  into  strange 


SLEEPING 


445 


SMOKE 


and  fantastic  postures;  such  as  might  have  been 
taken  for  the  uneasy  efforts  of  pain  to  gain  some 
temporary  relief,  rather  than  the  freaks  of  slum- 
ber. A few — and  these  were  among  the  young- 
est of  the  children — slept  peacefully  on,  with 
smiles  upon  their  faces*!  dreaming  perhaps  of 
home  ; but  ever  and  again  a deep  and  heavy 
sigh,  breaking  the  stillness  of  the  room,  an- 
nounced that  some  new  sleeper  had  awakened  to 
the  misery  of  another  day  ; and,  as  morning 
took  the  place  of  night,  the  smiles  gradually 
faded  away,  with  the  friendly  darkness  which 
had  given  them  birth. 

Dreams  are  the  bright  creatures  of  poem  and 
legend,  who  sport  on  earth  in  the  night  season, 
and  melt  away  in  the  first  beam  of  the  sun, 
which  lights  grim  care  and  stern  reality  on 
their  daily  pilgrimage  through  the  world. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  13. 

SLEEPING— In  a stag-e  coach. 

I recollect  being  very  much  surprised  by  the 
feint  everybody  made,  then,  of  not  having  been 
to  sleep  at  all,  and  by  the  uncommon  indigna- 
tion with  which  every  one  repelled  the  charge. 
I labor  under  the  same  kind  of  astonishment  to 
this  day,  having  invariably  observed  that  of  all 
human  weaknesses,  the  one  to  which  our  com- 
mon nature  is  the  least  disposed  to  confess  (I 
cannot  imagine  why)  is  the  weakness  of  having 
gone  to  sleep  in  a coach. 

David  Copper  field , Chap.  5. 

SMILES— Description  of. 

A carved  grin. 

The  very  twilight  of  a smile  ; so  singularly 
were  its  light  and  darkness  blended. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  21. 

An  irrepressible  smile  that  rather  seemed  to 
strike  upon  the  surface  of  his  face  and  glance 
away,  as  finding  no  resting-place,  than  to  play 
there  for  an  instant. — Dombey  df  Son , Chap.  11. 

A smile  which  had  been  at  first  but  three 
specks — one  at  the  right-hand  corner  of  his 
mouth,  and  one  at  the  corner  of  each  eye — grad- 
ually over-spread  his  whole  face,  and  rippling  up 
into  his  forehead,  lifted  the  glazed  hat. 

Dombey  of  Son , Chap.  15. 

He  was  a weak-eyed  young  man,  with  the  first 
faint  streaks  or  early  dawn  of  a grin  on  his 
countenance.  It  was  mere  imbecility  ; but  Mrs. 
Pipchin  took  it  into  her  head  that  it  was  impu- 
dence, and  made  a snap  at  him  directly. 

Dombey  dr3  Son,  Chap.  it. 

He  sprang  up  from  his  reverie  and  looked 
around  with  a sudden  smile,  as  courteous  and  as 
soft  as  if  he  had  had  numerous  observers  to 
propitiate  ; nor  did  he  relapse,  after  being  thus 
awakened  ; but  clearing  his  face,  like  one  who 
bethought  himself  that  it  might  otherwise  wrin- 
kle and  tell  tales,  went  smiling  on,  as  if  for 
practice. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  27. 


A stately  look,  which  was  instantaneous  in  its 
duration,  but  inclusive  (if  any  one  had  seen  it) 
of  a multitude  of  expressions,  among  which  that 
of  the  twilight  smile,  without  the  smile  itself, 
overshadowed  all  the  rest. — D.  6°  S.,  Ch.  21. 


“Sir!”  cried  Mr.  Toots,  starting  from  his 
chair  and  shaking  hands  with  him  anew,  “the 
relief  is  so  excessive  and  unspeakable,  that  if 
you  were  to  tell  me  now  that  Miss  Dombey  was 
married  even,  I could  smile.  Yes,  Captain 
Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  appealing  to  him,  “ upon 
my  soul  and  body,  I really  think,  whatever 
I might  do  to  myself  immediately  afterwards, 
that  I could  smile,  I am  so  relieved.” 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  50. 

Meanwhile,  Toby,  putting  a hand  on  each 
knee,  bent  down  his  nose  to  the  basket,  and  took 
a long  inspiration  at  the  lid  ; the  grin  upon  his 
withered  face  expanding  in  the  process,  as  if  he 
were  inhaling  laughing  gas. 

Christinas  Chimes,  1st  Quarter. 


He  would  slowly  carve  a grin  out  of  his 
wooden  face,  where  it  would  remain  until  we 
were  all  gone. — Our  School.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

As  Clennam  followed,  she  said  to  him,  with 
the  same  external  composure  and  in  the  same 
level  voice,  but  with  a smile  that  is  only  seen 
on  cruel  faces  ; a very  faint  smile,  lifting  the 
nostril,  scarcely  touching  the  lips,  and  not  break- 
ing away  gradually,  but  instantly  dismissed 
when  done  with. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  27. 

His  very  smile  was  cunning,  as  if  he  had 
been  studying  smiles  among  the  portraits  of  his 
misers. 

Our  Mutual  Friend ',  Book  III.,  Chap.  5. 

A smile,  which  in  common  with  all  other  to- 
kens of  emotion,  seemed  to  skulk  under  his 
face,  rather  than  play  boldly  over  it. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  19. 


I found  Uriah  reading  a great  fat  book,  with 
such  demonstrative  attention,  that  his  lank  fore- 
finger followed  up  every  line  as  he  read,  and 
made  clammy  tracks  along  the  page  (or  so  I fully 
believed)  like  a snail. 

“You  are  working  late  to-night,  Uriah,” 
says  I. 

“ Yes,  Master  Copperfield,”  says  Uriah. 

As  I was  getting  on  the  stool  opposite,  to 
talk  to  him  more  conveniently,  I observed  that 
he  had  not  such  a thing  as  a smile  about  him, 
and  that  he  could  only  widen  his  mouth  and 
make  two  hard  creases  down  his  cheeks,  one  on 
each  side,  to  stand  for  one. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  16. 

SMOKE. 

Mrs.  Crupp  was  taken  with  a troublesome 
cough,  in  the  midst  of  which  she  articulated 
with  much  difficulty,  “ He  was  took  ill  here, 
ma’am,  and — ugh  ! ugh  ! ugh  ! dear  me  ! — and 
he  died  ! ” 

“ Hey?  What  did  he  die  of?  ” asked  my  aunt. 

“ Well,  ma’am,  he  died  of  drink,”  said  Mrs. 
Crupp,  in  confidence.  “ And  smoke.” 

“ Smoke?  You  don’t  mean  chimneys?”  said 
my  aunt. 

“No,  ma’am,”  returned  Mrs.  Crupp.  “Cigars 
and  pipes.” 

“ Thai's  not  catching,  Trot,  at  any  rate,”  re- 
marked my  aunt,  turning  to  me. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  23. 


SMOKING 


440 


SOCIETY 


SMOKING. 

The  smoke  came  crookedly  out  of  Mr.  Flint- 
winch’s  mouth,  as  if  it  circulated  through  the 
whole  of  his  wry  figure  and  came  back  by  his 
wry  throat,  before  coming  forth  to  mingle  with 
the  smoke  from  the  crooked  chimneys  and  the 
mists  from  the  crooked  river. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  //.,  Chap.  23. 

SMOKING— Board  and  lodging-. 

“ You  don’t  find  this  sort  of  thing  disagree- 
able, I hope,  sir?”  said  his  right-hand  neigh- 
bor, a gentleman  in  a checked  shirt,  and  Mosaic 
studs,  with  a cigar  in  his  mouth. 

*’  Not  in  the  least,”  replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  “ I 
like  it  very  much,  although  I am  no  smoker  my- 
self.” 

“ I should  be  very  sorry  to  say  I wasn’t,”  in- 
terposed another  gentleman  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  table.  “ It’s  board  and  lodging  to  me,  is 
smoke.” 

Mr.  Pickwick  glanced  at  the  speaker,  and 
thought  that  if  it  were  washing  too,  it  would  be 
all  the  better. — Pickwick , Chap.  20. 

SMOKING— The  content  of. 

The  manner  in  which  the  Captain  tried  to 
make  believe  that  the  cause  of  these  effects  lay 
hidden  in  the  pipe  itself,  and  the  way  in  which 
he  looked  into  the  bowl  for  it,  and  not  finding 
it  there,  pretended  to  blow  it  out  of  the  stem, 
was  wonderfully  pleasant.  The  pipe  soon  get- 
ting into  better  condition,  he  fell  into  that  state 
of  repose  becoming  a good  smoker  : but  sat 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Florence,  and  with  a 
beaming  placidity  not  to  be  described,  and 
stopping  every  now  and  then  to  discharge  a lit- 
tle cloud  from  his  lips,  slowly  puffed  it  forth,  as 
if  it  were  a scroll  coming  out  of  his  mouth, 
bearing  the  legend  “ Poor  Wal’r,  aye,  aye. 
Drownded,  an’t  he?”  after  which  he  would  re- 
sume his  smoking  with  infinite  gentleness. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  49. 

SOCIAL  DISTINCTIONS. 

“Wait  a minute,”  said  the  stranger,  “fun 
presently — nobs  not  come  yet — queer  place — 
Dock-yard  people  of  upper  rank  don’t  know 
Dock-yard  people  of  lower  rank — Dock-yard 
people  of  lower  rank  don’t  know  small  gentry 
— small  gentry  don’t  know  tradespeople — Com- 
missioners don’t  know  anybody.” 

^ ^ ^ 

“ Mr.  Smithie,  Mrs.  Smithie,  and  the  Misses 
Smithie,”  was  the  next  announcement. 

“What's  Mr.  Smithie?”  inquired  Mr.  Tracy 
Tupman. 

“ Something  in  the  yard,”  replied  the  stranger. 
Mr.  Smithie  bowed  deferentially  to  Sir  Thomas 
Clubber  ; and  Sir  Thomas  Clubber  acknowledg- 
ed the  salute  with  conscious  condescension. 
Lady  Clubber  took  a telescopic  view  of  Mrs. 
Smithie  and  family  through  her  eye-glass,  and 
Mrs.  Smithie  stared  in  her  turn  at  Mrs.  Some- 
body else,  whose  husband  was  not  in  the  Dock- 
yard at  all. 

# # Hs  * * 

Miss  Buldcr  was  warmly  welcomed  by  the 
Miss  Clubbers  ; the  greeting  between  Mrs.  Colo- 
nel Buldcr  and  Lady  Clubber  was  of  the  most 
affectionate  description;  Colonel  Bidder  and 
Sir  Thomas  Clubber  exchanged  snuff-boxes,  and 


looked  very  much  like  a pair  of  Alexander  Sel- 
kirks— “ Monarehs  of  all  they  surveyed.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  2. 

SOCIALLY  DILAPIDATED — Chevy  Slyme. 

Me  was  brooding  o*cr  the  remains  of  yester- 
day’s decanter  of  brandy,  and  was  engaged  in 
the  thoughtful  occupation  of  making  a chain  of 
rings  on  the  top  of  the  table  with  the  wet  foot  of 
his  drinking-glass.  Wretched  and  forlorn  as  he 
looked,  Mr.  Slyme  had  once  been,  in  his  way, 
the  choicest  of  swaggerers  ; putting  forth  his 
pretensions,  boldly,  as  a man  of  infinite  taste 
and  most  undoubted  promise.  The  stock-in- 
trade  requisite  to  set  up  an  amateur  in  this  de- 
partment of  business  is  very  slight,  and  easily 
got  together  : a trick  of  the  nose  and  a curl  of 
the  lip  sufficient  to  compound  a tolerable  sneer, 
being  ample  provision  for  any  exigency.  But, 
in  an  evil  hour,  this  off-shoot  of  the  Chuzzlewit 
trunk,  being  iazy,  and  ill  qualified  for  any  regular 
pursuit,  and  having  dissipated  such  means  as  he 
ever  possessed,  had  formally  established  himself 
as  a professor  of  Taste  for  a livelihood  ; and 
finding,  too  late,  that  something  more  than  his 
old  amount  of  qualifications  was  necessary  to 
sustain  him  in  this  calling,  had  quickly  fallen  to 
his  present  level,  where  he  retained  nothing  of 
his  old  self  but  his  boastfulness  and  his  bile, 
and  seemed  to  have  no  existence  separate  or 
apart  from  his  friend  Tigg.  And  now,  so  abject 
and  so  pitiful  was  he — at  once  so  maudlin,  in- 
solent, beggarly,  and  proud — that  even  his  friend 
and  parasite,  standing  erect  beside  him,  swelled 
into  a Man  by  contrast. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  7. 

SOCIETY— Its  vices. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey’s  master-vice,  that  ruled 
him  so  inexorably,  an  unnatural  characteristic? 
It  might  be  worth  while,  sometimes,  to  inquire 
what  Nature  is,  and  how  men  work  to  change 
her,  and  whether,  in  the  enforced  distortions 
so  produced,  it  is  not  natural  to  be  unnatural. 
Coop  any  son  or  daughter  of  our  mighty  mother 
within  narrow  range,  and  bind  the  prisoner  to 
one  idea,  and  foster  it  by  servile  worship  of  it 
on  the  part  of  the  few  timid  or  designing  peo- 
ple standing  round,  and  what  is  Nature  to  the 
willing  captive  who  has  never  risen  up  upon  the 
wings  of  a free  mind — drooping  and  useless 
soon — to  see  her  in  her  comprehensive  truth  ! 

Alas ! are  there  so  few  things  in  the  world, 
about  us,  most  unnatural,  and  yet  most  natural 
in.  being  so  ! Hear  the  magistrate  or  judge  ad- 
monish the  unnatural  outcasts  of  society  ; un- 
natural in  brutal  habits,  unnatural  in  want  of 
decency,  unnatural  in  losing  and  confounding 
all  distinctions  between  good  and  evil  ; unnatu- 
ral in  ignorance,  in  vice,  in  recklessness,  in  con- 
tumacy, in  mind,  in  looks,  in  everything.  But 
follow  the  good  clergyman  or  doctor,  who,  with 
his  life  imperilled  at  every  breath  he  draws, 
goes  down  into  their  dens,  lying  within  the 
echoes  of  our  carriage-wheels  and  daily  tread 
upon  the  pavement  stones.  Look  round  upon 
the  world  of  odious  sights — millions  of  immor- 
tal creatures  have  no  other  world  on  earth — at 
the  lightest  mention  of  which  humanity  revolts 
and  dainty  delicacy,  living  in  the  next  street, 
stops  her  ears,  and  lisps,  “ I don’t  believe  it ! ” 
Breathe  the  polluted  air,  foul  with  every  impuri- 
ty that  is  poisonous  to  health  and  life  ; and  have 


SOCIETY 


447 


SOCIETY 


every  sense,  conferred  upon  our  race  for  its  de- 
light and  happiness,  offended,  sickened,  and  dis- 
gusted, and  made  a channel  by  which  misery 
and  death  alone  can  enter.  Vainly  attempt  to 
think  of  any  simple  plant,  or  flower,  or  whole- 
some weed,  that,  set  in  this  foetid  bed,  could 
have  its  natural  growth,  or  put  its  little  leaves 
off  to  the  sun,  as  God  designed  it.  And  then, 
calling  up  some  ghastly  child,  with  stunted  form 
and  wicked  face,  hold  forth  on  its  unnatural 
sinfulness,  and  lament  its  being,  so  early,  far 
away  from  Heaven — but  think  a little  of  its  hav- 
ing been  conceived,  and  born,  and  bred,  in 
Hell  ! 

Those  who  study  the  physical  sciences,  and 
bring  them  to  bear  upon  the  health  of  Man,  tell 
us  that  if  the  noxious  particles  that  rise  from 
vitiated  air  were  palpable  to  the  sight,  we  should 
see  them  lowering  in  a dense  black  cloud  above 
such  haunts,  and  rolling  slowly  on  to  corrupt 
the  better  portions  of  a town.  But  if  the  moral 
pestilence  that  rises  with  them,  and,  in  the  eter- 
nal laws  of  outraged  Nature,  is  inseparable  from 
them,  could  be  made  discernible  too,  how  terri- 
ble the  revelation  ! Then  should  we  see  deprav- 
ity, impiety,  drunkenness,  theft,  murder,  and  a 
long  train  of  nameless  sins  against  the  natural 
affections  and  repulsions  of  mankind,  overhang- 
ing the  devoted  spots,  and  creeping  on,  to  blight 
the  innocent  and  spread  contagion  among  the 
pure.  Then  should  we  see  how  the  same  poi- 
soned fountains  that  flow  into  our  hospitals  and 
lazar-houses,  inundate  the  jails,  and  make  the 
convict-ships  swim  deep,  and  roll  across  the  seas, 
and  over-run  vast  continents  with  crime.  Then 
should  we  stand  appalled  to  know,  that  where 
we  generate  disease  to  strike  our  children  down 
and  entail  itself  on  unborn  generations,  there 
also  we  breed,  by  the  same  certain  process,  in- 
fancy that  knows  no  innocence,  youth  without 
modesty  or  shame,  maturity  that  is  mature  in  noth- 
ing but  in  suffering  and  guilt,  blasted  old  age 
that  is  a scandal  on  the  form  we  bear.  Unnat- 
ural humanity  ! When  we  shall  gather  grapes 
from  thorns,  and  figs  from  thistles  ; when  fields 
of  grain  shall  spring  up  from  the  offal  in  the 
bye-ways  of  our  wicked  cities,  and  roses  bloom 
in  the  fat  churchyards  that  they  cherish  ; then 
we  may  look  for  natural  humanity,  and  find  it 
growing  from  such  seed. 

Oh,  for  a good  spirit  who  would  take  the 
house-tops  off,  with  a more  potent  and  benignant 
hand  than  the  lame  demon  in  the  tale,  and  show 
a Christian  people  what  dark  shapes  issue  from 
amidst  their  homes,  to  swell  the  retinue  of  the 
Destroying  Angel  as  he’  moves  forth  among 
them  ! For  only  one  night’s  view  of  the  pale 
phantoms,  rising  from  the  scenes  of  our  too-long 
neglect  ; and  from  the  thick  and  sullen  air  where 
Vice  and  Fever  propagate  together,  raining  the 
tremendous  social  retributions  which  are  ever 
pouring  down,  and  ever  coming  thicker  ! Bright 
and  blest  the  morning  that  should  rise  on  such 
a night  ; for  men,  delayed  no  more  by  stumbling- 
blocks  of  their  own  making,  which  are  but  specks 
of  dust  upon  the  path  between  them  and  eter- 
nity, would  then  apply  themselves,  like  crea- 
tures of  one  common  origin,  owing  one  duty 
to  the  Father  of  one  family,  and  tending  to 
one  common  end,  to  make  the  world  a better 
place. 

Not  the  less  bright  and  blest  would  that  day 
be  for  rousing  some  who  never  have  looked  out 


upon  the  world  of  human  life  around  them,  to  a 
knowledge  of  their  own  relation  to  it,  and  for 
piaking  them  acquainted  with  a perversion  of 
■nature  in  their  own  contracted  sympathies  and 
estimates  ; as  great  and  yet  as  natural  in  its  de- 
velopment when  once  begun,  as  the  lowest  de- 
gradation known. — Dombey  &=  Son,  Chap.  47. 

SOCIETY— At  dinner. 

Mr.  Merdle  himself  was  usually  late  oh  these 
occasions,  as  a man  still  detained  in  the  clutch 
of  giant  enterprises  when  other  men  had  shaken 
off  their  dwarfs  for  the  day.  On  this  occasion, 
he  was  the  last  arrival.  Treasury  said  Merdle’s 
work  punished  him  a little.  Bishop  said  he  was 
glad  to  think  that  this  wealth  flowed  into  the 
coffers  of  a gentleman  who  accepted  it  with 
meekness. 

Powder  ! There  was  so  much  Powder  in  wait- 
ing, that  it  flavored  the  dinner.  Pulverous  par- 
ticles got  into  the  dishes,  and  Society’s  meats 
had  a seasoning  of  first-rate  footmen.  Mr.  Mer- 
dle took  down  a countess  who  was  secluded 
somewhere  in  the  core  of  an  immense  dress,  to 
which  she  was  in  the  proportion  of  the  heart  to 
the  overgrown  cabbage.  If  so  low  a simile  may 
be  admitted,  the  dress  went  down  the  staircase 
like  a richly  brocaded  Jack  in  the  Green,  and  no- 
body knew  what  sort  of  small  person  carried  it. 

Society  had  everything,  it  could  want,  and 
could  not  want,  for  dinner.  It  had  everything 
to  look  at,  and  everything  to  eat,  and  every- 
thing to  drink.  It  is  to  be  hoped  it  enjoyed  it- 
self ; for  Mr.  Merdle’s  own  share  of  the  repast 
might  have  been  paid  for  with  eighteenpence. 
Mrs.  Merdle  was  magnificent.  The  chief  but- 
ler was  the  next  magnificent  institution  of  the 
day.  He  was  the  stateliest  man  in  company. 
He  did  nothing,  but  he  looked  on  as  few  other 
men  could  have  done.  He  was  Mr.  Merdle’s 
last  gift  to  Society.  Mr.  Merdle  didn’t  want 
him,  and  was  put  out  of  countenance  when  the 
great  creature  looked  at  him  ; but  inappeasable 
Society  would  have  him — and  had  got  him. 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  21. 

SOCIETY— Fashionable. 

“ Society,”  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  with  another 
curve  of  her  little  finger,  “ is  so  difficult  to  ex- 
plain to  young  persons  (indeed,  is  so  difficult  to 
explain  to  most  persons),  that  I am  glad  to  hear 
that.  I wish  Society  was  not  so  arbitrary,  I 
wish  it  was  not  so  exacting — Bird,  be  quiet ! ” 

The  parrot  had  given  a most  piercing  shriek, 
as  if  its  name  were  Society,  and  it  asserted  its 
right  to  its  exactions. 

“But,”  resumed  Mrs.  Merdle,  “we  must  take 
it  as  we  find  it.  We  know  it  is  hollow  and  con- 
ventional and  worldly  and  very  shocking,  but 
unless  we  are  Savages  in  the  Tropical  seas, 
(I  should  have  been  charmed  to  be  one  myself 
— most  delightful  life  and  perfect  climate,  I am 
told),  we  must  consult  it.” 

* * * * * 

“ A more  primitive  state  of  society  would  be 
delicious  to  me.  There  used  to  be  a poem 
when  I learned  lessons,  something  about  Lo, 
the  poor  Indian,  whose  something  mind  ! If  a 
few  thousand  persons  moving  in  Society,  could 
only  go  and  be  Indians,  I would  put  my  name 
down  directly  ; but  as  moving  in  Society,  we 
can’t  be  Indians,  unfortunately — Good  morn- 
ing  ! ” — Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  20. 


SOCIETY 


448 


SOLDIER 


SOCIETY  Mr.  Merdle,  the  rich  man. 

Harley  Street,  Cavendish  Square,  was  m>re 
than  aware  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merdle.  Intruders 
there  were  in  Harley  Street,  of  whom  it  was  no! 
aware  ; but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merdle  it  delighted  to 
honor.  Society  was  aware  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Merdle.  Society  had  said  “ Let  us  license  them  ; 
let  us  know  them.” 

Mr.  Merdle  was  immensely  rich  ; a man  of 
prodigiousenterpri.se  ; a Midas  without  the  ears, 
who  turned  all  he  touched  to  gold.  He  was  in 
everything  good,  from  banking  to  building.  He 
was  in  Parliament,  of  course.  He  was  in  the 
City,  necessarily.  He  was  Chairman  of  this, 
Trustee  of  that,  President  of  the  other.  The 
weightiest  of  men  had  said  to  projectors, 
“Now,  what  name  have  you  got?  Have  you 
got  Merdle?”  And  the  reply  being  in  the 
negative,  had  said,  “ Then  I won’t  look  at 
you.” 

This  great  and  fortunate  man  had  provided 
that  extensive  bosom,  which  required  so  much 
room  to  be  unfeeling  enough  in,  with  a nest  of 
crimson  and  gold  some  fifteen  years  before.  It 
was  not  a bosom  to  repose  upon,  but  it  was  a 
capital  bosom  to  hang  jewels  upon.  Mr.  Mer- 
dle wanted  something  to  hang  jewels  upon,  and 
he  bought  it  for  the  purpose.  Storr  and  Mor- 
timer might  have  married  on  the  same  specula- 
tion. 

Like  all  his  other  speculations,  it  was  sound 
and  successful.  The  jewels  shone  to  the  richest 
advantage.  The  bosom,  moving  in  Society  with 
the  jewels  displayed  upon  it,  attracted  general 
admiration.  Society  approving,  Mr.  Merdle 
was  satisfied.  He  was  the  most  disinterested 
of  men, — did  everything  for  Society,  and  got  as 
little  for  himself,  out  of  all  his  gain  and  care,  as 
a man  might. 

That  is  to  say,  it  may  be  supposed  that  he 
got  all  he  wanted,  otherwise  with  unlimited 
wealth  he  would  have  got  it.  But  his  desire  was 
to  the  utmost  to  satisfy  Society  (whatever  that 
was),  and  take  up  all  its  drafts  upon  him  for 
tribute.  He  did  not  shine  in  company  ; he  had 
not  very  much  to  say  for  himself;  he  was  a re- 
served man,  with  a broad,  overhanging,  watch- 
ful head,  that  particular  kind  of  dull  red  color 
in  his  cheeks  which  is  rather  stale  than  fresh, 
and  a somewhat  uneasy  expression  about  his 
coat-cuffs,  as  if  they  were  in  his  confidence,  and 
had  reasons  for  being  anxious  to  hide  his  hands. 
In  the  little  he  said,  he  was*  a pleasant  man 
enough  ; plain,  emphatic  about  public  and  pri- 
vate confidence,  and  tenacious  of  the  utmost 
deference  being  shown  by  every  one,  in  all 
things,  to  Society.  In  this  same  Society  (if  that 
were  it  which  came  to  his  dinners,  and  to  Mrs. 
Merdle's  receptions  and  concerts),  he  hardly 
seemed  to  enjoy  himself  much,  and  was  mostly 
to  be  found  against  walls  and  behind  doors. 
Also,  when  he  went  out  to  it,  instead  of  its  com- 
ing home  to  him,  he  seemed  a little  fatigued, 
and  upon  the  whole  rather  more  disposed  for 
bed  ; but  he  was  always  cultivating  it,  neverthe- 
less, and  always  moving  in  it,  and  always  laying 
out  money  on  it  with  the  greatest  liberality. 

J At  tie  Donut,  Book  /.,  Chap.  21. 

SOCIETY  The  fashionable  younff  ladies. 

And  the  three  expensive  Miss  Tite  Barnacles, 
double-loaded  with  accomplishments  and  ready 
to  go  off,  and  yet  not  going  off  with  the  sharp- 


ness of  flash  and  bang  that  might  have  been 
expected,  but  rather  hanging  fire. 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  34. 

SOCIETY-  The  rich  man  of. 

“ Why,  in  the  name  of  all  the  infernal  powers, 
Mr:  Merdle,  who  does  more  for  Society  than  I 
do?  Do  you  see  these  premises,  Mrs.  Merdle? 
Do  you  see  this  furniture,  Mrs.  Merdle  ? Do  you 
look  in  the  glass  and  see  yourself,  Mrs.  Merdle? 
Do  you  know  the  cost  of  all  this,  and  who  it's 
all  provided  for?  And  yet  will  you  tell  me  that 
I oughtn’t  to  go  into  Society?  I,  who  shower 
money  upon  it  in  this  way?  I,  who  might  be 
almost  said — to — to — to  harness  myself  to  a 
watering-cart  full  of  money,  and  go  about,  satu- 
rating Society,  every  day  of  my  life  !” 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  33. 

SOLD— By  friends  and  society. 

“ Do  you  sell  all  your  friends  ? ” 

Rigaud  took  his  cigarette  from  his  mouth, 
and  eyed  him  with  a momentary  revelation  of 
surprise.  But  he  put  it  between  his  lips  again, 
as  he  answered  with  coolness: 

“ I sell  anything  that  commands  a price.  How 
do  your  lawyers  live,  your  politicians,  your  in- 
triguei's,  your  men  of  the  Exchange?  How  do 
you  live  ? How  do  you  come  here  ? Have  you 
sold  no  friend  ? Lady  of  mine ! I rather  think, 
yes  ! ” 

Clennam  turned  away  from  him  towards  the 
window,  and  sat  looking  out  at  the  wall. 

“ Effectively,  sir,”  said  Rigaud,  “ Society  sells 
itself  and  sells  me  ; and  I sell  .Society. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  //.,  Chap.  28. 

SOLDIER— Military  glory. 

“ Is  he  recruiting  fora — for  a fine  regiment?” 
said  Joe,  glancing  at  a little  round  mirror  that 
hung  in  the  bar. 

“ I believe  he  is,”  replied  the  host.  “ It’s  much 
the  same  thing,  whatever  regiment  he’s  recruit- 
ing for.  I’m  told  there  an’t  a deal  of  difference 
between  a fine  man  and  another  one,  when 
they’re  shot  through  and  through.” 

“ They’re  not  all  shot,”  said  Joe. 

“ No,”  the  Lion  answered,  “ not  all.  Those 
that  are — supposing  it’s  done  easy — are  the  best 
off,  in  my  opinion.” 

“ Ah  !”  retorted  Joe,  “but  you  don’t  care  for 
glory.” 

“For  what? ” said  the  Lion. 

“ Glory.” 

“ No,”  returned  the  Lion,  with  supreme  indif- 
ference. “I  don’t.  You’re  right  in  that,  Mr. 
Willet.  When  Glory  comes  here,  and  calls  for 
anything  to  drink  and  changes  a guinea  to  pay 
for  it,  I’ll  give  it  him  for  nothing.  It’s  my  be- 
lief, sir,  that  the  Glory’s  Arms  wouldn’t  do  a very 
strong  business.” 

These  remarks  were  not  at  all  comforting.  Joe 
walked  out,  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  next  room, 
and  listened.  The  serjeant  was  describing  a 
military  life.  It  was  all  drinking,  he  said,  ex- 
cept that  there  were  frequent  intervals  of  eating 
and  love-making.  A battle  was  the  finest  thing 
in  the  world — when  your  side  won  it — and  Eng- 
lishmen always  did  that.  “ Supposing  you 
should  be  killed,  sir?”  said  a timid  voice  in  one 
corner.  “ Well,  sir,  supposing  you  slioujd  be,” 
said  the  serjeant,  “ what  then?  Your  country 
loves  you,  sir:  his  Majesty  King  George  the 


SOLDIERS 


449 


SOLITUDE 


Third  loves  you  ; your  memory  is  honored, 
revered,  respected  ; everybody  is  fond  of  you, 
and  grateful  to  you  ; your  name’s  wrote  down 
at  full  length  in  a book  in  the  War-office. 
Damme,  gentlemen,  we  must  all  die  some  time 
or  another,  eh  ? ” 

The  voice  coughed,  and.  said  no  more. 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  31. 

SOLDIERS— A swarm  of. 

Though  there  was  a great  agglomeration  of 
soldiers  in  the  town  and  neighboring  country, 
you  might  have  held  a grand  Review  and  Field 
Day  of  them  every  one,  and  looked  in  vain 
among  them  all  for  a soldier  choking  behind  his 
foolish  stock,  or  a soldier  lamed  by  his  ill-fitting 
shoes,  or  a soldier  deprived  of  the  use  of  his 
limbs  by  straps  and  buttons,  or  a soldier  elabor- 
ately forced  to  be  self-helpless  in  all  the  small 
affairs  of  life.  A swarm  of  brisk,  bright,  active, 
bustling,  handy,  odd,  skirmishing  fellows,  able 
to  turn  to  cleverly  at  anything,  from  a siege  to 
soup,  from  great  guns  to  needles  and  thread, 
from  the  broadsword  exercise  to  slicing  an 
onion,  from  making  war  to  making  omelets,  was 
all  you  would  have  found. 

What  a swarm  ! From  the  Great  Place  under 
the  eye  of  Mr.  The  Englishman,  where  a few 
awkward  squads  from  the  last  conscription  were 
doing  the  goose-step, — some  members  of  those 
squads  still,  as  to  their  bodies,  in  the  chrysalis 
peasant-state  of  Blouse,  and  only  military  butter- 
flies as  to  their  regimentally  clothed  legs, — from 
the  Great  Place,  away  outside  the  fortifications, 
and  away  for  miles  along  the  dusty  roads,  soldiers 
swarmed.  All  day  long,  upon  the  grass-grown 
ramparts  of  the  town,  practising  soldiers  trumpet- 
ed and  bugled  ; all  day  long,  down  in  angles  of 
dry  trenches,  practising  soldiers  drummed  and 
drummed.  Every  forenoon,  soldiers  burst  out 
of  the  great  barracks  into  the  sandy  gymnasium- 
ground  hard  by,  and  flew  over  the  wooden  horse, 
and  hung  on  to  flying  ropes,  and  dangled  upside- 
down  between  parallel  bars,  and  shot  them- 
selves off  wooden  platforms, — splashes,  sparks, 
coruscations,  showers  of  soldiers.  At  every 
corner  of  the  town  wall,  every  guard-house, 
every  gateway,  every  sentry-box,  every  draw- 
bridge, every  reedy  ditch  and  rushy  dike,  sol- 
diers, soldiers,  soldiers.  And  the  town  being 
pretty  well  all  wall,  guard-house,  gateway,  sen- 
try-box, drawbridge,  reedy  ditch  and  rushy  dike, 
the  town  was  pretty  well  all  soldiers. 

What  would  the  sleepy  old  town  have  been 
without  the  soldiers,  seeing  that  even  with  them 
it  had  so  overslept  itself  as  to  have  slept  its 
echoes  hoarse,  its  defensive  bars  and  locks  and 
bolts  and  chains  all  rusty,  and  its  ditches  stag- 
nant ! From  the  days  when  Vauban  engineered 
it  to  that  perplexing  extent  that  to  look  at  it 
was  like  being  knocked  on  the  head  with  it,  the 
stranger  becoming  stunned  and  stertorous  under 
the  shock  of  its  incomprehensibility, — from  the 
days  when  Vauban  made  it  the  express  incor- 
poration of  every  substantive  and  adjective  in 
the  art  of  military  engineering,  and  not  only 
twisted  you  into  it  and  twisted  you  out  of  it,  to 
the  right,  to  the  left,  opposite,  under  here,  over 
there,  in  the  dark,  in  the  dirt,  by  gateway,  arch- 
way, covered  way,  dry  way,  wet  way,  fosse, 
portcullis,  drawbridge,  sluice,  squat  tower, 
pierced  wall,  and  heavy  battery,  but  likewise 
took  a fortifying  dive  under  the  neighboring 


country,  and  came  to  the  surface  three  or  foui 
miles  off,  blowing  out  incomprehensible  mounds 
and  batteries  among  the  quiet  crops  of  chiccory 
and  beet-root, — from  those  days  to  these  the  town 
had  been  asleep,  and  dust,  and  rust,  and  must 
had  settled  on  its  drowsy  Arsenals  and  Mag- 
azines, and  grass  had  grown  up  in  its  silent 
streets. — Somebody's  Luggage , Chap.  2. 

SOLDIER— The  Corporal. 

The  Corporal,  a smart  figure  of  a man  of 
thirty,  perhaps  a thought  under  the  middle  size, 
but  very  neatly  made — a sunburnt  Corporal 
with  a brown  peaked  beard — faced  about  at  the 
moment,  addressing  voluble  words  of  instruc- 
tion to  the  squad  in  hand.  Nothing  was  amiss 
or  awry  about  the  Corporal.  A lithe  and  nimble 
Corporal,  quite  complete,  from  the  sparkling 
dark  eyes  under  his  knowing  uniform  cap,  to  his 
sparkling  white  gaiters.  The  very  image  and 
presentment  of  a Corporal  of  his  country’s 
army,  in  the  line  of  his  shoulders,  the  line  of 
his  waist,  the  broadest  line  of  his  Bloomer 
trousers,  and  their  narrowest  line  at  the  calf  of 
his  leg. — Somebody's  Luggage,  Chap.  2. 

SOLITUDE— The  blessingrs  of. 

Here  was  one  of  the  advantages  of  having 
lived  alone  so  long  ! The  little,  bustling,  active, 
cheerful  creature  existed  entirely  within  herself, 
talked  to  herself,  made  a confidant  of  herself, 
was  as  sarcastic  as  she  could  be,  on  people  who 
offended  her,  by  herself ; pleased  herself,  and 
did  no  harm.  If  she  indulged  in  scandal,  no- 
body’s reputation  suffered  ; and  if  she  enjoyed 
a little  bit  of  revenge,  no  living  soul  was  one 
atom  the  worse.  One  of  the  many  to  whom, 
from  straitened  circumstances,  a consequent  in- 
ability to  form  the  associations  they  would  wish, 
and  a disinclination  to  mix  with  the  society  they 
could  obtain, (London  is  as  complete  a solitude 
as  the  plains  of  Syria),  the  humble  artist  had 
pursued  her  lonely,  but  contented  way  for  many 
years  ; and,  until  the  peculiar  misfortunes  of  the 
Nickleby  family  attracted  her  attention,  had 
made  no  friends,  though  brimful!  of  the  friend- 
liest feelings  to  all  mankind.  There  are  many 
warm  hearts  in  the  same  solitary  guise  as  poor 
little  Miss  La  Creevy’s. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  20. 

SOLITUDE— The  misery  of. 

Thus  easily  did  Stephen  Blackpool  fall  into 
the  loneliest  of  lives,  the  life  of  solitude  among 
a familiar  crowd.  The  stranger  in  the  land  who 
looks  into  ten  thousand  faces  for  some  an- 
swering look  and  never  finds  it,  is  in  cheering 
society  as  compared  with  him  who  passes  ten 
averted  faces  daily,  that  were  once  the  counten- 
ances of  friends.  Such  experience  was  to  be 
Stephen’s  now,  in  every  waking  moment  of  his 
life  ; at  his  work,  on  his  way  to  it  and  from  it,  at 
his  door,  at  his  window,  everywhere.  By  gene- 
ral consent,  they  even  avoided  that  side  of  the 
street  on  which  he  habitually  walked  ; and  left 
it,  of  all  the  working  men,  to  him  only. 

He  had  been  for  many  years  a quiet,  silent 
man,  associating  but  little  with  other  men,  and 
used  to  companionship  with  his  own  thoughts. 
He  had  never  known  before  the  strength  of  the 
want  in  his  heart  for  the  frequent  recognition 
of  a nod,  a look,  a word  ; or  the  immense 
amount  of  relief  that  had  been  poured  into  it 


song 


450 


SPARSIT 


by  drops,  through  such  small  means.  It  was 
even  harder  than  he  could  have  believed  possi- 
ble, to  separate  in  his  own  conscience  his 
abandonment  by  all  his  fellows,  from  a baseless 
sense  of  shame  and  disgrace. 

Hard  Times , Book  II. , Chap.  4. 

SONG-  An  unearthly. 

I don’t  know  what  it  was,  in  her  touch  or 
voice,  that  made  that  song  the  most  unearthly  I 
have  ever  heard  in  my  life,  or  can  imagine. 
There  was  something  fearful  in  the  reality  of  it. 
It  was  as  if  it  had  never  been  written,  or  set  to 
music,  but  sprung  out  of  the  passion  within  her  ; 
which  found  imperfect  utterance  in  the  low 
sounds  of  her  voice,  and  Crouched  again  when 
all  was  still. — David  Copperfield , Chap.  29. 

SONG — “ The  table-beer  of  acoustics.” 

Mrs.  Micawber  was  good  enough  to  sing  us 
(in  a small,  thin,  flat  voice,  which  I remembered 
to  have  considered,  when  I first  knew  her,  the 
very  table-beer  of  acoustics)  the  favorite  ballads 
of  “ The  Dashing  White  Serjeant,”  and  “Little 
Tafflin.” — David  Copperfield , Chap.  28. 

SORROW— A teacher. 

“ But  for  some  trouble  and  sorrow  we  should 
never  know  half  the  good  there  is  about  us.” 

Haunted  Man , Chap.  2. 

SPARKS— In  a Christmas  fire. 

This  was  the  time  for  bringing  the  poker  to 
bear  on  the  billet  of  wood.  I tapped  it  three 
times,  like  an  enchanted  talisman,  and  a bril- 
liant host  of  merry-makers  burst  out  of  it,  and 
sported  off  by  the  chimney, — rushing  up  the 
middle  in  a fiery  country  dance,  and  never  com- 
ing down  again.  Meanwhile,  by  their  spark- 
ling light,  which  threw  our  lamp  into  the  shade, 
I filled  the  glasses,  and  gave  my  Travellers, 
Christmas!  — Christmas  Eve,  my  friends, 
when  the  shepherds,  who  were  Poor  Travellers, 
too,  in  their  way,  heard  the  Angels  sing,  “ On 
earth,  peace.  Good-will  towards  men  ! ” 

Seven  Poor  Travellers. 

SPARSIT,  Mrs. 

Mr.  Bounderby  being  a bachelor,  an  elderly 
lady  presided  over  his  establishment,  in  con- 
sideration of  a certain  annual  stipend.  Mrs. 
Sparsit  was  this  lady’s  name  ; and  she  was  a 
prominent  figure  in  attendance  on  Mr.  Boun- 
derby’s  car,  as  it  rolled  along  in  triumph,  with 
the  Bully  of  humility  inside. 

* * * * * 

The  late  Mr.  Sparsit,  being  by  the  mother’s 
side  a Powler,  married  this  lady,  being  by  the 
father’s  side,  a Scadgers.  Lady  Scadgers  (an 
immensely  fat  old  woman,  with  an  inordinate 
appetite  for  butcher’s  meat,  and  a mysterious 
leg  which  had  now  refused  to  get  out  of  bed  for 
fourteen  years)  contrived  the  marriage,  at  a pe- 
riod when  Sparsit  was  just  of  age,  and  chiefly 
noticeable  for  a slender  body,  weakly  supported 
on  two  long  slim  props,  and  surmounted  by  no 
head  worth  mentioning.  lie  inherited  a fair 
fortune  from  his  uncle,  but  owed  it  all  before 
he  came  into  it,  and  spent  it  twice  over  imme- 
diatelj  ifterwards.  Thus,  when  he  died  at 
twenly  four  (the  scene  of  his  decease,  Calais, 
and  the  cause  brandy),  he  did  not  leave  his 
widow,  from  whom  he  had  been  separated  soon 


after  the  honeymoon,  in  affluent  circumstances. 
That  bereaved  lady,  fifteen  years  older  than  he, 
fell  presently  at  deadly  feud  with  her  only  rela- 
tive, Lady  Scadgers;  and,  partly  to  spite  her 
ladyship,  and  partly  to  maintain  herself,  went 
out  at  a salary.  And  here  she  was  now,  in  her 
elderly  days,  with  the  Coriolanian  style  of  nose 
and  the  dense  black  eyebrows  which  had  cap- 
tivated Sparsit,  making  Mr.  Bounderby’s  tea  as 
he  took  his  breakfast. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  7. 

The  indefatigable  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  a violent 
cold  upon  her,  her  voice  reduced  to  a whisper, 
and  her  stately  frame  so  racked  by  continual 
sneezes  that  it  seemed  in  danger  of  dismember- 
ment, gave  chase  to  her  patron  until  she  found 
him  in  the  metropolis;  and  there,  majestically 
sweeping  in  upon  him  at  his  hotel  in  St.  James’s 
Street,  exploded  the  combustibles  with  which 
she  was  charged,  and  blew  up.  Having  ex- 
ecuted her  mission  with  infinite  relish,  this 
high-minded  woman  then  fainted  away  on  Mr. 
Bounderby’s  coat-collar. 

Mr.  Bounderby’s  first  procedure  was  to  shake 
Mrs.  Sparsit  off,  and  leave  her  to  progress  as  she 
might  through  various  stages  of  suffering  on  the 
floor.  He  next  had  recourse  to  the  administra- 
tion of  potent  restoratives,  such  as  screwing  the 
patient’s  thumbs,  smiting  her  hands,  abundantly 
watering  her  face,  and  inserting  salt  in  her 
mouth.  When  these  attentions  had  recovered 
her  (which  they  speedily  did),  he  hustled  her 
into  a fast  train  without  offering  any  other  re- 
freshment, and  carried  her  back  to  Coketown 
more  dead  than  alive. 

Regarded  as  a classical  ruin,  Mrs.  Sparsit  was 
an  interesting  spectacle  on  her  arrival  at  her 
journey’s  end  ; but  considered  in  any  other  light, 
the  amount  of  damage  she  had  by  that  time 
sustained  was  excessive,  and  impaired  her  claims 
to  admiration.  Utterly  heedless  of  the  wear  and 
tear  of  her  clothes  and  constitution,  and  ada- 
mant to  her  pathetic  sneezes,  Mr.  Bounderby 
immediately  crammed  her  into  a coach,  and 
bore  her  off'  to  Stone  Lodge. 

Hard  Times , Book  III.,  Chap.  3. 

The  same  Hermetical  state  of  mind  led  to  her 
renunciation  of  made  dishes  and  wines  at  dinner, 
until  fairly  commanded  by  Mr.  Bounderby  to 
take  them  ; when  she  said,  “ Indeed,  you  are 
very  good,  sir  ; ” and  departed  from  a resolution 
of  which  she  had  made  rather  formal  and  public 
announcement,  to  “ wait  for  the  simple  mutton.” 
She  was  likewise  deeply  apologetic  for  wanting 
the  salt ; and,  feeling  amiably  bound  to  bear  out 
Mr.  Bounderby  to  the  fullest  extent  in  the  testi- 
mony he  had  borne  to  her  nerves,  occasionally 
sat  back  in  her  chair  and  silently  wept ; at  which 
periods  a tear  of  large  dimensions,  like  a crystal 
ear-ring,  might  be  observed  (or  rather,  must  be,* 
for  it  insisted  on  public  notice)  sliding  down  her 
Roman  nose. — Hard  Times , Book  //.,  Chap.  8. 

Mrs.  Sparsit,  lying  by  to  recover  the  tone  of 
her  nerves  in  Mr.  Bounderby’s  retreat,  kept  such 
a sharp  look-out,  night  and  day,  under  her  Cori- 
olanian eyebrows,  that  her  eyes,  like  a couple  of 
lighthouses  on  an  iron-bound  coast,  might  have 
warned  all  prudent  mariners  from  that  bold 
rock  her  Roman  nose,  and  the  dark  and  craggy 
region  in  its  neighborhood,  but  for  the  placidity 


SPECIALITY 


451 


SPECULATOR 


of  her  manner.  Although  it  was  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  her  retiring  for  the  night  could  be 
anything  but  a form,  so  severely  wide  awake 
were  those  classical  eyes  of  hers,  and  so  impos- 
sible did  it  seem  that  her  rigid  nose  could  yield 
to  any  relaxing  influence,  yet  her  manner  of 
sitting,  smoothing  her  uncomfortable,  not  to 
say  gritty,  mittens  (they  were  constructed  of  a 
cool  fabric  like  a meat-safe)  or  of  ambling  to 
unknown  places  of  destination  with  her  foot  in 
her  cotton  stirrup,  was  so  perfectly  serene,  that 
most  observers  would  have  been  constrained  to 
suppose  her  a dove,  embodied,  by  some  freak  of 
nature,  in  the  earthly  tabernacle  of  a bird  of  the 
hook-beaked  order. 

She  was  a most  wonderful  woman  for  prowling 
about  the  house.  How  she  got  from  story  to  story 
was  a mystery  beyond  solution.  A lady  so  de- 
corous in  herself,  and  so  highly  connected,  was 
not  to  be  suspected  of  dropping  over  the  banis- 
ters or  sliding  down  them,  yet  her  extraordinary 
facility  of  locomotion  suggested  the  wild  idea. 
Another  noticeable  circumstance  in  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit  was,  that  she  was  never  hurried.  She  would 
shoot  with  consummate  velocity  from  the  roof 
to  the  hall,  yet  would  be  in  full  possession  of 
her  breath  and  dignity  on  the  moment  of  her 
arrival  there.  Neither  was  she  ever  seen  by 
human  vision  to  go  at  a great  pace. 

Hard  Times , Book  II .,  Chap.  g. 


Mrs.  Sparsit  was  not  a poetical  woman  ; but 
she  took  an  idea  in  the  nature  of  an  allegorical 
fancy  into  her  head.  Much  watching  of  Louisa, 
and  much  consequent  observation  of  her  impen- 
etrable demeanor,  which  keenly  whetted  and 
sharpened  Mrs.  Sparsit’s  edge,  must  have  given 
her  as  it  were  a lift,  in  the  way  of  inspiration. 
She  erected  in  her  mind  a mighty  Staircase, 
with  a dark  pit  of  shame  and  ruin  at  the  bot- 
tom ; and  down  those  stairs,  from  day  to  day, 
and  hour  to  hour,  she  saw  Louisa  coming. 

Hard  Times , Book  II.,  Chap.  io. 


Wet  through  and  through  : with  her 
feet  squelching  and  squashing  in  her  shoes 
whenever  she  moved  ; with  a rash  of  rain  upon 
her  classical  visage  ; with  a bonnet  like  an 
over-ripe  fig ; with  all  her  clothes  spoiled  ; 
with  damp  impressions  of  every  button,  string, 
and  hook-and-eye  she  wore,  printed  off  upon 
her  highly-connected  back  ; with  a stagnant 
verdure  on  her  general  exterior,  such  as  accu- 
mulates on  an  old  park  fence  in  a mouldy  lane  ; 
Mrs.  Sparsit  had  no  resource  but  to  burst  into 
tears  of  bitterness  and  say,  “ I have  lost  her  ! ” 
Hard  Times , Book  II.,  Chap.  n. 

SPECIALITY- Sparkler’s  idea  of  a. 

“ Pray,  does  Mr.  Henry  Gowan  paint — ha — 
Portraits?”  inquired  Mr.  Dorrit*. 

Mr.  Sparkler  opined  that  he  painted  any- 
thing, if  he  could  get  the  job. 

“ He  has  no  particular  walk  ? ” said  Mr.  Dor- 

rit. 

Mr.  Sparkler,  stimulated  by  Love  to  brilliancy, 
replied  that  for  a particular  walk,  a man  ought  to 
have  a particular  pair  of  shoes  : as,  for  example, 
shooting,  shooting-shoes  ; cricket,  cricket-shoes. 
Whereas,  he  believed  that  Henry  Gowan  had 
no  particular  pair  of  shoes. 

“ No  speciality?  ” said  Mr.  Dorrit. 

This  being  a very  long  word  for  Mr.  Spark- 


ler, and  his  mind  being  exhausted  by  his  late 
effort,  he  replied,  “ No,  thank  you.  I seldom 
take  it.” — Little  Dorrit , Book  II,  Chap.  6. 

SPECULATOR— Scadder,  the  American. 

It  was  a small  place  : something  like  a turn- 
pike. But  a great  deal  of  land  may  be  got  into 
a dice-box,  and  why  may  not  a whole  territory 
be  bargained  for  in  a shed  ? It  was  but  a tem- 
porary office  too  ; for  the  Edeners  were  “ go- 
ing ” to  build  a superb  establishment  for  the 
transaction  of  their  business,  and  had  already 
got  so  far  as  to  mark  out  the  site.  Which  is  a 
great  way  in  America.  The  office-door  was 
wide  open,  and  in  the  door-way  was  the  agent  : 
no  doubt  a tremendous  fellow  to  get  through 
his  work,  for  he  seemed  to  have  no  arrears,  but 
was  swinging  backwards  and  forwards  in  a 
rocking-chair,  with  one  of  his  legs  planted 
high  up  against  the  door-post,  and  the  other 
doubled  up  under  him,  as  if  he  were  hatching 
his  foot. 

He  was  a gaunt  man  in  a huge  straw  hat, 
and  a coat  of  green  stuff.  The  weather  being 
hot,  he  had  no  cravat,  and  wore  his  shirt  collar 
wide  open  ; so  that  every  time  he  spoke  some- 
thing was  seen  to  twitch  and  jerk  up  in  his 
throat,  like  the  little  hammers  in  a harpsichord 
when  the  notes  are  struck.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
Truth  feebly  endeavoring  to  leap  to  his  lips. 
If  so,  it  never  reached  them. 

Two  gray  eyes  lurked  deep  within  this  agent’s 
head,  but  one  of  them  had  no  sight  in  it,  and 
stood  stock  still.  With  that  side  of  his  face 
he  seemed  to  listen  to  what  the  other  side  was 
doing.  Thus  each  profile  had  a distinct  ex- 
pression ; and  when  the  movable  side  was  most 
in  action,  the  rigid  one  was  in  its  coldest  state 
of  watchfulness.  It  was  like  turning  the  man 
inside  out,  to  pass  to  that  view  of  his  features 
in  his  liveliest  mood,  and  see  how  calculating 
and  intent  they  were. 

Each  long  black  hair  upon  his  head  hung 
down  as  straight  as  any  plummet  line ; but 
rumpled  tufts  were  on  the  arches  of  his  eyes, 
as  if  the  crow  whose  foot  was  deeply  printed  in 
the  corners,  had  pecked  and  torn  them  in  a 
savage  recognition  of  his  kindred  nature  as  a 
bird  of  prey. 

Such  was  the  man  whom  they  now  approach- 
ed, and  whom  the  General  saluted  by  the  name 
of  Scadder. 

* * * * % 

Martin  thanked  him,  and  took  leave  of 
Mr.  Scadder  ; who  had  resumed  his  post  in  the 
rocking-chair  immediately  on  the  General’s 
rising  from  it,  and  was  once  more  swinging 
away  as  if  he  had  never  been  disturbed.  Mark 
looked  back  several  times  as  they  went  down 
the  road  towards  the  National  Hotel,  but  now 
his  blighted  profile  was  towards  them,  and 
nothing  but  attentive  thoughtfulness  was  writ- 
ten on  it.  Strangely  different  to  the  other 
side  ! He  was  not  a man  much  given  to  laugh- 
ing, and  never  laughed  outright ; but  every 
line  in  the  print  of  the  crow’s-foot,  and  every 
little  wiry  vein  in  that  division  of  his  head,  was 
wrinkled  up  into  a grin  ! The  compound  figure 
of  Death  and  the  Lady  at  the  top  of  the  old 
ballad  was  not  divided  with  a greater  nicety, 
and  hadn’t  halves  more  monstrously  unlike  each 
other,  than  the  two  profiles  of  Zephaniah  Scad- 
der.— Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  2.1. 


SPECULATORS 


452 


SPRING 


SPECULATORS— Mr.  Lammle’s  friends  on 
’Chang-e. 

High-stepping  horses  seemed  necessary  to  all 
Mr.  Lammle’s  friends — as  necessary  as  their 
transaction  of  business  together  in  a gypsy  way 
at  untimely  hours  of  the  morning  and  evening, 
and  in  rushes  and  snatches.  There  were  friends 
who  seemed  to  be  always  coming  and  going 
across  the  Channel,  on  errands  about  the  Bourse, 
and  Greek,  and  Spanish,  and  India,  and  Mexi- 
can, and  par,  and  premium,  and  discount  and 
three-quarters,  and  seven-eighths.  There  were 
other  friends  who  seemed  to  be  always  lolling 
and  lounging  in  and  out  of  the  City,  on  ques- 
tions of  the  Bourse,  and  Greek,  and  Spanish,  and 
India,  and  Mexican,  and  par,  and  premium, 
and  discount,  and  three-quarters,  and  seven- 
eighths.  They  were  all  feverish,  boastful,  and  in- 
definably loose  ; and  they  all  ate  and  drank  a 
great  deal  ; and  made  bets  in  eating  and  drink- 
ing. 1 hey  all  spoke  of  sums  of  money,  and 
only  mentioned  the  sums  and  left  the  money  to 
be  understood  ; as  “ Five  and  forty  thousand, 
Tom,”  or  “Two  hundred  and  twenty-two  on  every 
individual  share  in  the  lot,  Joe.”  They  seem- 
ed to  divide  the  world  into  two  classes  of  peo- 
ple ; people  who  were  making  enormous  fortunes, 
and  people  who  were  being  enormously  ruined. 
They  were  always  in  a hurry,  and  yet  seemed  to 
have  nothing  tangible  to  do  ; except  a few’  of  them 
(these,  mostly  asthmatic  and  thick-lipped)  who 
were  forever  demonstrating  to  the  rest,  with 
gold  pencil-cases  which  they  could  hardly  hold 
because  of  the  big  rings  on  their  forefingers, 
how  money  was  to  be  made.  Lastly,  they  all 
swore  at  their  grooms,  and  the  grooms  were 
not  quite  as  respectful  or  complete  as  other  men’s 
grooms  ; seeming  somehow'  to  fall  short  of  the 
groom  point  as  their  masters  fell  short  of  the 
gentleman  point. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap.  4. 

SPEECH— A morsel  of. 

Smike  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  John 
Browdie  stopped  him. 

“Stan’  still,”  said  the  Yorkshireman,  “and 
doant’ee  speak  a morsel  o’  talk  till  I tell’ee.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby p Chap.  39. 

SPEECH— “ The  grift  of  gab.” 

“ Worn’t  one  o’  these  chaps  slim  and  tall, 
with  long  hair,  and  the  gift  o’  the  gab  w’ery  gal- 
lopin  ’ ? ” — Pickwick , Chap.  20. 

SPINSTER  — Bag-stock’s  opinion  of  Miss 
Tox. 

The  major  paused  in  his  eating,  and  looked 
mysteriously  indignant.  “That’s  a de-vilish 
ambitious  woman,  Sir.” 

Mr.  Dombey  said  “ Indeed?”  with  frigid  in- 
difference : mingled  perhaps  with  some  con- 
temptuous incredulity  as  to  Miss  Tox  having  the 
presumption  to  harbor  such  a superior  quality. 

“ That  woman,  Sir,”  said  the  Major,  “ is,  in 
her  way,  a Lucifer.  Joey  B.  has  had  his  day, 
Sir,  but  he  keeps  his  eyes.  lie  sees,  does  Joe. 
His  l ' oyal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of  York  ob- 
served of  Joey,  at  a levee,  that  he  saw.” 

The  Major  accompanied  this  with  such  a look, 
and,  between  eating,  drinking,  hot  tea,  devilled 
grill,  muffins,  and  meaning,  was  altogether  so 
swollen  and  inflamed  about  the  head,  that  even 
Mr.  Dombey  showed  some  anxiety  for  him. 


“ That  ridiculous  old  spectacle,  Sir,”  pursued 
the  Major,  " aspires.  She  aspires  sky-high,  Sir. 
Matrimonially,  Dombey.” 

“ I am  sorry  for  her,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Dombey  <5 r*  Son,  Chap.  20. 

SPINSTERS-  Influence  of  young-  men  on. 

Fielding  tells  us  that  man  is  fire,  and  woman 
tow,  and  the  Prince  of  Darkness  sets  a light  to 
’em.  Mr.  Jingle  knew  that  young  men,  to  spin- 
ster aunts,  are  as  lighted  gas  to  gunpowder,  and 
he  determined  to  essay  the  effect  of  an  explosion 
without  loss  of  time. — Pickwick,  Chap.  8. 

SPIRITUAL  GROWTH-Of  dead  children. 

“ Pet  had  a twin  sister  who  died  when  w'e  could 
just  see  her  eyes — exactly  like  Pet’s — above  the 
table,  as  she  stood  on  tiptoe  holding  by  it.” 

“ Ah  ! indeed,  indeed  ? ” 

“ Yes,  and  being  practical  people,  a result  has 
gradually  sprung  up  in  the  minds  of  Mrs.  Mea- 
gles  and  myself  which  perhaps  you  may — or 
perhaps  you  may  not — understand.  Pet  and 
her  baby  sister  were  so  exactly  alike,  and  so 
completely  one,  that  in  our  thoughts  we  have 
never  been  able  to  separate  them  since.  It 
would  be  of  no  use  to  tell  us  that  our  dead 
child  was  a mere  infant.  We  have  changed 
that  child  according  to  the  changes  in  the  child 
spared  to  us,  and  always  with  us.  As  Pet  has 
grown,  that  child  has  grown  ; as  Pet  has  become 
more  sensible  and  womanly,  her  sister  has  be- 
come more  sensible  and  womanly,  by  just  the 
same  degrees.  It  would  be  as  hard  to  convince 
me  that  if  I was  to  pass  into  the  other  world  to- 
morrow, I should  not,  through  the  mercy  of  God, 
be  received  there  by  a daughter  just  like  Pet, 
as  to  persuade  me  that  Pet  herself  is  not  a 
reality  at  my  side.” 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

SPITE. 

Spite  is  a little  word  ; but  it  represents  as 
strange  a jumble  of  feelings,  and  compounds  of 
discords,  as  any  polysyllable  in  the  language. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  12. 

SPORTSMAN— Winkle  as  a. 

Mr.  Winkle  flashed,  and  blazed,  and  smoked 
away,  without  producing  any  material  results 
worthy  of  being  noted  down  ; sometimes  ex- 
pending his  charge  in  mid-air,  and  at  others 
sending  it  skimming  along  so  near  the  surface 
of  the  ground  as  to  place  the  lives  of  the  two 
dogs  on  a rather  uncertain  and  precarious  ten- 
ure. As  a display  of  fancy  shooting,  it  was  ex- 
tremely varied  and  curious  ; as  an  exhibition  of 
firing  with  any  precise  object,  it  was,  upon  the 
whole,  perhaps  a failure.  It  is  an  established 
axiom,  that  “ every  bullet  has  its  billet.”  If  it 
apply  in  an  equal  degree  to  shot,  those  of  Mr. 
Winkle  were  unfortunate  foundlings,  deprived 
of  their  natural  rights,  cast  loose  upon  the 
world,  and  billeted  nowhere. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  19. 

SPRING. 

The  first  of  May ! There  is  a merry  fresh- 
ness in  the  sound,  calling  to  our  minds  a thou- 
sand thoughts  of  hll  that  is  pleasant  and  beauti- 
ful in  Nature,  in  her  most  delightful  form. 
What  man  is  there,  over  whose  mind  a bright 
spring  morning  does  not  exercise  a magic  in- 


SPRING-TIME 


453 


STEAMBOAT 


fluence — carrying  him  back  to  the  days  of  his 
childish  sports,  and  conjuring  up  before  him  the 
old  green  field  with  its  gently-waving  trees, 
where  the  birds  sang  as  he  has  never  heard  them 
since — where  the  butterfly  fluttered  far  more 
gaily  than  he  ever  sees  him  now,  in  all  his  ram- 
blings — where  the  sky  seemed  bluer,  and  the 
sun  shone  more  brightly — where  the  air  blew 
more  freshly  over  greener  grass,  and  sweeter- 
smelling  flowers — where  everything  wore  a 
richer  and  more  brilliant  hue  than  it  is  ever 
dressed  in  now  ! Such  are  the  deep  feelings  of 
childhood,  and  such  are  the  impressions  which 
every  lovely  object  stamps  upon  its  heart ! The 
hardy  traveller  wanders  through  the  maze  of 
thick  and  pathless  woods,  where  the  sun’s  rays 
never  shone,  and  heaven’s  pure  air  never  played  ; 
he  stands  on  the  brink  of  the  roaring  waterfall, 
and,  giddy  and  bewildered,  watches  the  foaming 
mass  as  it  leaps  from  stone  to  stone,  and  from 
crag  to  crag  ; he  lingers  in  the  fertile  plains  of 
a land  of  perpetual  sunshine,  and  revels  in  the 
luxury  of  their  balmy  breath.  But  what  are  the 
deep  forests,  or  the  thundering  waters,  or  the 
richest  landscapes  that  bounteous  nature  ever 
spread,  to  charm  the  eyes,  and  captivate  the 
senses  of  man,  compared  with  the  recollection 
of  the  old  scenes  of  his  early  youth  ? Magic 
scenes  indeed,  for  the  fancies  of  childhood 
dressed  them  in  colors  brighter  than  the  rain- 
bow, and  almost  as  fleeting  ! — Scenes,  Chap.  20. 

SPRING-TIME. 

Everything  was  fresh  aryl  gay,  as  though  the 
world  were  but  that  morning  made,  when  Mr. 
Chester  rode  at  a tranquil  pace  along  the  Forest 
road.  Though  early  in  the  season,  it  was  warm 
and  genial  weather  ; the  trees  were  budding 
into  leaf,  the  hedges  and  the  grass  were  green, 
the  air  was  musical  with  songs  of  birds,  and 
high  above  them  all  the  lark  poured  out  her 
richest  melody.  In  shady  spots,  the  morning 
dew  sparkled  on  each  young  leaf  and  blade  of 
grass ; and  where  the  sun  was  shining,  some 
diamond  drops  yet  glistened  brightly,  as  in  un- 
willingness to  leave  so  fair  a world,  and  have 
such  brief  existence.  Even  the  light  wind, 
whose  rustling  was  as  gentle  to  the  ear  as  softly 
falling  water,  had  its  hope  and  promise  ; and, 
leaving  a pleasant  fragrance  in  its  track  as  it 
went  fluttering  by,  whispered  of  its  intercourse 
with  Summer,  and  of  his  happy  coming. 

Barnaby  Budge , Chap.  29. 

STAGE— Adapted  to  the. 

“ The  stage  ! ” cried  Nicholas,  in  a voice  al- 
most as  loud. 

“ The  theatrical  profession,”  said  Mr.  Vincent 
Crummies.  “ I am  in  the  theatrical  profession 
myself,  my  wife  is  in  the  theatrical  profession, 
my  children  are  in  the  theatrical  profession.  I 
had  a dog  that  lived  and  died  in  it  from  a pup- 
py ; and  my  chaise-pony  goes'  on,  in  Timour 
the  Tartar.  I’ll  bring  you  out  and  your  friend 
too.  Say  the  word.  I want  a novelty.” 

“ I don’t  know  anything  about  it,”  rejoined 
Nicholas,  whose  breath  had  been  almost  taken 
away  by  this  sudden  proposal.  “ I never  acted 
a part  in  my  life,  except  at  school.” 

“ There’s  genteel  comedy  in  your  walk  and 
manner,  juvenile  tragedy  in  your  eye,  and  touch- 
and-go  farce  in  your  laugh,”  said  Mr.  Vincent 
Crummies.  “You’li  do  as  well  as  if  you  had 


thought  of  nothing  else  but  the  lamps,  from  your 
birth  downwards.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  22. 

STARCHED  PEOPLE. 

There  was  a good  deal  of  competition  in  the 
Commons  on  all  points  of  display,  and  it  turned 
out  some  very  choice  equipages  then  ; though  1 
always  have  considered,  and  always  shall  con- 
sider, that  in  my  time  the  great  article  of  com- 
petition there  was  starch  : which  I think  was 
worn  among  the  proctors  to  as  great  an  extent 
as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  man  to  bear. 

David  Copperjield,  Chap.  26. 

STARS— Their  alphabet  yet  unknown. 

But  Mr.  Grewgious  seeing  nothing  there,  his 
gaze  wandered  from  the  windows  to  the  stars, 
as  if  he  wrould  have  read  in  them  something  that 
was  hidden  from  him.  Many  of  us  would  if  we 
could  ; but  none  of  us  so  much  as  know  our 
letters  in  the  stars  yet — or  seem  likely  to  do  it 
in  this  state  of  existence — and  few  languages 
can  be  read  until  their  alphabets  are  mastered. 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  17. 

STARS— The  eyes  of  angels. 

“ Hush  !”  said  Barnaby,  laying  his  fingers  on 
his  lips.  “ He  went  out  to-day  a-wooing.  I 
wouldn’t  for  a light  guinea  that  he  should  never 
go  a-wooing  again,  for,  if  he  did,  some  eyes 
would  grow  dim  that  are  now  as  bright  as — see, 
when  I talk  of  eyes,  the  stars  come  out ! Whose 
eyes  are  they?  If  they  are  angels’  eyes,  why  do 
they  look  down  here,  and  see  good  men  hurt, 
and  only  wink  and  sparkle  all  the  night?” 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  3. 

STEAMBOAT— An  American. 

She  was  a large  vessel  of  five  hundred  tons, 
and  handsomely  fitted  up,  though  with  high- 
pressure  engines  ; which  always  conveyed  that 
kind  of  feeling  to  me  which  I should  be  likely 
to  experience,  I think,  if  I had  lodgings  on  the 
first  floor  of  a powder-mill. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  14. 

STEAMBOAT  -Night  scenes  on  the  Poto- 
mac. 

I go  on  board,  open  the  door  of  the  gentle- 
men’s cabin,  and  walk  in.  Somehow  or  other 
— from  its  beii\g  so  quiet,  I suppose — I have 
taken  it  into  my  head  that  there  is  nobody 
there.  To  my  horror  and  amazement,  it  is  full 
of  sleepers  in  every  stage,  shape,  attitude,  and 
variety  of  slumber — in  the  berths,  on  the  chairs, 
on  the  floors,  on  the  tables,  and  particularly 
round  the  stove,  my  detested  enemy.  I take 
another  step  forward,  and  slip  upon  the  shining 
face  of  a black  steward,  who  lies  rolled  up  in  a 
blanket  on  the  floor.  He  jumps  up,  grins,  half 
in  pain,  half  in  hospitality  ; whispers  my  own 
name  in  my  ear  ; and,  groping  among  the  sleep- 
ers, leads  me  to  my  berth.  Standing  beside  it, 
I count  these  slumbering  passengers,  and  get 
past  forty,  '['here  is  no  use  in  going  farther, 
so  I begin  to  undress.  As  the  chairs  are  all  oc- 
cupied, and  there  is  nothing  else  to  put  my 
clothes  on,  I deposit  them  upon  the  ground  ; not 
without  soiling  my  hands,  for  it  is  in  the  same 
condition  as  the  carpets  in  the  Capitol,  and  from 
the  same  cause.  Having  but  partially  undress- 
ed, I clamber  on  my  shelf,  and  hold  the  curtain 


STEAMBOATS 


454 


STEAMER 


open  for  a few  minutes  while  I look  round  on 
all  my  fellow-travellers  again.  That  clone,  I 
let  it  fall  on  them,  and  on  the  world,  and  turn 
round,  and  go  to  sleep. 

I wake,  of  course,  when  we  get  underway,  for 
there  is  a good  deal  of  noise.  The  day  is  then 
just  breaking.  Everybody  wakes  at  the 
same  time.  Some  are  self-possessed  directly, 
and  some  are  much  perplexed  to  make  out 
where  they  are,  until  they  have  rubbed  their  eyes, 
and,  leaning  on  one  elbow,  looked  about  them. 
Some  yawn,  some  groan,  nearly  all  spit,  and  a 
few  get  up.  I am  among  the  risers,  for  it  is 
easy  to  feel,  without  going  into  the  fresh  air, 
that  the  atmosphere  of  the  cabin  is  vile  in  the 
last  degree.  I huddle  on  my  clothes,  go  down 
into  the  fore-cabin,  get  shaved  by  the  barber, 
and  wash  myself.  The  washing  and  dressing 
apparatus  for  the  passengers  generally  consists 
of  two  jack-towels,  three  small  wooden  basins, 
a keg  of  water,  and  a ladle  to  serve  it  out  with, 
six  square  inches  of  looking-glass,  two  ditto 
ditto  of  yellow  soap,  a comb  and  brush  for  the 
head,  and  nothing  for  the  teeth.  Everybody 
uses  the  comb  and  brush  except  myself.  Every- 
body stares  to  see  me  using  my  own  ; and  two 
or  three  gentlemen  are  strongly  disposed  to  ban- 
ter me  on  my  prejudices,  but  don’t.  When  I 
have  made  my  toilet,  I go  upon,  the  hurricane- 
deck,  and  set  in  for  two  hours  of  hard  walking 
up  and  down.  The  sun  is  rising  brilliantly  ; we 
are  passing  Mount  Vernon,  where  Washington 
lies  buried  ; the  river  is  wide  and  rapid,  and  its 
banks  are  beautiful.  All  the  glory  and  splendor 
of  the  day  are  coming  on,  and  growing  brighter 
every  minute. — American  Notes , Chap.  9. 

STEAMBOATS— In  the  harbor. 

There  they  lay,  alongside  of  each  other  ; hard 
and  fast  forever,  to  all  appearance,  but  design- 
ing to  get  out  somehow,  and  quite  confident  of 
doing  it  ; and  in  that  faith  shoals  of  passengers, 
and  heaps  of  luggage,  were  proceeding  hurriedly 
on  board.  Little  steamboats  dashed  up  and 
down  the  stream  incessantly.  Tiers  upon  tiers 
of  vessels,  scores  of  masts,  labyrinths  of  tackle, 
idle  sails,  splashing  oars,  gliding  row-boats,  lum- 
bering barges,  sunken  piles,  with  ugly  lodgings 
for  the  water-rat  within  their  mucl-discolored 
nooks  ; church  steeples,  warehouses,  house-roofs, 
arches,  bridges,  men  and  women,  children,  casks, 
cranes,  boxes,  horses,  coaches,  idlers,  and  hard- 
laborers  ; there  they  were,  all  jumbled  up  to- 
gether, any  summer  morning,  far  beyond  Tom’s 
power  of  separation. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  turmoil,  there  was  an 
incessant  roar  from  every  packet’s  funnel,  which 
quite  expressed  and  carried  out  the  uppermost 
emotion  of  the  scene.  They  all  appeared  to  be 
perspiring  and  bothering  themselves,  exactly  as 
their  passengers  did  ; they  never  left  off  fretting 
and  chafing,  in  their  own  hoarse  manner,  once  ; 
but  were  always  panting  out,  without  any  stops, 
“ Come  along  do  make  haste  I’m  very  nervous 
come  along  oh  good  gracious  we  shall  never  get 
there  how  late  you  are  do  make  haste  I’m  off 
directly  come  along!”  Even  when  they  had 
left  off,  and  had  got  safely  out  into  the  current, 
on  the  smallest  provocation  they  began  again  : 
for  the  bravest  packet  of  them  all,  being  stopped 
by  some  entanglement  in  the  river,  would  im- 
mediately begin  to  fume  and  pant  afresh,  “Oh 
here’s  a stoppage  what’s  the  matter  do  go  on 


there  I’m  in  a hurry  it’s  done  on  purpose  did 
you  ever  0I1  my  goodness  do  go  on  there  !”  and 
so,  in  a stale  of  mind  bordering  on  distraction, 
would  be  last  seen  drifting  slowly  through  the 
mist  into  the  summer  light  beyond,  that  made 
it  red. — Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  40. 

STEAMER— Crossing-  the  Channel. 

A stout  wooden  wedge,  driven  in  at  my  right 
temple  and  out  at  my  left,  a floating  deposit  of 
lukewarm  oil  in  my  throat,  and  a compression 
of  the  bridge  of  my  nose  in  a blunt  pair  of  pin- 
cers,— these  are  the  personal  sensations  by  which 
I know  we  are  off,  and  by  which  I shall  con- 
tinue to  know  it  until  I am  on  the  soil  of  France. 
My  symptoms  have  scarcely  established  them- 
selves comfortably,  when  two  or  three  skating 
shadows  that  have  been  trying  to  walk  or  stand 
get  flung  together,  and  other  two  or  three  shad- 
ows in  tarpaulin  slide  with  them  into  corners 
and  cover  them  up.  Then  the  South  Foreland 
lights  begin  to  hiccup  at  us  in  a way  that  bodes 
no  good. 

It  is  at  about  this  period  that  my  detestation 
of  Calais  knows  no  bounds.  Inwardly  I resolve 
afresh  that  I never  will  forgive  that  hated  town. 
I have  done  so  before,  many  times  ; but  that  is 
past.  Let  me  register  a vow.  Implacable  ani- 
mosity to  Calais  everm — that  was  an  awkward 
sea  ; and  the  funnel  seems  of  my  opinion,  for  it 
gives  a complaining  roar. 

The  wind  blows  stiffly  from  the  Nor’-east,  the 
sea  runs  high,  we  ship  a deal  of  water,  the  night 
is  dark  and  cold,  ancl  the  shapeless  passengers 
lie  about  in  melancholy  bundles,  as  if  they  were 
sorted  out  for  the  laundress  ; but  for  my  own 
uncommercial  part  I cannot  pretend  that  I am 
much  inconvenienced  by  any  of  these  things. 
A general  howling,  whistling,  flopping,  gurgling, 
and  scooping,  I am  aware  of,  and  a general 
knocking  about  of  nature  ; but  the  impressions 
I receive  are  very  vague.  In  a sweet,  faint 
temper,  something  like  the  smell  of  damaged 
oranges,  I think  I should  feel  languidly  benevo- 
lent if  I had  time.  I have  not  time,  because  I 
am  under  a curious  compulsion  to  occupy  my- 
self with  the  Irish  Melodies.  “ Rich  and  rare 
were  the  gems  she  wore,”  is  the  particular  melo- 
dy to  which  I find  myself  devoted.  I sing  it  to 
myself  in  the  most  charming  manner  and  with 
the  greatest  expression.  Nov/  and  then  I raise 
my  head  (I  am  sitting  on  the  hardest  of  wet 
seats,  in  the  most  uncomfortable  of  wet  atti- 
tudes, but  I don’t  mind  it),  and  notice  that  I 
am  a whirling  shuttlecock  between  a fiery  bat- 
tledore of  a light-house  on  the  French  coast  and 
a fiery  battledore  of  a light-house  on  the  Eng- 
lish coast ; but  I don’t  notice  it  particularly, 
except  to  feel  envenomed  in  my  hatred  of  Ca- 
lais. Then  I go  on  again,  “ Rich  and  rare  were 
the  ge-ems  she-e-e-e  wore,  And  a bright  gold 
ring  on  her  wa-and  she  bo-ore,  But  O her  beauty 
was  fa-a-a-a-r  beyond,” — I am  particularly  proud 
of  my  execution  here,  when  I become  aware  of 
another  awkward  shock  from  the  sea. 

* * * * * 

So  strangely  goes  the  time,  and  on  the  whole, 
so  quickly — though  still  I seem  to  have  been  on 
board  a week — that  I am  bumped,  rolled,  gurg- 
led, washed,  and  pitched  into  Calais  Harbor  be- 
fore her  maiden  smile  has  finally  lighted  her 
through  the  Green  Isle.  When  blest  forever  is 
she  who  relied,  On  entering  Calais  at  the  top  of 


STEAM-ENGINE 


455 


STORM 


the  tide.  For  we  have  not  to  land  to-night 
down  among  those  slimy  timbers — covered  with 
green  hair,  as  if  it  were  the  mermaids’  favored 
combing-place — where  one  crawls  to  the  surface 
of  the  jetty,  like  a stranded  shrimp  ; but  we  go 
steaming  up  the  harbor  to  the  Railway  Station 
Quay.  And,  as  we  go,  the  sea  washes  in  and 
out  among  piles  and  planks,  with  dead  heavy 
beats  and  in  quite  a furious  manner  (whereof  we 
are  proud) ; and  the  lamps  shake  in  the  wind, 
and  the  bells  of  Calais  striking  One  seem  to 
send  their  vibrations  struggling  against  troubled 
air,  as  we  have  come  struggling  against  troubled 
water.  And  now,  in  the  sudden  relief  and  wip- 
ing of  faces,  everybody  on  board  seems  to  have 
had  a prodigious  double-tooth  out,  and  to  be  this 
very  instant  free  of  the  dentist’s  hands.  And 
now  we  all  know  for  the  first  time  how  wet  and 
cold  we  are,  and  how  salt  we  are  ; and  now  I 
love  Calais  with  my  heart  of  hearts  ! 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  17. 

STEAM-ENGINE  -A  thinking-. 

“ What  a thinking  steam-in gein  this  old  lady 
is.  And  she  don’t  know  how  she  does  it. 
Neither  does  the  ingein  ! ” 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  /.,  Chap.  9. 

STOCKS  AND  BONDS— The  result  of  shares. 

The  mature  young  gentleman  is  a gentleman 
of  property.  He  invests  his  property.  He  goes 
in  a condescending  amateurish  way  into  the 
City,  attends  meetings  of  Directors,  and  has  to 
do  with  traffic  in  Shares.  As  is  well  known  to 
the  wise  in  their  generation,  ti’affic  in  Shares  is 
the  one  thing  to  have  to  do  with  in  this  world. 
Have  no  antecedents,  no  established  character, 
no  cultivation,  no  ideas,  no  manners  ; have 
Shares.  Have  Shares  enough  to  be  on  Boards 
of  Direction  in  capital  letters,  oscillate  on  mys- 
terious business  between  London  and  Paris, 
and  be  great.  Where  does  he  come  from  ? 
Shares.  Where  is  he  going  to  ? Shares.  What 
are  his  tastes  ? Shares.  Has  he  any  principles  ? 
Shares.  What  squeezes  him  into  Parliament  ? 
Shares.  Perhaps  he  never  of  himself  achieved 
success  in  anything,  never  originated  anything, 
never  produced  anything.  Sufficient  answer 
to  all  ; Share's.  O mighty  Shares  ! To  set 
those  blaring  images  so  high,  and  to  cause  us 
smaller  vermin,  as  under  the  influence  of  hen- 
bane or  opium,  to  cry  out,  night  and  day,  “Re- 
lieve us  of  our  money,  scatter  it  for  us,  buy  us 
and  sell  us,  ruin  us,  only,  we  beseech  ye,  take 
rank  among  the  powers  of  the  earth,  and  fatten 
on  us  ! ” — Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  I.,  Chap.  10. 

STORM— Approach,  of  a. 

It  had  been  gradually  getting  overcast,  and 
now  the  sky  was  dark  and  lowering,  save  where 
the  glory  of  the  departing  sun  piled  up  masses 
of  gold  and  burning  fire,  decaying  embers  of 
which  gleamed  here  and  there  through  the  black 
veil,  and  shone  redly  down  upon  the  earth.  The 
wind  began  to  moan  in  hollow  murmurs,  as  the 
sun  went  down,  carrying  glad  clay  elsewhere  ; 
and  a train  of  dull  clouds  coming  up  against  it, 
menaced  thunder  and  lightning.  Large  drops 
of  rain  soon  began  to  fall,  and,  as  the  storm- 
clouds  came  sailing  onward,  others  supplied  the 
void  they  left  behind  and  spread  over  all  the 
sky.  Then  was  heard  the  low  rumbling  of  dis- 
tant thunder,  then  the  lightning  quivered,  and 


then  the  darkness  of  an  hour  seemed  to  have 
gathered  in  an  instant. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  29. 

STORM. 

The  squall  had  come  up,  like  a spiteful  mes- 
senger, before  the  morning  ; there  followed  in 
its  wake  a ragged  tier  of  light  which  ripped  the 
dark  clouds  until  they  showed  a great  gray  hole 
of  day. — Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  /.,  Chap.  14. 

It  was  a murky  confusion — here  and  there  blot- 
ted with  a color  like  the  color  of  the  smoke  from 
damp  fuel — of  flying  clouds  tossed  up  into  most 
remarkable  heaps,  suggesting  greater  heights  in 
the  clouds  than  there  were  depths  below  them 
to  the  bottom  of  the  deepest  hollows  in  the 
earth,  through  which  the  wild  moon  seemed  to 
plunge  headlong,  as  if,  in  a dread  disturbance 
of  the  laws  of  nature,  she  had  lost  her  way  and 
were  frightened.  There  had  been  a wind  all 
day  ; and  it  was  rising  then,  with  an  extraordi- 
nary great  sound.  In  another  hour  it  had  much 
increased,  and  the  sky  was  more  overcast,  and 
blew  hard. 

But,  as  the  night  advanced,  the  clouds  closing 
in  and  densely  overspreading  the  whole  sky, 
then  very  dark,  it  came  on  to  blow,  harder  and 
harder.  It  still  increased,  until  our  horses 
could  scarcely  face  the  wind.  Many  times,  in 
the  dark  part  of  the  night  (it  was  then  late  in 
September,  when  the  nights  were  not  short),  the 
leaders  turned  about,  or  came  to  a dead  stop  ; 
and  we  were  often  in  serious  apprehension  that 
the  coach  would  be  blown  over.  Sweeping 
gusts  of  rain  came  up  before  this  storm,  like 
showers  of  steel  ; and,  at  those  times,  when 
there  was  any  shelter  of  trees  or  lee  walls  to  be 
got,  we  were  fain  to  stop,  in  a sheer  inpossibil- 
ity of  continuing  the  struggle. 

As  we  struggled  on,  nearer  and  hearer  to  the 
sea,  from  which  this. mighty  wind  was  blowing 
dead  on  shore,  its  force  became  more  and  more 
terrific.  Long  befoi'e  we  saw  the  sea,  its  spray 
was  on  our  lips,  and  showered  salt  rain  upon  us. 
The  water  was  out,  over  miles  and  miles  of  the 
flat  country  adjacent  to  Yarmouth  ; and  every 
sheet  and  puddle  lashed  its  banks,  and  had  its 
stress  of  little  breakers  setting  heavily  toward 
us.  When  we  came  within  sight  of  the  sea,  the 
waves  on  the  horizon,  caught  at  intervals  above 
the  rolling  abyss,  were  like  glimpses  of  another 
shore,  with  towers  and  buildings.  When  at  last 
we  got  into  the  town,  the  people  came  out  to 
their  doors,  all  aslant,  and  with  streaming  hair, 
making  a wonder  of  the  mail  that  had  come 
through  such  a night. 

David  Copper  field.  Chap.  55. 

STORM— At  nig-ht. 

The  blast  went  by,  and  the  moon  contended! 
with  the  fast-flying  clouds,  and  the  wild  disorder 
reigning  up  there  made  the  pitiful  little  tumults 
in  the  streets  of  no  account.  It  was  not  that 
the  wind  swept  all  the  brawlers  into  places  of 
shelter,  as  it  had  swept  the  hail  still  lingering  in 
heaps  wherever  there  was  refuge  for  it  ; but  that 
it  seemed  as  if  the  streets  were  absorbed  by  the 
sky,  and  the  night  were  all  in  the  air. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  /.,  Chap.  12. 

It  was  one  of  those  hot,  silent  nights,  when 
people  sit  at  windows,  listening  for  the  thunder 


STORM 


450 


STORM 


which  they  know  will  shortly  break  ; when  they 
recall  dismal  tales  of  hurricanes  and  earthquakes  ; 
and  of  lonely  travellers  on  open  plains,  and 
lonely  ships  at  sea,  struck  by  lightning.  Light- 
ning flashed  and  quivered  on  the  black  horizon 
even  now  ; and  hollow  murmurings  were  in  the 
wind,  as  though  it  had  been  blowing  where  the 
thunder  rolled,  and  still  was  charged  with  its 
exhausted  echoes.  But  the  storm,  though  gather- 
ing swiftly,  had  not  yet  come  up  ; and  the  pre- 
vailing stillness  was  the  more  solemn,  from  the 
dull  intelligence  that  seemed  to  hover  in  the  air, 
of  noise  and  conflict  afar  off. 

It  was  very  dark  ; but  in  the  murky  sky 
there  were  masses  of  cloud  which  shone  with  a 
lurid  light,  like  monstrous  heaps  of  copper  that 
had  been  heated  in  a furnace,  and  were  grow- 
ing cold. 

* * * * # 

Louder  and  louder  the  deep  thunder  rolled, 
as  through  the  myriad  halls  of  some  vast  temple 
in  the  sky  ; fiercer  and  brighter  became  the 
lightning ; more  and  more  heavily  the  rain 
poured  down. 

The  eye,  partaking  of  the  quickness  of  the 
flashing  light,  saw  in  its  every  gleam  a multitude 
of  objects  which  it  could  not  see  at  steady  noon 
in  fifty  times  that  period.  Bells  in  steeples,  with 
the  rope  and  wheel  that  moved  them  ; ragged 
nests  of  birds  in  cornices  and  nooks  ; faces  full 
of  consternation  in  the  tilted  wagons  that 
came  tearing  past ; their  frightened  teams  ring- 
ing out  a warning  which  the  thunder  drowned  ; 
harrows  and  plows  left  out  in  fields  ; miles  upon 
miles  of  hedge- divided  country,  with  the  distant 
fringe  of  trees  as  obvious  as  the  scarecrow  in 
the  bean-field  close  at  hand  ; in  a trembling, 
vivid,  flickering  instant,  everything  was  clear 
and  plain  : then  came  a flush  of  red  into  the 
yellow  light  ; a change  to  blue  ; a brightness  so 
intense  that  there  was  nothing  else  but  light ; 
and  then  the  deepest  and  profoundest  darkness. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  42. 

It  was  a melancholy  time,  even  in  the  snug- 
ness of  the  Dragon  bar.  The  rich  expanse  of 
corn-field,  pasture-land,  green  slope,  and  gentle 
undulation,  with  its  sparkling  brooks,  its  many 
hedgerows,  and  its  clumps  of  beautiful  trees, 
was  black  and  dreary,  from  the  diamond  panes 
of  the  lattice  away  to  the  far  horizon,  where  the 
thunder  seemed  to  roll  along  the  hills.  The 
heavy  rain  beat  down  the  tender  branches  of 
vine  and  jessamine,  and  trampled  on  them  in  its 
fury  ; and  when  the  lightning  gleamed,  it  showed 
the  tearful  leaves  shivering  and  cowering  to- 
gether at  the  window,  and  tapping  at  it  urgently, 
as  if  beseeching  to  be  sheltered  from  the  dismal 
night. — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  43. 

STORM. 

She  paced  the  staircase  gallery  outside,  looked 
out  of  window  on  the  night,  listened  to  the  wind 
blowing  and  the  rain  falling,  sat  down  and 
watched  the  faces  in  the  fire,  got  up  and 
watched  the  moon  flying  like  a storm-driven  ship 
through  the  sea  of  clouds. 

# # # # * 

Florence,  more  agitated,  paced  the  room,  and 
paced  the  gallery  outside  ; and  looked  out  at 
the  night,  blurred  and  wavy  with  the  rain-drops 
on  the  glass,  and  the  tears  in  her  own  eyes  ; and 
'looked  up  at  the  hurry  in  the  sky,  so  different 


from  the  repose  below,  and  yet  so  tranquil  and 
solitary. — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  47. 

The  weathercocks  on  spires  and  housetops 
were  mysterious  with  hints  of  stormy  wind,  and 
pointed,  like  so  many  ghostly  fingers,  out  to 
dangerous  seas,  where  fragments  of  great  wrecks 
were  drifting,  perhaps,  and  helpless  men  were 
rocked  upon  them  into  a sleep  as  deep  as  the 
unfathomable  waters. — Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  23. 

STORM -At  sea. 

A dark  and  dreary  night  ; people  nestling 
in  their  beds  or  circling  late  about  the  fire  ; 
Want,  colder  than  Charity,  shivering  at  the 
street  corners  ; church-towers  humming  with 
the  faint  vibration  of  their  own  tongues,  but 
newly  resting  from  the  ghostly  preachment, 
“One!”  The  earth  covered  with  a sable  pall 
as  for  the  burial  of  yesterday  ; the  clumps  of 
dark  trees,  its  giant  plumes  of  funeral  feathers, 
waving  sadly  to  and  fro:  all  hushed,  all  noise- 
less, and  in  deep  repose,  save  the  Swift  clouds 
that  skim  across  the  moon,  and  the  cautious 
wind,  as,  creeping  after  them  upon  the  ground, 
it  stops  to  listen,  and  goes  rustling  on,  and 
stops  again,  and  follows,  like  a savage  on  the  trail. 

Whither  go  the  clouds  and  wind  so  eagerly? 
If,  like  guilty  spirits,  they  repair  to  some  dread 
conference  with  powers  like  themselves,  in  what 
wild  regions  do  the  elements  hold  council,  or 
where  unbend  in  terrible  disport  ? 

Here  ! Free  from  that  cramped  prison  called 
the  earth,  and  out  upon  the  waste  of  waters. 
Here,  roaring,  raging,  shrieking,  howling,  all 
night  long,  blither  come  the  sounding  voices 
from  the  caverns  on  the  coast  of  that  small 
island,  sleeping,  a thousand  miles  away,  so  qui- 
etly in  the  midst  of  angry  waves  ; and  hither, 
to  meet  them,  rush  the  blasts  from  unknown 
desert  places  of  the  world.  Here,  in  the  fury 
of  their  unchecked  liberty,  they  storm  and 
buffet  with  each  other,  until  the  sea,  lashed  into 
passion  like  their  own,  leaps  up,  in  ravings  might- 
ier than  theirs,  and  the  whole  scene  is  madness. 

On,  on,  on,  over  the  countless  miles  of  angry 
space  roll  the  long  heaving  billows.  Moun- 
tains and  caves  are  here,  and  yet  are  not ; for 
what  is  now  the  one,  is  now  the  other  ; then,  all 
is  but  a boiling  heap  of  rushing  water.  Pursuit, 
and  flight,  and  mad  return  of  wave  on  wave, 
and  savage  struggle,  ending  in  a spouting-up 
of  foam,  that  whitens  the  black  night ; inces- 
sant change  of  place,  and  form,  and  hue  ; con- 
stancy in  nothing,  but  eternal  strife  ; on,  on, 
on,  they  roll,  and  darker  grows  the  night,  and 
louder  howls  the  wind,  and  more  clamorous  and 
fierce  become  the  million  voices  in  the  sea, 
when  the  wild  cry  goes  forth  upon  the  storm, 
“ A ship  ! ” 

Onward  she  comes,  in  gallant  combat  with 
the  elements,  her  tall  masts  trembling,  and  her 
timbers  starting  on  the  strain ; onward  she 
comes,  now  high  upon  the  curling  billows,  now 
low  down  in  the  hollows  of  the  sea,  as  hiding 
for  the  moment  from  its  fury  ; and  every  storm- 
voice  in  the  air  and  water  cries  more  loudly 
yet,  “ A ship  ! ” 

Still  she  comes  striving  on  ; and  at  her  bold- 
ness and  the  spreading  cry,  the  angry  waves 
rise  up  above  each  other’s  hoary  heads  to  look  ; 
and  round  about  the  vessel,  far  as  the  mariners 
on  the  decks  can  pierce  into  the  gloom  they 


STORM 


457 


STREETS 


press  upon  her,  forcing  each  other  down,  and 
starting  up,  and  rushing  forward  from  afar,  in 
dreadful  curiosity.  High  over  her  they  break  ; 
and  round  her  surge  and  roar  ; and,  giving  place 
to  others,  moaningly  depart,  and  dash  them- 
selves to  fragments  in  their  baffled  anger.  Still 
she  comes  onward  bravely.  And  though  the 
eager  multitude  crowd  thick  and  fast  upon  her 
all  the  night,  and  dawn  of  day  discovers  the  un- 
tiring train  yet  bearing  down  upon  the  ship  in 
an  eternity  of  troubled  water,  onward  she  comes, 
with  dim  lights  burning  in  her  hull,  and  people 
there,  asleep  ; as  if  no  deadly  element  were 
peering  in  at  every  seam  and  chink,  and  no 
drowned  seaman’s  grave,  with  but  a plank  to 
cover  it,  were  yawning  in  the  unfathomable 
depths  below. — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  15. 

STORM— Thunder. 

The  clouds  were  flying  fast,  the  wind  was 
coming  up  in  gusts,  banging  some  neighboring 
shutters  that  had  broken  loose,  twirling  the 
rusty  chimney-cowls  and  weathercocks,  and 
rushing  round  and  round  a confined  adjacent 
churchyard  as  if  it  had  a mind  to  blow  the  dead 
citizens  out  of  their  graves.  The  low  thunder, 
muttering  in  all  quarters  of  the  sky  at  once, 
seemed  to  threaten  vengeance  for  this  attempt- 
ed desecration,  and  to  mutter,  “ Let  them  rest ! 
Let  them  rest ! ” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  29. 

STORM— Its  influence  on  human  passions. 

There  are  times  when,  the  elements  being  in 
unusual  commotion,  those  who  are  bent  on  dar- 
ing enterprises,  or  agitated  by  great  thoughts, 
whether  of  good  or  evil,  feel  a mysterious 
sympathy  with  the  tumult  of  nature,  and  are 
roused  into  corresponding  violence.  In  the 
midst  of  thunder,  lightning,  and  storm,  many 
tremendous  deeds  have  been  committed  ; men, 
self-possessed  before,  have  given  a sudden  loose 
to  passions  they  could  no  longer  control.  The 
demons  of  wrath  and  despair  have  striven  to 
emulate  those  who  ride  the  whirlwind  and 
direct  the  storm  ; and  man,  lashed  into  madness 
with  the  roaring  winds  and  boiling  waters,  has 
become  for  the  time  as  wild  and  merciless  as 
the  elements  themselves. 

Barnaby  Budge , Chap.  2. 

STREET— A dull. 

It  is  a dull  street  under  the  best  conditions  ; 
where  the  two  long  rows  of  houses  stare  at  each 
other  with  that  severity,  that  half-a-dozen  of  its 
greatest  mansions  seem  to  have  been  slowly 
stared  into  stone,  rather  than  originally  built  in 
that  material.  It  is  a street  of  such  dismal 
grandeur,  so  detennined  not  to  condescend  to 
liveliness,  that  the  doors  and  windows  hold  a 
gloomy  state  of  their  own  in  black  paint  and 
dust,  and  the  echoing  mews  behind  have  a dry 
and  massive  appearance,  as  if  they  were  reserved 
to  stable  the  stone  chargers  of  noble  statues. 
Complicated  garnish  of  iron-work  entwines  it- 
self over  the  flights  of  steps  in  this  awful  street ; 
and  from  these  petrified  bowers,  extinguishers 
for  obsolete  flambeaux  gasp  at  the  upstart,  gas. 
Here  and  there  a weak  little  iron  hoop,  through 
which  bold  boys  aspire  to  throw  their  friends’ 
caps  (its  only  present  use),  retains  its  place 
among  the  rusty  foliage,  sacred  to  the  memory 
of  departed  oil.  Nay,  even  oil  itself,  yet  linger- 


ing at  long  intervals  in  a little  absurd  glass  pot, 
with  a knob  in  the  bottom  like  an  oyster,  blinks 
and  sulks  at  newer  lights  every  night,  like  its 
high  and  dry  master  in  the  House  of  Lords. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  48. 

STREET— A g-loomy. 

It  was  one  of  the  parasite  streets  ; long,  re- 
gular, narrow,  dull,  and  gloomy  ; like  a brick 
and  mortar  funeral.  They  inquired  at  several 
little  area  gates,  where  a dejected  youth  stood 
spiking  his  chin  on  the  summit  of  a precipitous 
little  shoot  of  wooden  steps,  but  could  gain  no 
information.  They  walked  up  the  street  on  one 
side  of  the  way,  and  down  it  on  the  other,  what 
time  two  vociferous  news-sellers,  announcing  an 
extraordinary  event  that  had  never  happened 
and  never  would  happen,  pitched  their  hoarse 
voices  into  the  secret  chambers  ; but  nothing 
came  of  it. — Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  27. 

STREET— A London. 

Mr,  Casby  lived  in  a street  in  the  Gray’s  Inn 
Road,  which  had  set  off  from  that  thoroughfare 
with  the  intention  of  running  at  one  heat  down 
into  the  valley,  and  up  again  to  the  top  of  Pen- 
tonville  Hill  ; but  which  had  run  itself  out  of 
breath  in  twenty  yards,  and  had  stood  still  ever 
since.  There  is  no  such  place  in  that  part  now  ; 
but  it  remained  there  for  many  years,  looking 
with  a balked  countenance  at  the  wilderness 
patched  with  unfruitful  gardens  and  pimpled 
with  eruptive  summer-houses,  that  it  had  meant 
to  run  over  in  no  time. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  13. 

STREETS— A repulsive  neighborhood. 

Near  to  that  part  of  the  Thames  on  which 
the  church  at  Rotherhithe  abuts,  where  the 
buildings  on  the  banks  are  dirtiest  and  the 
vessels  on  the  river  blackest  with  the  dust  of 
colliers  and  the  smoke  of  close-built  low-roofed 
houses,  there  exists,  at  the  present  day,  the  fil- 
thiest, the  strangest,  the  most  extraordinary  of 
many  localities  that  are  hidden  in  London, 
wholly  unknown,  even  by  name,  to  the  great  mass 
of  its  inhabitants. 

To  reach  this  place  the  visitor  has  to  penetrate 
through  a maze  of  close,  narrow,  and  muddy 
streets,  thronged  by  the  roughest  and  poorest  of 
water- side  people,  and  devoted  to  the  traffic 
they  may  be  supposed  to  occasion.  The  cheap- 
est and  least  delicate  provisions  are  heaped  in 
the  shops  ; the  coarsest  and  commonest  articles 
of  wearing  apparel  dangle  at  the  salesman’s 
door,  and  stream  from  the  house-parapet  and 
windows.  Jostling  with  unemployed  laborers 
of  the  lowest  class,  ballast-heavers,  coal-whip- 
pers,  brazen  women,  ragged  children,  and  the 
very  raff  and  refuse  of  the  river,  he  makes  his 
way  with  difficulty  along,  assailed  by  offensive 
sights  and  smells  from  the  narrow  alleys  which 
branch  off  on  the  right  and  left,  and  deafened 
by  the  clash  of  ponderous  wagons  that  bear  great 
piles  of  merchandise  from  the  stacks  of  ware- 
houses that  rise  from  every  corner.  Arriving,  at 
length,  in  streets  remoter  and  less-frequented 
than  those  through  which  he  has  passed,  he 
walks  beneath  tottering  house-fronts  projecting 
over  the  pavement,  dismantled  walls  that  seem 
to  totter  as  he  passes,  chimneys  half-crushed, 
half-hesitating  to  fall,  windows  guarded  by  rusty 
iron  bars  that  time  and  dirt  have  almost  eaten 


STREET 


458 


STREET  SCENES 


away,  and  every  imaginable  sign  of  desolation 
and  neglect. 

* * * * * 

Crazy  wooden  galleries,  common  to  the  backs 
of  half  a dozen  houses,  with  holes  from  which 
to  look  upon  the  slime  beneath  ; windows 
broken  and  patched  : with  poles  thrust  out,  on 
which  to  dry  the  linen  that  is  never  there ; 
rooms  so  small,  so  filthy,  so  confined,  that  the  air 
would  seem  too  tainted  even  for  the  dirt  and 
squalor  which  they  shelter ; wooden  chambers 
thrusting  themselves  out  above  the  mud,  and 
threatening  to  fall  into  it — as  some  have  done  ; 
dirt-besmeared  walls  and  decaying  foundations  ; 
every  repulsive  lineament  of  poverty,  every 
loathsome  indication  of  filth,  rot,  and  garbage  ; 
all  these  ornament  the  banks  of  Folly  Ditch. 

Oliver  Twist , Chap.  50. 

STREET  A quiet. 

There  is  a repose  about  Lant  Street,  in  the 
Borough,  which  sheds  a gentle  melancholy  upon 
the  soul.  There  are  always  a good  many  houses 
to  let  in  the  street : it  is  a bye-street  too,  and  its 
dullness  is  soothing.  A house  in  Lant  Street 
would  not  come  within  the  denomination  of  a 
first-rate  residence,  in  the  strict  acceptation  of 
the  term  ; but  it  is  a most  desirable  spot  never- 
theless. If  a man  wished  to  abstract  himself 
from  the  world — to  remove  himself  from  within 
the  reach  of  temptation — to  place  himself  be- 
yond the  possibility  of  any  inducement  to  look 
out  of  the  window — he  should  by  all  means  go 
to  Lant  Street. 

In  this  happy  retreat  are  colonized  a few 
clear-starchers,  a sprinkling  of  journeymen 
bookbinders,  one  or  two  prison  agents  for  the 
Insolvent  Court,  several  small  housekeepers  who 
are  employed  in  the  Docks,  a handful  of  mantua- 
malcers,  and  a seasoning  of  jobbing  tailors. 
The  majority  of  the  inhabitants  either  direct 
their  energies  to  the  letting  of  furnished  apart- 
ments, or  devote  themselves  to  the  healthful  and 
invigorating  pursuit  of  mangling.  The  chief 
features  in  the  still  life  of  the  street  are  green 
shutters,  lodging-bills,  brass  door-plates,  and  bell- 
handles  ; the  principal  specimens  of  animated 
nature,  the  pot-boy,  the  muffin  youth,  and  the 
baked-potato  man.  The  population  is  migra- 
tory, usually  disappearing  on  the  verge  of  quar- 
ter-day, and  generally  by  night.  His  Majesty’s 
revenues  are  seldom  collected  in  this  happy 
valley;  the  rents  are  dubious;  and  the  water 
communication  is  very  frequently  cut  off. 

Pickwick , Chap.  32. 

STREET— Crowd  and  mud. 

It  is  quite  dark,  now,  and  the  gas-lamps  have 
acquired  their  full  effect.  Jostling  against  clerks 
going  to  post  the  day’s  letters,  and  against  coun- 
sel and  attorneys  going  home  to  dinner,  and 
against  plaintiffs  and  defendants,  and  suitors  of 
all  sorts,  and  against  the  general  crowd,  in  whose 
way  I lie  forensic  wisdom  of  ages  has  interposed 
a million  of  obstacles  to  the  transaction  of  the 
commonest  business  of  life — diving  through  law 
and  equity,  and  through  that  kindred  mystery, 
the  street  mud,  which  is  made  of  nobody  knows 
what,  and  collects  about  us  nobody  knows 
whence  or  how  ; we  only  knowing  in  general 
that  when  there  is  too  much  of  it,  we  find  it 
necessary  to  shovel  it  away — tin;  lawyer  and  the 
law-stationer  come  to  a Rag  and  Bottle  shop, 


and  general  emporium  of  much  disregarded 
merchandise,  lying  and  being  in  the  shadow  of 
the  wall  of  Lincoln’s  Inn,  and  kept,  as  is  an- 
nounced in  paint,  to  all  whom  it  may  concern 
l»y  one  Krook. — Bleak  House , Chap.  10. 

STREETS  -In  London. 

They  rattled  on  through  the  noisy,  bustling, 
crowded  streets  of  London,  now  displaying  long 
double  rows  of  brightly-burning  lamps,  dotted 
here  and  there  with  the  chemists’  glaring  lights, 
and  illuminated  besides  with  the  brilliant  flood 
that  streamed  from  the  windows  of  the  shops, 
where  sparkling  jewelry,  silks  and  velvets  of 
the  richest  colors,  the  most  inviting  delicacies, 
and  most  sumptuous  articles  of  luxurious  orna- 
ment, succeeded  each  other  in  rich  and  glitter- 
ing profusion.  Streams  of  people  apparently 
without  end  poured  on  and  on,  jostling  each 
other  in  the  crowd  and  hurrying  forward,  scarce- 
ly seeming  to  notice  the  riches  that  surrounded 
them  on  every  side  ; while  vehicles  of  all  shapes 
and  makes,  mingled  up  together  in  one  moving 
mass  like  running  water,  lent  their  ceaseless 
roar  to  swell  the  noise  and  tumult. 

As  they  dashed  by  the  quickly-changing  and 
ever-varying  objects,  it  was  curious  to  observe  in 
what  a strange  procession  they  passed  before  the 
eye.  Emporiums  of  splendid  dresses,  the  mate- 
rials brought  from  every  quarter  of  the  world  ; 
tempting  stores  of  everything  to  stimulate  and 
pamper  the  sated  appetite  and  give  new  relish 
to  the  oft-repeated  feast ; vessels  of  burnished 
gold  and  silver,  wrought  into  every  exquisite 
form  of  vase,  and  dish,  and  goblet ; guns, 
swords,  pistols,  and  patent  engines  of  destruc- 
tion ; screws  and  irons  for  the  crooked,  clothes 
for  the  newly-born,  drugs  for  the  sick,  coffins  for 
the  dead,  church -yards  for  the  buried — all  these, 
jumbled  each  with  the  other  and  flocking  side 
by  side,  seemed  to  flit  by  in  motley  dance,  like 
the  fantastic  groups  of  the  old  Dutch  painter, 
and  with  the  same  stern  moral  for  the  unheed- 
ing, restless  crowd. 

Nor  were  there  wanting  objects  in  the  crowd 
itself  to  give  new  point  and  purpose  to  the 
shifting  scene.  The  rags  of  the  squalid  ballad- 
singer  fluttered  in  the  rich  light  that  showed  the 
goldsmith’s  treasures  ; pale  and  pinched-up  faces 
hovered  about  the  windows  where  was  tempting 
food  ; hungry  eyes  wandered  over  the  profusion 
guarded  by  one  thin  sheet  of  brittle  glass — an 
iron  wall  to  them  ; half-naked,  shivering  figures 
stopped  to  gaze  at  Chinese  shawls  and  golden 
stuffs  of  India.  There  was  a christening  party 
at  the  largest  coffin-maker’s,  and  a funeral  hatch- 
ment had  stopped  some  great  improvements  in 
the  bravest  mansion.  Life  and  death  went  hand 
in  hand  ; wealth  and  poverty  stood  side  by  side  ; 
repletion  and  starvation  laid  them  down  to- 
gether.— Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  32. 

STREET  SCENES  London. 

It  was  now  summer-time ; a gray,  hot,  dusty 
evening.  They  rode  (o  the  top  of  Oxford  Street, 
and  there  alighting,  dived  in  among  the  great 
streets  of  melancholy  stateliness,  and  the  little 
streets  that  try  to  be  as  stately  and  succeed  in  being 
more  melancholy,  of  which  there  is  a labyrinth 
near  Park  Lane.  Wildernesses  of  corner-houses, 
with  barbarous  old  porticoes  and  appurtenances  ; 
horrors  that  came  into  existence  under  some  wrong- 
headed  person,  in  some  wrong-headed  time 


STREET  SCENES 


459 


STREET  SCENE 3 


still  demanding  the  blind  admiration  of  all  en- 
suing generations,  and  determined  to  do  so 
until  they  tumbled  down,  frowned  upon  the 
twilight.  Parasite  little  tenements  with  the 
cramp  in  their  whole  frame,  from  the  dwarf 
hall-door  on  the  giant  model  of  His  Grace’s  in 
the  Square,  to  the  squeezed  window  of  the 
boudoir  commanding  the  dunghills  in  the 
Mews,  made  the  evening  doleful.  Rickety 
dwellings  of  undoubted  fashion,  but  of  a capacity 
to  hold  nothing  comfortably  except  a dismal 
smell,  looked  like  the  last  result  of  the  great 
mansions’  breeding  in  and-in  ; and,  where  their 
little  supplementary  bows  and  balconies  were 
supported  on  thin  iron  columns,  seemed  to 
be  scrofulously  resting  upon  crutches.  Here  and 
there  a Hatchment,  with  the  whole  science  of 
Heraldry  in  it,  loomed  down  upon  the  street, 
like  an  Archbishop  discoursing  on  Vanity.  The 
shops,  few  in  number,  made  no  show  ; for  pop- 
ular opinion  was  as  nothing  to  them.  The 
pastry-cook  knew  who  was  on  his  books,  and 
in  that  knowledge  could  be  calm,  with  a few 
glass  cylinders  of  dowager  peppermint-drops  in 
his  window,  and  half  a-dozen  ancient  speci- 
mens of  currant-jelly.  A few  oranges  formed 
the  greengrocer’s  whole  concession  to  the  vul- 
gar mind.  A single  basket  made  of  moss,  once 
containing  plovers’  eggs,  held  all  that  the 
poulterer  had  to  say  to  the  rabble.  Every- 
body in  those  streets  seemed  (which  is  always 
the  case  at  that  hour  and  season)  to  be  gone 
out  to  dinner,  and  nobody  seemed  to  be  giving 
the  dinners  they  had  gone  to.  On  the  dooi'- 
steps  there  wei*e  lounging,  footmen  with  bright 
parti-colored  plumage  and  white  polls,  like  an 
extinct  race  of  monsti'ous  birds  ; and  butlers, 
solitaiy  men  of  l'ecluse  demeanor,  each  of 
whom  appeared  distrustful  of  all  other  butlers. 
The  roll  of  carnages  in  the  Park  was  done  for 
the  day ; the  street  lamps  were  lighting  ; and 
wicked  little  gx-ooms  in  the  tightest  fitting  gax*- 
meixts,  with  twists  in  their  legs  answering  to 
the  twists  in  their  minds,  hung  about  in  pairs, 
chewing  straws  and  exchanging  fraudulent  se- 
ci’ets.  The  spotted  dogs  who  went  out  with 
the  carnages,  and  who  were  so  associated  with 
splendid  equipages,  that  it  looked  like  a conde- 
scension in  those  animals  to  come  out  without 
them,  accompanied  helpers  to  and  fi*o  on  mes- 
sages. Here  and  there  was  a retiring  public- 
house  which  did  not  require  to  be  supported 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  people,  and  where  gen- 
tlemen out  of  livery  were  not  much  wanted. 

Little  Dorr  it.  Book  /.,  Chap.  27. 

STREET  SCENES— In  London  (Morning1). 

The  shops  are  now  completely  opened,  and 
apprentices  and  shopmen  are  busily  engaged  in 
cleaning  and  decking  the  windows  for  the  day. 
The  bakers’  shops  in  town  are  filled  with  ser- 
vants and  children  waiting  for  the  drawing  of 
the  first  batch  of  rolls — an  operation  which  was 
performed  a full  hour  ago  in  the  suburbs  ; for 
the  eai*ly  clerk  population  of  Somers  and  Cam- 
den Towns,  Islington  and  Pentonville,  ai*e  fast 
pouidng  into  the  city,  or  directing  their  steps 
towai'ds  Chancery  Lane  and  the  Inns  of  Court. 
Middle-aged  men,  whose  salaries  have  by  no 
means  increased  in  the  same  proportion  as  their 
families,  plod  steadily  along,  apparently  with  no 
object  in  view  but  the  counting-house  ; knowing 
by  sight  almost  everybody  they  meet  or  over- 


take, for  they  have  seen  them  eveiy  morning 
(Sundays  excepted)  during  the  last  twenty  years^ 
but  speaking  to  no  one.  If  they  do  happen  to 
overtake  a personal  acquaintance,  they  just  ex- 
change a huiried  salutation,  and  keep  walking 
on  either  by  his  side,  or  in  front  of  him,  as  his 
rate  of  walking  may  chance  to  be.  As  to  stop- 
ping to  shake  hands,  or  to  take  the  friend’s  ai'm, 
they  seem  to  think  that  as  it  is  not  included  in 
their  salary,  they  have  no  right  to  do  it.  Small 
office  lads  in  large  hats,  who  are  made  men  be- 
fore they  are  boys,  hurry  along  in  pairs,  with 
their  first  coat  carefully  bnxshed,  and  the  white 
trousers  of  last  Sunday  plentifully  besmeai'ed 
with  dust  and  ink.  It  evidently  requires  a con- 
siderable mental  straggle  to  avoid  investing  a 
part  of  the  day’s  dinner-money  in  the  purchase 
of  the  stale  tarts  so  temptingly  exposed  in  dusty 
tins  at  the  pastry-cook’s  doors  ; but  a conscious- 
ness of  their  own  importance  and  the  i*eceipt  of 
seven  shillings  a-week,  with  the  prospect  of  an 
early  rise  to  eight,  comes  to  their  aid,  and  they 
accordingly  put  their  hats  a little  more  on  one 
side,  and  look  under  the  bonnets  of  all  the  mil- 
liners’ and  staymakers’*apprentices  they  meet — 
poor  girls  ! — the  hardest  worked,  the  worst  paid, 
and  too  often  the  worst  used  class  of  the  com- 
munity.— Sketches  ( Scenes ),  Chap.  1. 

STREET  SCENES — In  London  (“The  Di- 
als ”). 

It  is  odd  enough  that  one  class  of  men  in 
Lond’on  appear  to  have  no  enjoyment  beyond 
leaning  against  posts.  We  never  saw  a regular 
bricklayer’s  laborer  take  any  other  recreation, 
fighting  excepted.  Pass  through  St.  Giles’s  in 
the  evening  of  a week-day,  there  they  are  in 
their  fustian  di*esses,  spotted  with  brick-dust 
and  whitewash,  leaning  against  posts.  Walk 
thx-ough  Seven  Dials  on  .Sunday  morning  : there 
they  are  again,  drab  or  light  cordui-oy  trousers, 
Blucher  boots,  blue  coats,  and  great  yellow 
waistcoats,  leaning  against  posts.  The  idea  of 
a man  dressing  himself  in  his  best  clothes,  to 
lean  against  a post  all  day  ! 

The  peculiar  character  of  these  streets,  and 
the  close  resemblance  each  one  beai's  to  its 
neighbor,  by  no  means  tends  to  decrease  the 
bewilderment  in  which  the  unexpeidenced  way- 
farer through  “The  Dials”  finds  himself  in- 
volved. He  traverses  streets  of  dirty,  strag- 
gling houses,  with  ixow  and  then  an  unexpected 
court  composed  of  buildings  as  ill-proportioned 
and  deformed  as  the  half-naked  children  that 
wallow  in  the  kennels.  Hei'e  and  there,  a little 
dark  chandler’s  shop,  with  a cracked  bell  hung 
up  behind  the  door  to  announce  the  entrance 
of  a customer,  or  betray  the  piresence  of  some 
young  gentleman  in  whom  a passion  for  shop 
tills  has  developed  itself  at  an  early  age  ; others, 
as  if  for  support,  against  some  handsome  lofty 
building,  which  usurps  the  place  of  a low,  din- 
gy public-house  ; long  rows  of  broken  and 
patched  windows  expose  plants  that  may  have 
flourished  when  “ The  Dials  ” were  built,  in  ves- 
sels as  dirty  as  “The  Dials  ” themselves  ; and 
shops  for  the  purchase  of  rags,  bones,  old  Lon, 
and  kitchen-stuff,  vie  in  cleanliness  with  the 
bird-fanciers  and  rabbit-dealei*s,  which  one 
might  fancy  so  many  arks,  but  for  the  iri'esisti- 
ble  conviction  that  no  bird  in  its  proper  senses, 
who  was  pennitted  to  leave  one  of  them,  would 
ever  come  back  again.  Brokers’  shops,  which 


STREET-SINGER 


460 


SWIVELLER 


would  seem  to  have  been  established  by  humane 
individuals  as  refuges  for  destitute  bugs,  inter- 
spersed with  announcements  of  day-schools, 
penny  theatres,  petition-writers,  mangles,  and 
music  for  balls  or  routs,  complete  the  “ still 
life  ” of  the  subject  ; and  dirty  men,  filthy 
women,  squalid  children,  fluttering  shuttlecocks, 
noisy  battledores,  reeking  pipes,  bad  fruit,  more 
than  doubtful  oysters,  attenuated  cats,  depressed 
dogs,  and  anatomical  fowls,  are  its  cheerful  ac- 
companiments. 

***** 

Now,  anybody  who  passed  through  The  Dials 
on  a hot  summer’s  evening,  and  saw  the  differ- 
ent women  of  the  house  gossiping  on  the  steps, 
would  be  apt  to  think  that  all  was  harmony 
among  them,  and  that  a more  primitive  set  of 
people  than  the  native  Diallers  could  not  be 
imagined.  Alas  ! the  man  in  the  shop  ill-treats 
his  family  ; the  carpet-beater  extends  his  pro- 
fessional pursuits  to  his  wife  ; the  one-pair  front 
has  an  undying  feud  with  the  two-pair  front, 
in  consequence  of  the  two-pair  front  persisting 
in  dancing  over  his  (the  one-pair  front’s)  head, 
when  he  and  his  family  have  retired  for  the 
night ; the  two-pair  back  will  interfere  with  the 
front  kitchen’s  children  ; the  Irishman  comes 
home  drunk  every  other  night,  and  attacks  every- 
body ; and  the  one-pair  back  screams  at  every- 
thing. Animosities  spring  up  between  floor 
and  floor  ; the  very  cellar  asserts  his  equality. 
Mrs.  A.  “ smacks  ” Mrs.  B.’s  child,  for  “ making 
faces.”  Mrs.  B.  forthwith  throws  cold  water 
over  Mrs.  A. ’s.  child,  for  “ calling  names,”  The 
husbands  are  embroiled — the  quarrel  becomes 
general — an  assault  is  the  consequence,  and  a po- 
lice-officer the  result. — Sketches  ( Scenes ),  Chap.  5. 

STREET-SINGER-The. 

That  wretched  woman  with  the  infant  in  her 
arms,  round  whose  meagre  form  the  remnant  of 
her  own  scanty  shawl  is  carefully  wrapped,  has 
been  attempting  to  sing  some  popular  ballad, 
in  the  hope  of  wringing  a few  pence  from  the 
compassionate  passer-by.  A brutal  laugh  at  her 
weak  voice  is  all  she  has  gained.  The  tears  fall 
thick  and  fast  down  her  own  pale  face  ; the 
child  is  cold  and  hungry,  and  its  low,  half- 
stifled  wailing  adds  to  the  misery  of  its  wretched 
mother,  as  she  moans  aloud,  and  sinks  despair- 
ingly down,  on  a cold,  damp  door-step. 

Sin'ging  ! How  few  of  those  who  pass  such  a 
miserable  creature  as  this,  think  of  the  anguish  of 
heart,  the  sinking  of  soul  and  spirit,  which  the 
very  effort  of  singing  produces.  Bitter  mock- 
ery ! Disease,  neglect,  and  starvation,  faintly 
articulating  the  words  of  the  joyous  ditty  that 
has  enlivened  your  hours  of  feasting  and  merri- 
ment— God  knows  how  often  ! It  is  no  subject 
of  jeering.  The  weak,  tremulous  voice  tells  a 
fearful  tale  of  want  and  famishing ; and  the 
feeble  singer  of  this  roaring  song  may  turn  away, 
only  to  die  of  cold  and  hunger. 

Sketches  ( Scenes J,  Chap.  2. 

SWIVELLER— Dick,  and  Sally  Brass. 

Dick  stood  at  the  desk  in  a state  of  utter  stu- 
pefaction, staring  with  all  his  might  at  the  beau- 
teous Sally,  as  if  she  had  been  some  curious 
animal  whose  like  had  never  lived. 

Miss  Brass  being  by  this  time  deep  in  the 
bill  of  costs,  took  no  notice  whatever  of  Dick, 
but  went  scratching  on  with  a noisy  pen,  scor- 


ing down  the  figures  with  evident  delight,  and 
working  like  a steam-engine.  There  stood 
Dick,  gazing,  now  at  the  green  gown,  now  at  the 
brown  head-dress,  now  at  the  face,  and  now  at 
the  rapid  pen,  in  a state  of  stupid  perplexity, 
wondering  how  he  got  into  the  company  of  that 
strange  monster,  and  whether  it  was  a dream, 
and  he  would  ever  wake.  At  last  he  heaved  a 
deep  sigh,  and  began  slowly  pulling  off  his  coat. 

Mr.  Swiveller  pulled  off  his  coat,  and  folded 
it  up  with  great  elaboration,  staring  at  Miss 
Sally  all  the  time  ; then  put  on  a blue  jacket, 
with  a double  row  of  gilt  buttons,  which  he  had 
originally  ordered  for  aquatic  expeditions,  but 
had  brought  with  him  that  morning  for  office 
purposes  ; and,  still  keeping  his  eye  upon  her, 
suffered  himself  to  drop  down  silently  on  Mr. 
Brass’s  stool.  Then  he  underwent  a relapse, 
and  becoming  powerless  again,  rested  his  chin 
upon  his  hand,  and  opened  his  eyes  so  wide  that 
it  appeared  quite  out  of  the  question  that  he 
could  ever  close  them  any  more. 

When  he  had  looked  so  long  that  he  could  see 
nothing,  Dick  took  his  eyes  off  the  fair  object 
of  his  amazement,  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the 
draft  he  was  to  copy,  dipped  his  pen  into  the 
ink-stand,  and  at  last,  and  by  slow  approaches, 
began  to  write.  But  he  ha(^not  written  half-a- 
dozen  words  when,  reaching  over  to  the  ink- 
stand  to  take  a fresh  dip,  he  happened  to  raise 
his  eyes.  There  was  the  intolerable  brown 
head-dress — there  was  the  green  gown — there, 
in  short,  was  Miss  Sally  Brass,  arrayed  in  all  her 
charms,  and  more  tremendous  than  ever. 

This  happened  so  often,  that  Mr.  Swiveller 
by  degrees  began  to  feel  strange  influences  creep- 
ing over  him — horrible  desires  to  annihilate  this 
Sally  Brass — mysterious  promptings  to  knock 
her  head-dress  off  and  try  how  she  looked  with- 
out it.  There  was  a very  large  ruler  on  the 
table  ; a large,  black,  shining  ruler.  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller took  it  up  and  began  to  rub  his  nose  with  it. 

From  rubbing  his  nose  with  the  ruler,  to 
poising  it  in  his  hand  and  giving  it  an  occa- 
sional flourish  after  the  tomahawk  manner,  the 
transition  was  easy  and  natural.  In  some  of 
these  flourishes  it  went  close  to  Miss  Sally’s 
head  ; the  ragged  edges  of  the  head-dress  flut- 
tered with  the  wind  it  raised  ; advance  it  but 
an  inch,  and  that  great  brown  knot  was  on  the 
ground : yet  still  the  unconscious  maiden  worked 
away,  and  never  raised  her  eyes. 

Well,  this  was  a great  relief.  It  was  a good 
thing  to  write  doggedly  and  obstinately  until  he 
was  desperate,  and  then  snatch  up  the  ruler  and 
whirl  it  about  the  brown  head-dress  with  the 
consciousness  that  he  could  have  it  off  if  he 
liked.  It  was  a good  thing  to  draw  it  back, 
and  rub  his  nose  very  hard  with  it,  if  he  thought 
Miss  Sally  was  going  to  look  up,  and  to  recom- 
pense himself  with  more  hardy  flourishes  when 
he  found  she  was  still  absorbed.  By  these  means 
Mr.  Swiveller  calmed  the  agitation  of  his  feel- 
ings, until  his  applications  to  the  ruler  became 
less  fierce  and  frequent,  and  he  could  even  write 
as  many  as  half-a-dozen  consecutive  lines  with- 
out having  recourse  to  it, — which  was  a great 
victory. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  33. 

SWIVELLER  — Dick  — His  apology  for 
drunkenness. 

“ Sit  down,”  repeated  his  companion. 

Mr.  Swiveller  complied,  and  looking  about 


SWIVELLER 


481 


SWIVELLER 


him  with  a propitiatory  smile,  observed  that  last 
week  was  a fine  week  for  the  ducks,  and  this 
week  was  a fine  week  for  the  dust  ; he  also  ob- 
served that  whilst  standing  by  the  post  at  the 
street  corner,  he  had  observed  a pig  with  a straw 
in  his  mouth  issuing  out  of  the  tobacco-shop, 
from  which  appearance  he  argued  that  another 
fine  week  for  the  ducks  was  approaching,  and 
that  rain  would  certainly  ensue.  He  further- 
more took  occasion  to  apologize  for  any  negli- 
gence that  might  be  perceptible  in  his  dress,  on 
the  ground  that  last  night  he  had  had  ‘‘  the  sun 
very  strong  in  his  eyes  ; ” by  which  expression 
he  was  understood  to  convey  to  his  hearers  in 
the  most  delicate  manner  possible,  the  informa- 
tion that  he  had  been  extremely  drunk. 

“ But  what,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller  with  a sigh, 
“ what  is  the  odds  so  long  as  the  fire  of  soul  is 
kindled  at  the  taper  of  conwiviality,  and  the 
wing  of  friendship  never  moults  a feather  ! 
What  is  the  odds  so  long  as  the  spirit  is  ex- 
panded by  means  of  rosy  wine,  and  the  present 
moment  is  the  least  happiest  of  our  existence  !” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  2. 

SWIVELLER— Dick— His  sweetheart. 

“ She’s  the  sphynx  of  private  life,  is  Sally  B.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  50. 

SWIVELLER- Sickness  of  Dick. 

Tossing  to  and  fro  upon  his  hot,  uneasy  bed  ; 
tormented  by  a fierce  thirst  which  nothing  could 
appease  ; unable  to  find,  in  any  change  of  pos- 
ture, a moment’s  peace  or  ease  ; and  rambling, 
ever,  through  deserts  of  thought  where  there 
was  no  resting-place,  no  sight  or  sound  sugges- 
tive of  refreshment  or  repose,  nothing  but  a dull 
eternal  weariness,  with  no  change  but  the  rest- 
less shiftings  of  his  miserable  body,  and  the 
weary  wandering  of  his  mind,  constant  still  to 
one  ever-present  anxiety — to  a sense  of  some- 
thing left  undone,  of  some  fearful  obstacle  to  be 
surmounted,  of  some  carking  care  that  would  not 
be  driven  away,  and  which  haunted  the  distem- 
pered brain,  now  in  this  form,  now  in  that ; al- 
ways shadowy  and  dim,  but  recognizable  for  the 
same  phantom  in  every  shape  it  took  ; darken- 
ing every  vision  like  an  evil  conscience,  and 
making  slumber  horrible — in  these  slow  tor- 
tures of  his  dread  disease,  the  unfortunate  Rich- 
ard lay  wasting  and  consuming  inch  by  inch, 
until,  at  last,  when  he  seemed  to  fight  and  strug- 
gle to  rise  up,  and  to  be  held  down  by  devils, 
he  sank  into  a deep  sleep,  and  dreamed  no 
more. 

He  awoke.  With  a sensation  of  most  bliss- 
ful rest,  better  than  sleep  itself,  be  began  grad- 
ually to  remember  something  of  these  sufferings, 
and  to  think  what  a long  night  it  had  been,  and 
whether  he  had  not  been  delirious  twice  or 
thrice.  Happening,  in  the  midst  of  these  cogi- 
tations, to  raise  his  hand,  he  was  astonished  to 
find  how  heavy  it  seemed,  and  yet  how  thin  and 
light  it  really  was.  Still,  he  felt  indiffei-ent  and 
happy  ; and  having  no  curiosity  to  pursue  the 
subject,  remained  in  the  same  waking  slumber 
until  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a cough. 
This  made  him  doubt  whether  he  had  locked 
his  door  last  night,  and  feel  a little  surprised 
at  having  a companion  in  tire  room.  Still,  he 
lacked  energy  to  follow  up  this  train  of  thought  ; 
and  unconsciously  fell,  in  a luxury  of  repose,  to 
staring  at  some  green  stripes  on  the  bed-furni- 


ture, and  associating  them  strangely  with  pat  ches 
of  fresh  turf,  while  the  yellow  ground  between 
made  gravel-walks,  and  so  helped  out  a long 
perspective  of  trim  gardens. 

He  was  rambling  in  imagination  on  these  ter- 
races, and  had  quite  lost  himself  among  them, 
indeed,  when  he  heard  the  cough  once  more. 
The  walls  shrunk  into  stripes  again  at  the  sound, 
and  raising  himself  a little  in  the  bed,  and  hold- 
ing the  curtain  open  with  one  hand,  he  looked 
out. 

The  same  room  certainly,  and  still  by  candle- 
light ; but  with  what  unbounded  astonishment 
did  he  see  all  those  bottles,  and  basins,  and  arti- 
cles of  linen  airing  by  the  fire,  and  such-like 
furniture  of  a sick  chamber — all  very  clean  and 
neat,  but  all  quite  different  from  anything  he 
left  there,  when  he  went  to  bed  ! The  atmos- 
phere, too.  filled  with  the  cool  smell  of  herbs  and 
vinegar  ; the  floor  newly  sprinkled  ; the — the 
what  ? The  Marchioness? 

Yes  ; playing  cribbage  with  herself  at  the 
table.  There  she  sat,  intent  upon  her  game, 
coughing  now  and  then  in  a subdued  manner, 
as  if  she  feared  to  disturb  him — shuffling  the 
cards,  cutting,  dealing,  playing,  counting,  peg- 
ging — going  through  all  the  mysteries  of  crib- 
bage as  if  she  had  been  in  full  practice  from  her 
cradle. 

Mr.  Swiveller  contemplated  these  things  for 
a short  time,  and  suffering  the  curtain  to  fall  in- 
to its  former  position,  laid  his  head  on  the  pil- 
low again. 

“ I’m  dreaming,”  thought  Richard,  “ that’s 
clear.  When  I went  to  bed,  my  hands  were 
not  made  of  egg-shells,  and  now  I can  almost 
see  through  ’em.  If  this  is  not  a dream,  I have 
woke  up,  by  mistake,  in  an  Arabian  Night,  in- 
stead of  a London  one.  But  I have  no  doubt 
I’m  asleep.  Not  the  least.” 

Here  the  small  servant  had  another  cough. 

“ Very  remarkable  ! ” thought  Mr.  Swiveller. 
“ I never  dreamt  such  a real  cough  as  that, 
before.  I don’t  know,  indeed,  that  I ever  dreamt 
either  a cough  or  a sneeze.  Perhaps  it’s  part 
of  the  philosophy  of  dreams  that  one  never 
does.  There’s  another — and  another.  I say  ! 
— I’m  dreaming  rather  fast  ! ” 

For  the  purpose  of  testing  his  real  condition, 
Mr.  Swiveller,  after  some  reflection,  pinched 
himself  in  the  arm. 

“ Queerer  still ! ” he  thought.  “ I came  to 
bed  rather  plump  than  otherwise,  and  now 
there’s  nothing  to  lay  hold  of.  I’ll  take  another 
survey.” 

The  result  of  this  additional  inspection  was, 
to  convince  Mr.  Swiveller  that  the  objects  by 
which  he  was  surrounded  were  real,  and  that  he 
saw  them,  beyond  all  question,  with  his  waking 
eyes. 

“ It’s  an  Arabian  Night  ; that’s  what  it  is,” 
said  Richard.  “ I’m  in  Damascus  or  Grand 
Cairo.  The  Marchioness  is  a Genie,  and  hav- 
ing had  a wager  with  another  Genie  about  who 
is  the  handsomest  young  man  alive,  and  the 
worthiest  to  be  the  husband  of  the  Princess  of 
China,  has  brought  me  away,  room  and  all,  to 
compare  us  together.  Perhaps,”  said  Mr. 
Swiveller,  turning  languidly  round  on  his  pillow, 
and  looking  on  that  side  of  his  bed  which  was 
next  the  wall,  “ the  Princess  may  te  still — No, 
she’s  gone.” 

Not  feeling  quite  satisfied  with  this  explana- 


SWIVELLER 


4 62 


SWIVELLER 


tion,  as,  even  taking  it  to  be  the  correct  one,  it 
still  involved  a little  mystery  and  doubt,  Mr. 
Swiveller  raised  the  curtain  again,  determined 
to  take  the  first  favorable  opportunity  of  ad- 
dressing his  companion.  An  occasion  soon 
presented  itself.  The  Marchioness  dealt,  turn- 
ed up  a knave,  and  omitted  to  take  the  usual 
advantage  : upon  which  Mr.  Swiveller  called 
out  as  loud  as  he  could — “Two  for  his 
heels ! ” 

The  Marchioness  jumped  up  quickly,  and 
clapped  her  hands.  “ Arabian  Night,  certain- 
ly,” thought  Mr.  Swiveller  ; “ they  always  clap 
their  hands  instead  of  ringing  the  bell.  Now 
for  the  two  thousand  black  slaves,  with  jars  of 
jewels  on  their  heads  ! ” 

It  appeared,  however,  that  she  had  only 
clapped  her  hands  for  joy  ; as,  directly  after- 
wards she  began  to  laugh,  and  then  to  cry  ; 
declaring,  not  in  choice  Arabic  but  in  familiar 
English,  that  she  was  “ so  glad,  she  didn’t 
know  what  to  do.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chop.  64. 

SWIVELLER— The  Marchioness  as  his 
nurse. 

Mr.  Swiveller  was  silent  for  a long  while. 
By-and-bye,  he  began  to  talk  again,  inquiring 
how  long  he  had  been  there. 

“ Three  weeks  to-morrow,”  replied  the  small 
servant. 

“ Three  what  ? ” said  Dick. 

“ Weeks,”  returned  the  Marchioness  emphati- 
cally, “ three  long,  slow  weeks.” 

The  bare  thought  of  having  been  in  such  ex- 
tremity caused  Richard  to  fall  into  another  si- 
lence, and  to  lie  flat  down  again,  at  his  full 
length.  The  Marchioness,  having  arranged  the 
bed-clothes  more  comfortably,  and  felt  that  his 
hands  and  forehead  were  quite  cool — a discovery 
that  filled  her  with  delight — cried  a little  more, 
and  then  applied  herself  to  getting  tea  ready, 
and  making  some  thin  dry  toast. 

While  she  was  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Swiveller 
looked  on  with  a grateful  heart,  veiy  much  as- 
tonished to  see  how  thoroughly  at  home  she 
made  herself,  and  attributing  this  attention,  in 
its  origin,  to  Sally  Brass,  whom,  in  his  own 
mind,  he  could  not  thank  enough.  When  the 
Marchioness  had  finished  her  toasting,  she 
spread  a clean  cloth  on  a tray,  and  brought  him 
some  crisp  slices  and  a great  basin  of  weak  tea, 
with  which  (she  said)  the  doctor  had  left  word 
he  might  refresh  himself  when  he  awoke.  She 
propped  him  up  with  pillows,  if  not  as  skillfully 
as  if  she  had  been  a professional  nurse  all  her 
life,  at  least  as  tenderly  ; and  looked  on  with 
unutterable  satisfaction  while  the  patient — stop- 
ping every  now  and  then  to  shake  her  by  the 
hand—  took  his  poor  meal  with  an  appetite  and 
relish,  which  the  greatest  dainties  of  the  earth, 
under  any  other  circumstances,  would  have 
failed  to  provoke.  Having  cleared  away,  and 
disposed  everything  comfortably  about  him 
again,  she  sat  down  at  the  table  to  take  her  own 
tea. 

“Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  “how’s 
Sally?” 

The  small  servant  screwed  her  face  into  an 
expression  of  the  very  uttermost  entanglement 
of  slyness,  and  shook  her  head. 

“ What,  haven’t  you  seen  her  lately?”  said 

Dick. 


“ Seen  her  ! ” cried  the  small  servant.  “ Bless 
you,  I’ve  run  away!” 

Mr.  Swiveller  immediately  laid  himself  down 
again  quite  flat,  and  so  remained  for  about  five 
minutes.  By  slow  degrees  he  resumed  his  sit- 
ting posture  after  that  lapse  of  time,  and  in- 
quired : 

“ And  where  do  you  live,  Marchioness?” 

“ Live  ! ” cried  the  small  servant.  “ Here  ! ” 

“ Oh  ! ” said  Mr.  Swiveller. 

And  with  that  he  fell  down  flat  again,  as  sud- 
denly as  if  he  had  been  shot.  Thus  he  remained, 
motionless  and  bereft  of  speech,  until  she  had 
finished  her  meal,  put  everything  in  its  place, 
and  swept  the  hearth  ; when  he  motioned  her  to 
bring  a chair  to  the  bedside,  and  being  propped 
up  again,  opened  a farther  conversation. 

“And  so,”  said  Dick,  “you  have  run  away?” 

“Yes,”  said  the  Marchioness,  “and  they’ve 
been  a tizing  of  me.” 

“ Been — I beg  your  pardon,”  said  Dick — 
“what  have  they  been  doing?” 

“ Been  a tizing  of  me — tizing  you  know — in 
the  newspapers,”  rejoined  the  Marchioness. 

“ Aye,  aye,”  said  Dick,  “ advertising?  ” 

The  small  servant  nodded  and  winked.  Her 
eyes  were  so  red  with  waking  and  crying,  that 
the  Tragic  Muse  might  have  winked  with 
greater  consistency.  And  so  Dick  felt. 

“Tell  me,”  said  he,  “how  it  was  that  you 
thought  of  coming  here.” 

“ Why.  you  see,”  returned  the  Marchioness, 
“ when  you  was  gone,  I hadn’t  any  friend  at  all, 
because  the  lodger  he  never  come  back,  and  I 
didn’t  know  where  either  him  or  you  was  to  be 
found,  you  know.  But  one  morning,  when  I 
was — ” 

“Was  near  a keyhole,”  suggested  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler, observing  that  she  faltered. 

“ Well  then,”  said  the  small  servant,  nodding  ; 
“ when  I was  near  the  office  keyhole — as  you 
see  me  through,  you  know — I heard  somebody 
saying  that  she  lived  here,  and  was  the  lady 
whose  house  you  lodged  at,  and  that  you  was 
took  veiy  bad,  and  wouldn’t  nobody  come  and 
take  care  of  you.  Mr.  Brass,  he  says,  ‘It’s  no 
business  of  mine,’  he  says  ; and  Miss  Sally,  she 
says,  ‘ He’s  a funny  chap,  but  it’s  no  business 
of  mine  ; ’ and  the  lady  went  away,  and  slammed 
the  door  to,  when  she  went  out,  I can  tell  you. 
So  I run  away  that  night,  and  come  here,  and 
told  ’em  you  was  my  brother,  and  they  believed 
me,  and  I’ve  been  here  ever  since.” 

***** 

“ Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  plucking 
off  his  nightcap  and  flinging  it  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room  ; “ if  you’ll  do  me  the  favor  to  re- 
tire for  a few  minutes  and  see  what  sort  of  a 
night  it  is,  I’ll  get  up.” 

“ You  mustn’t  think  of  such  a thing,”  cried 
his  nurse. 

“ 1 must  indeed,”  said  the  patient,  looking 
round  the  room.  “ Whereabouts  are  my 
clothes ? ” 

“ Oh,  I’m  so  glad — you  haven’t  got  any,”  re- 
plied the  Marchioness. 

“ Ma’am  !”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  in  great  aston- 
ish ment. 

“ I’ve  been  obliged  to  sell  them,  everyone,  to 
get  the  things  that  was  ordered  for  you.  Bu,t 
don’t  take  on  about  that,”  urged  the  Marchion- 
ess, as  Dick  fell  back  upon  his  pillow.  “ You’re 
too  weak  to  stand,  indeed.” 


SWIVELLER 


463 


SWIVELLER 


“ I suppose,”  said  Dick,  as  she  closed  the  door 
slowly,  and  peeped  into  the  room  again,  to  make 
sure  that  he  was  comfortable,  “ I suppose  there’s 
nothing  left — not  so  much  as  a waistcoat  even  ? ” 

“ No,  nothing.” 

“ It’s  embarrassing,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  “ in 
case  of  fire — even  an  umbrella  would  be  some- 
thing— but  you  did  quite  right,  dear  Marchion- 
ess, I should  have  died  without  you  ! ” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  64. 

SWIVELLER— The  observations  of  Dick. 

Emboldened,  as  it  seemed,  to  enter  into  a 
more  general  conversation,  Mr.  Swiveller  plainly 
laid  himself  out  to  captivate  our  attention. 

He  began  by  remarking  that  soda-water, 
though  a good  thing  in  the  abstract,  was  apt  to 
lie  cold  upon  the  stomach  unless  qualified  with 
ginger,  or  a small  infusion  of  brandy,  which  lat- 
ter article  he  held  to  be  preferable  in  all  cases, 
saving  for  the  one  consideration  of  expense. 
Nobody  venturing  to  dispute  these  positions,  he 
proceeded  to  observe  that  the  human  hair  was 
a great  retainer  of  tobacco-smoke,  and  that  the 
young  gentlemen  of  Westminster  and  Eton, 
after  eating  vast  quantities  of  apples  to  conceal 
any  scent  of  cigars  from  their  anxious  friends, 
were  usually  detected  in  consequence  of  their 
heads  possessing  this  remarkable  property  ; 
whence  he  concluded  that,  if  the  Royal  Society 
would  turn  their  attention  to  the  circumstance, 
and  endeavor  to  find,  in  the  resources  of  science, 
a means  of  preventing  such  untoward  revela- 
tions, they  might  indeed  be  looked  upon  as 
benefactors  to  mankind.  These  opinions  being 
equally  incontrovertible  with  those  he  had  al- 
ready pronounced,  he  went  on  to  inform  us  that 
Jamaica  rum,  though  unquestionably  an  agreea- 
ble spirit  of  great  richness  and  flavor,  had  the 
drawback  of  remaining  constantly  present  to 
the  taste  next  day  ; and  nobody  being  venturous 
enough  to  argue  this  point  either,  he  increased 
in  confidence  and  became  yet  more  companion- 
able and  communicative. 

“ Its  a devil  of  a thing,  gentlemen,”  said  Mr. 
Swiveller,  “ when  relations  fall  out  and  disagree. 
If  the  wing  of  friendship  should  never  moult  a 
feather,  the  wing  of  relationship  should  never 
be  clipped,  but  be  always  expanded  and  serene. 
Why  should  a grandson  and  grandfather  peg 
away  at  each  other  with  mutual  wiolence  when 
all  might  be  bliss  and  concord?  Why  not  jine 
hands  and  forget  it  ? ” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  2. 

“ I say  ” — quoth  Miss  Brass,  abruptly  break- 
ing silence,  “ you  haven’t  seen  a silver  pencil- 
case  this  morning,  have  you  ? ” 

“ I didn’t  meet  many  in  the  street,”  rejoined 
Mr.  Swiveller.  “ I saw  one — a stout  pencil-case 
of  respectable  appearance — but  as  he  was  in 
company  with  an  elderly  penknife  and  a young 
toothpick,  with  whom  he  was  in  earnest  conver- 
sation, I felt  a delicdcy  in  speaking  to  him.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  58. 

SWIVELLER— Dick,  soliloquises  on  his 
destiny. 

‘‘So  I’m  Brass’s  clerk,  am  I?y  said  Dick. 
“ Brass’s  clerk,  eh  ! And  the  clerk  of  Brass’s 
sister — clerk  to  a female  Dragon.  Very  good, 
very  good  ! What  shall  I be  next  ? Shall  I be 
a convict  in  a felt  hat  and  a gray  suit,  trotting 


about  a dockyard  with  my  number  neatly  em- 
broidered on  my  uniform,  and  the  order  of  the 
garter  on  my  leg,  restrained  from  chafing  my 
ankle  by  a twisted  belcher  handkerchief  ? Shall 
I be  that?  Will  that  do,  or  is  it  too  genteel? 
Whatever  you  please,  have  it  your  own  way,  of 
cofirse.” 

As  he  was  entirely  alone,  it  may  be  presumed 
that,  in  these  remarks,  Mr.  Swiveller  addressed 
himself  to  his  fate  or  destiny,  whom,  as  we  learn 
by  the  precedents,  it  is  the  custom  of  heroes  to 
taunt  in  a very  bitter  and  ironical  manner  when 
they  find  themselves  in  situations  of  an  unpleas- 
ant nature.  This  is  the  more  probable  from  the 
circumstance  of  Mr.  Swiveller  directing  his  ob- 
servations to  the  ceiling,  which  these  bodily  per- 
sonages are  usually  supposed  to  inhabit — except 
in  theatrical  cases,  when  they  live  in  the  heart 
of  the  great  chandelier. 

“Quilp  offers  me  this  place,  which  he  says  he 
can  insure  me,”  resumed  Dick,  after  a thought- 
ful silence,  and  telling  off  the  circumstances  of 
his  position,  one  by  one,  upon  his  fingers ; 
“ Fred,  who,  I could  have  taken  my  affidavit, 
would  not  have  heard  of  such  a thing,  backs 
Quilp,  to  my  astonishment,  and  urges  me  to 
take  it  also — staggerer,  number  one  ! My  aunt 
in  the  country  stops  the  supplies,  and  writes  an 
affectionate  note  to  say  that  she  has  made  a new 
will,  and  left  me  out  of  it — staggerer,  number 
two.  No  money;  no  credit  ; no  support  from 
Fred,  who  seems  to  turn  steady  all  at  once  ; 
notice  to  quit  the  old  lodgings — staggerers,  three, 
four,  five,  and  six  ! Under  an  accumulation  of 
staggerers,  no  man  can  be  considered  a free 
agent.  No  man  knocks  himself  down  ; if  his 
destiny  knocks  him  down,  his  destiny  must  pick 
him  up  again.  Then  I’m  very  glad  that  mine 
has  brought  all  this  upon  itself,  and  I shall  be 
as  careless  as  I can,  and  make  myself  quite  at 
home  to  spite  it.  So  go  on,  my  buck,”  said  Mr. 
Swiveller,  taking  his  leave  of  the  ceiling  with  a 
significant  nod,  “and  let  us  see  which  of  us 
will  be  tired  first?  ” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  34. 

SWIVELLER— Dick— On  extra  sleep. 

“ Have  you  been  making  that  horrible  noise  ? ” 
said  the  single  gentleman. 

“ I have  been  helping,  sir,”  returned  Dick, 
keeping  his  eye  upon  him,  and  waving  the  ruler 
gently  in  his  right  hand,  as  an  indication  of 
what  the  single  gentleman  had  to  expect  if  he 
attempted  any  violence. 

“ How  dare  you,  then,’*  said  the  lodger, 
“ Eh?” 

To  this,  Dick  made  no  other  reply  than  by 
inquiring  whether  the  lodger  held  it  to  be  con- 
sistent with  the  conduct  and  character  of  a 
gentleman,  to  go  to  sleep  for  six- and- twenty 
hours  at  a stretch,  and  whether  the  peace  of  an 
amiable  and  virtuous  family  was  to  weigh  as 
nothing  in  the  balance  ? 

“ Is  my  peace  nothing  ? ” said  the  single  gen- 
tleman. 

“ Is  their  peace  nothing,  sir?  ” returned  Dick. 
“ I don’t  wish  to  hold  out  any  threats,  sir — 
indeed,  the  law  does  not  allow  of  threats,  for  to 
threaten  is  an  indictable  offence — but  if  ever 
you  do  that  again,  take  care  you  are  not  set  upon 
by  the  coroner  and  buried  in  a cross-road  before 
you  wake.  We  have  been  distracted  with  fears 
that  you  were  dead,  sir,”  said  Dick,  gently  slid 


SWIVELLER 


434 


SWIVELLER 


ing  to  the  ground,  “ and  the  short  and  the  long 
of  it  is,  that  we  cannot  allow  single  gentlemen 
to  come  into  this  establishment  and  sleep  like 
double  gentlemen  without  paying  extra  for  it?  ” 

“ Indeed  ! ” cried  the  lodger. 

“ Yes  sir,  indeed,”  returned  Dick,  yielding  to 
his  destiny  and  saying  whatever  came  upper- 
most ; an  equal  quantity  of  slumber  was  never 
got  out  of  one  bed  and  bedstead,  and  if  you’re 
going  to  sleep  in  that  way,  you  must  pay  for  a 
double-bedded  room.” 

Instead  of  being  thrown  into  a greater  pas- 
sion by  these  remarks,  the  lodger  lapsed  into  a 
broad  grin  and  looked  at  Mr.  Swiveller  with 
twinkling  eyes.  He  was  a brown-faced,  sun- 
burnt man,  and  appeared  browner  and  more 
sun-burnt  from  having  a white  night-cap  on. 
As  it  was  clear  that  he  was  a choleric  fellow  in 
some  respects,  Mr.  Swiveller  was  relieved  to  find 
him  in  such  good  humor,  and  to  encourage  him 
in  it,  smiled  himself. 

“ Can  you  drink  anything?”  was  his  next  in- 
quiry. 

M r.  Swiveller  replied  that  he  had  very  recently 
been  assuaging  the  pangs  of  thirst,  but  that  he 
was  still  open  to  “ a modest  quencher,”  if  the 
materials  were  at  hand.  Without  another  word 
spoken  on  either  side,  the  lodger  took  from  his 
great  trunk  a kind  of  temple,  shining  as  of  pol- 
ished silver,  ‘and  placed  it  carefully  on  the 
table. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  35. 

SWIVELLER— Dick  and  the  Marchioness. 

One  circumstance  troubled  Mr.  Swiveller’s 
mind  very  much,  and  that  was  that  the  small 
servant  always  remaine'd  somewhere  in  the  bow- 
els of  the  earth  under  Bevis  Marks,  and  never 
came  to  the  surface  unless  the  single  gentleman 
rang  his  bell,  when  she  would  answer  it  and 
immediately  disappear  again.  She  never  went 
out,  or  came  into  the  office,  or  had  a clean  face, 
or  took  off  the  coarse  apron,  or  looked  out  of 
any  one  of  the  windows,  or  stood  at  the  street 
door  for  a breath  of  air,  or  had  any  rest  or  enjoy- 
ment whatever.  Nobody  ever  came  to  see  her, 
nobody  spoke  of  her,  nobody  cared  about  her. 
Mr.  Brass  had  said  once,  that  he  believed  she 
was  a “ love-child  ” (which  means  anything  but 
a child  of  love),  and  that  was  all  the  information 
Richard  Swiveller  could  obtain. 

***** 

“ Now,”  said  Dick,  walking  up  and  down  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  “ I’d  give  something — 
if  I had  it — to  know  how  they  use  that  child, 
and  where  they  keep  her.  My  mother  must 
have  been  a very  inquisitive  woman  ; I have  no 
doubt  I’m  marked  with  a note  of  interrogation 
somewhere.  My  feelings  I smother,  but  thou 
hast  been  the  cause  of  this  anguish  my — upon 
my  word,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  checking  himself 
and  falling  thoughtfully  into  the  client’s  chair, 
“ I should  like  to  know  how  they  use  her  !” 

After  running  on,  in  this  way,  for  some  time, 
Mr.  Swiveller  softly  opened  the  office  door,  with 
the  intention  of  darling  across  the  street  for  a 
glass  of  the  mild  porter.  At  that  moment  he 
caught  a parting  glimpse  of  the  brown  head- 
dress of  Miss  Brass  flitting  down  the  kitchen 
flta.it  . “And  by  Jove  ! ” thought  Dick,  “ she’s 
going  to  fcerl  the  small  servant.  Now  or  never ! ” 

First  peeping  over  the  hand-rail  and  allowing 
the  head-dress  to  disappear  in  the  darkless  be- 
low, he  groped  his  way  down,  and  arrived  at  the 


door  of  a back  kitchen  immediately  after  Miss 
Brass  had  entered  the  same,  bearing  in  her  hand 
a cold  leg  of  mutton.  It  was  a very  dark,  mis- 
erable place,  very  low  and  very  damp  : the  walls 
disfigured  by  a thousand  rents  and  blotches. 
The  water  was  trickling  out  of  a leaky  butt,  and 
a most  wretched  cat  was  lapping  up  the  drops 
with  the  sickly  eagerness  of  starvation.  The 
grate,  which  was  a wide  one,  was  wound  and 
screwed  up  tight,  so  as  to  hold  no  more  than  a 
little  thin  sandwich  of  fire.  Everything  was 
locked  up  ; the  coal-cellar,  the  candle-box,  the 
salt-box,  the  meat-safe,  were  all  padlocked. 
There  was  nothing  that  a beetle  could  have 
lunched  upon.  The  pinched  and  meagre  aspect 
of  the  place  would  have  killed  a chameleon  : he 
would  have  known,  at  the  first  mouthful,  that 
the  air  was  not  eatable,  and  must  have  given  up 
the  ghost  in  despair. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  36. 

While  these  acts  and  deeds  were  in  progress 
in  and  out  of  the  office  of  Sampson  Brass  Rich- 
ard Swiveller,  being  often  left  alone  therein,  be- 
gan to  find  the  time  hang  heavy  on  his  hands. 
For  the  better  preservation  of  his  cheerfulness, 
therefore,  and  to  prevent  his  faculties  from  rust- 
ing, he  provided  himself  with  a cribbage-board 
and  pack  of  cards,  and  accustomed  himself  to 
play  at  cribbage  with  a dummy,  for  twenty,  thir- 
ty, or  sometimes  even  fifty  thousand  pounds  a 
side,  besides  many  hazardous  bets  to  a consid- 
erable amount. 

As  these  games  were  very  silently  conducted, 
notwithstanding  the  magnitude  of  the  interests 
involved,  Mr.  Swiveller  began  to  think  that  on 
those  evenings  when  Mr.  and  Miss  Brass  were 
out  (and  they  often  went  out  now)  he  heard  a 
kind  of  snorting  or  hard-breathing  sound  in  the 
direction  of  the  door,  which,  it  occurred  to  him, 
after  some  reflection,  must  proceed  from  the 
small  servant,  who  always  had  a cold  from  damp 
living.  Looking  intently  that  way  one  night, 
he  plainly  distinguished  an  eye  gleaming  and 
glistening  at  the  keyhole  ; and  having  now  no 
doubt  that  his  suspicions  were  correct,  he  stole 
softly  to  the  door,  and  pounced  upon  her  before 
she  was  aware  of  his  approach. 

“ Oh  ! I didn’t  mean  any  harm  indeed,  upon 
my  word  I didn’t,”  cried  the  small  servant, 
struggling  like  a much  larger  one.  “ Its  so  very 
dull,  down-stairs.  Please  don’t  tell  upon  me, 
please  don’t.” 

“Tell  upon  you!”  said  Dick.  “Do  you 
mean  to  say  you  were  looking  through  the  key- 
hole for  company  ? ” 

“ Yes,  upon  my  word  I was,”  replied  the  small 
servant. 

“ How  long  have  you  been  cooling  your  eye 
there?”  said  Dick. 

“ Oh,  ever  since  you  first  began  to  play  them 
cards,  and  long  before.” 

“ Well, — come  in,” — he  said,  after  a little  con- 
sideration. “ Here,  sit  down,  and  J’ll  teach  you 
how  to  play.” 

“Oh!  I durstn’t  do  it,”  rejoined  the  small 
servant ; “ Miss  Sally  ’ud  kill  me,  if  she  know’d 
I come  up  here.” 

‘ Have  you  got  a fire  down-stairs?”  said 
Dick. 

“ A very  little  one,”  replied  the  small  servant. 

“ Miss  Sally  couldn’t  kill  me  if  she  know’d  I 
went  down  there,  so  I’ll  come,”  said  Richard, 


SWIVELLER 


465 


SWIVELLER 


putting  the  ctards  in  his  pocket.  “ Why,  how 
thin  you  are  ! What  do  you  mean  by  it  ? ” 

“ It  an’t  my  fault.” 

“ Could  you  eat  any  bread  and  meat  ? ” said 
Dick,  taking  down  his  hat.  “ Yes  ? Ah  ! I thought 
so.  Did  you  ever  taste  beer  ? ” % 

“ I had  a sip  of  it  once,”  said  the  small  ser- 
vant. 

“ Here’s  a state  of  things  !”  cried  Mr.  Swiv- 
eller,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling.  “ She  never 
tasted  it — it  can’t  be  tasted  in  a sip  ! Why,  how 
old  are  you  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know.” 

Mr.  Swiveller  opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  and 
appeared  thoughtful  for  a moment  ; then,  bid- 
ding the  child  mind  the  door  until  he  came  back, 
vanished  straightway. 

Presently  he  returned,  followed  by  the  boy 
from  the  public-house,  who  bore  in  one  hand  a 
plate  of  bread  and  beef,  and  in  the  other  a great 
pot,  filled  with  some  very  fragrant  compound, 
which  sent  forth  a grateful  steam,  and  was  in- 
deed choice  purl,  made  after  a particular  recipe 
which  Mr.  Swiveller  had  imparted  to  the  land- 
lord, at  a period  when  he  was  deep  in  his  books 
and  desirous  to  conciliate  his  friendship.  Re- 
lieving the.  boy  of  his  burden  at  the  door,  and 
charging  his  little  companion  to  fasten  it  to  pre- 
vent surprise,  Mr.  Swiveller  followed  her  into 
the  kitchen. 

“ There  ! ” said  Richard,  putting  the  plate 
before  her.  “ First  of  all  clear  that  off,  and  then 
you’ll  see  what’s  next.” 

The  small  servant  needed  no  second  bidding, 
and  the  plate  was  soon  empty. 

“ Next,”  said  Dick,  handing  the  purl,  “ take 
a pull  at  that ; but  moderate  your  transports, 
you  know,  for  you’re  not  used  to  it.  Well,  is  it 
good  ? ” 

“ Oh  ! isn’t  it  ? ” said  the  small  servant. 

Mr.  Swiveller  appeared  gratified  beyond  all 
expression  by  this  reply,  and  took  a long  draught 
himself;  steadfastly  regarding  his  companion 
while  he  did  so.  These  preliminaries  disposed 
of,  he  applied  himself  to  teaching  her  the  game, 
which  she  soon  learnt  tolerably  well,  being  both 
sharp-witted  and  cunning. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  57. 


he  now  gave  utterance  to  these  apologetic  obser- 
vations, and  slowly  sipped  the  last  choice  drops 
of  nectar.  1 


I he  baron  Sampsono  Brasso  and  his  fair 
sister  are  (you  tell  me)  at  the  Pldy?  ” said  Mr, 
Swiveller,  leaning  his  left  arm  heavily  upon  the 
table,  and  raising  his  voice  and  his  right  le<* 
after  the  manner  of  a theatrical  bandit. 

The  Marchioness  nodded. 

“Ha!”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  with  a porten- 
tous frown.  “ ’ 1 is  well.  Marchioness  ! — but  no 
matter.  Some  wine  there.  Ho ! ” He  illus- 
trated these  melo-dramatic  morsels,  by  handing 
the  tankard  to  himself  with  great  humility,  re- 
ceiving it  haughtily,  drinking  from  it  thirstily, 
and  smacking  his  lips  fiercely. 

The  small  servant,  who  was  not  so  well  ac- 
quainted with  theatrical  conventionalities  as  Mr. 
Swiveller  (having  indeed  never  seen  a play,  or 
heard  one  spoken  of,  except  by  chance  through 
chinks  of  doors  and  in  other  forbidden  places), 
was  rather  alarmed  by  demonstrations  so  novel 
in  their  nature,  and  showed  her  concern  so  plain- 
ly in  her  looks,  that  Mr.  Swiveller  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  discharge  his  brigand  manner,  for  one 
more  suitable  to  private  life,  as  he  asked, 

“ Do  they  often  go  where  glory  waits  ’em,  and 
leave  you  here  ? ” 


“ 0h>  yes : I believe  you  they  do,”  returned 
the  small  servant.  “ Miss  Sally’s  such  a one-cr 
for  that,  she  is.” 

“ Such  a what  ? ” said  Dick. 

‘‘  Such  a one-er,”  returned  the  Marchioness. 

After  a moment  s reflection,  Mr.  Swiveller  de- 
termined to  forego  his  responsible  duty  of  set- 
ting her  right,  and  to  suffer  her  to  talk  on  ; as  it 
was  evident  that  her  tongue  was  loosened  by  the 
purl,  and  her  opportunities  for  conversation  were 
not  so  frequent  as  to  render  a momentary  check 
of  little  consequence. 

“ They  sometimes  go  to  see  Mr.  Quilp,”  said 
the  small  servant  with  a shrewd  look  ; “ they  go 
to  a many  places,  bless  you  ! ” 

‘‘Is  Mr.  Brass  a wunner ? ” said  Dick. 

“ Not  half  what  Miss  Sally  is,  he  isn’t,”  re- 
plied the  small  servant,  shaking  her  head. 
“ Bless  you,  he’d  never  do  anything  without 
her.” 


SWIVELLER — Dick  and  the  Marchioness. 

Mr.  Swiveller  and  his  partner  played  several 
rubbers  with  varying  success,  until  the  loss  of 
three  sixpences,  the  gradual  sinking  of  the  purl, 
and  the  striking  of  ten  o’clock,  combined  to 
render  that  gentleman  mindful  of  the  flight  of 
time,  and  the  expediency  of  withdrawing  before 
Mr.  Sampson  and  Miss  Sally  Brass  returned. 

“With  which  object  in  view,  Marchioness,” 
said  Mr.  Swiveller  gravely,  “ I shall  ask  your 
ladyship’s  permission  to  put  the  board  in  my 
pocket,  and  to  retire  from  the  presence  when  I 
have  finished  this  tankard ; merely  observing, 
Marchioness,  that  since  life,  like  a river,  is  flow- 
ing, I care  not  how  fast  it  rolls  on,  ma’am,  on, 
while  such  purl  on  the  bank  still  is  growing,  and 
such  eyes  light  the  waves  as  they  run.  Mar- 
chioness, your  health.  You  will  excuse  my  wear- 
ing my  hat,  but  the  palace  is  damp,  and  the 
•narble  floor  is — if  I may  be  allowed  the  expres- 
sion— sloppy.” 

As  a precaution  against  this  latter  inconve- 
nience, Mr.  Swiveller  had  been  sitting  for  some 
time  with  his  feet  on  the  hob,  in  which  attitude 


“Oh!  He  wouldn’t,  wouldn’t  he?”  said 
Dick. 

“ Miss  Sally  keeps  him  in  such  order,”  said 
the  small  servant  ; “he  always  asks  her  advice, 
he  does  ; and  he  catches  it  sometimes.  Bless 
you,  you  wouldn’t  believe  how  much  he  catches 
it.” 

“ 1 suppose,”  said  Dick,  “ that  they  consult 
together,  a good  deal,  and  talk  about  a great 
many  people  about  me,  for  instance,  some- 
times, eh,  Marchioness?” 

The  Marchioness  nodded  amazingly. 

“ Complimentary  ? ” said  Mr.  Swiveller. 

The  Marchioness  changed  the  motion  of  her 
head,  which  had  not  yet  left  off  nodding,  and 
suddenly  began  to  shake  it  from  side  to  side, 
with  a vehemence  which  threatened  to  dislo- 
cate her  neck. 

“ Humph  ; ” Dick  muttered.  “ Would  it  be 
any  breach  of  confidence,  Mwehioness,  to  re- 
late what  they  say  of  the  humble  individual 
who  has  now  the  honor  to — ?” 

“ Miss  Sally  says  you’re  a funny  chap,”' replied 
his  friend. 

“Well,  Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller. 


\ 


SUBJECTS  406  SUBURB 


“ that’s  not  uncomplimentary.  Merriment, 
Marchioness,  is  not  a bacl  or  a degrading  qual- 
ity. Old  King  Cole  was  himself  a merry  old 
soul,  if  we  may  put  any  faith  in  -the  pages  of 
history." 

“But  she  says,”  pursued  his  companion, 
“that  you  an’t  to  be  trusted.” 

“ Why,  really,  Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swivel- 
ler,  thoughtfully  ; “ several  ladies  and  gentle- 
men— not  exactly  professional  persons,  but 
tradespeople,  ma’am,  tradespeople — have  made 
the  same  remark.  The  obscure  citizen  who 
keeps  the  hotel  over  the  way,  inclined  strongly 
to  that  opinion  to-night  when  I ordered  him  to 
prepare  the  banquet.  It’s  a popular  prejudice, 
Marchioness  ; and  yet  I am  sure  I don’t  know 
why,  for  I have  been  trusted  in  my  time  to  a 
considerable  amount,  and  I can  safely  say  that  I 
never  forsook  my  trust  until  it  deserted  me — 
never.  Mr.  Brass  is  of  the  same  opinion,  I sup- 
pose ? ” 

His  friend  nodded  again,  with  a cunning 
look  which  seemed  to  hint  that  Mr.  Brass  held 
stronger  opinions  on  the  subject  than  his  sister; 
and  seeming  to  recollect  herself,  added  implor- 
ingly, “ But  don't  you  ever  tell  upon  me,  or  I 
snail  be  beat  to  death.” 

“ Marchioness,”  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  rising, 
“ the  word  of  a gentleman  is  as  good,  as  his 
bond — sometimes  better,  as  in  the  present  case, 
where  his  bond  might  prove  but  a doubtful  sort 
of  security.  I am  your  friend,  and  I hope  we 
shall  play  many  more  rubbers  together  in  this 
same  saloon.  But,  Marchioness,"  added  Rich- 
ard, stopping  in  his  way  to  the  door,  and  wheel- 
ing slowly  round  upon  the  small  servant,  who 
was  following  with  the  candle  ; “ it  occurs  to 
me  that  you  must  be  in  the  constant  habit  of 
airing  your  eye  at  keyholes,  to  know  all  this." 

“ I only  wanted,”  replied  the  trembling  Mar- 
chioness, “ to  know  Avhere  the  key  of  the  safe 
was  hid  ; that  was  all  ; and  I wouldn’t  have 
taken  much,  if  I had  found  it — only  enough  to 
squench  my  hunger.” 

“ You  didn’t  find  it,  then  ? ” said  Dick.  “ But 
of  course  you  didn’t,  or  you’d  be  plumper. 
Good  night,  Marchioness.  Fare  thee  well — and 
if  for  ever,  then  for  ever,  fare  thee  well — and 
put  up  the  chain,  Marchioness,  in  case  of  acci- 
dents.”— Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  58. 

SUBJECTS— For  sermons. 

He  considered  the  subject  of  the  day’s  homily 
ill  chosen  ; which  was  the  less  excusable,  he 
added,  when  there  were  so  many  subjects 
“ going  about.” 

“True  again,”  said  Uncle  Pumblechook, 
“You’ve  hit  it,  sir!  Plenty  of  subjects  going 
about,  for  them  that  know  how  to  put  salt  upon 
their  tails.  That’s  what’s  wanted.  A man 
needn’t  go  far  to  find  a subject  if  he’s  ready 
with  his  salt  box.” — Great  Expectations , Chap.  4. 

SUBLIME  INTELLIGENCE -Tho  power 

of. 

Chateau  and  hut,  stone  face  and  dangling  fig- 
ure, the  red  stain  on  the  stone  floor,  and  the  pure 
water  in  the  village  well — thousands  of  acres  of 
land — a whole  province  of  France — all  France 
itself—  lay  under  the  night  sky,  concentrated  in- 
to a faint  hair-breadth  line.  So  does  a whole 
world,  with  all  its  greatnesses  and  littlenesses, 
■ie  in  a twinkling  star.  And  as  mere  human 


knowledge  can  split  a ray  of  light  and  analyze 
the  manner  of  its  composition,  so,  sublimer  in- 
telligences may  read  in  the  feeble  shining  of  this 
earth  of  ours,  every  thought  and  act,  every  vice 
and  virtue,  of  every  responsible  creature  on  it. 

* Tale  of  Ttvo  Cities , Chap.  16. 

SUBPCENA — Sam  Weller  receives. 

“ Samuel  Weller?  ’’  said  Mr.  Jackson,  inquir- 
ingly. 

“ Vun  o’  the  truest  things  as  you’ve  said  for 
many  a long  year,”  replied  Sam,  in  a most  com- 
posed manner. 

“ Here’s  a subpoena  for  you,  Mr.  Weller,”  said 

Jackson. 

“ What’s  that,  in  English  ? ’’  inquired  Sam. 

“ Here’s  the  original,”  sard  Jackson,  declining 
the  required  explanation. 

“ Which  ? ” said  Sam. 

“ This,”  replied  Jackson,  shaking  the  patch- 
men  t. 

“ Oh,  that’s  the  ’rig’nal,  is  it,”  said  Sam. 
“ Well,  I’m  wery  glad  I’ve  seen  the  ’rig’nal,  'cos 
it’s  a gratifyin’  sort  o’  thing,  and  eases  vun’s 
mind  so  much.” 

“ And  here’s  the  shilling,”  said  Jackson.  “Its 
from  Dodson  and  Fogg’s.” 

“ And  it’s  uncommon  handsome  o’  Dodson 
and  Foggs,  as  knows  so  little  of  me,  to  come 
down  vith  a present,”  said  Sam.  “ I feel  it  as 
a wery  high  compliment,  sir  ; its  a wery  hon’ra- 
ble  thing  to  them,  as  they  knows  how  to  reward 
merit  werever  they  meets  it.  Besides  wich,  its 
affectin’  to  one’s  feelins.” 

As  Mr.  Weller  said  this,  he  inflicted  a little 
friction  on  his  right  eye  lid,  with  the  sleeve  of 
his  coat,  after  the  most  approved  manner  of 
actors  when  they  are  in  domestic  pathetics. 

Pickwick , Chap.  31. 

SUBURB— A London. 

In  the  venerable  suburb — it  was  a suburb 
once — of  Clerkenwell,  towards  that  part  of  its 
confines  which  is  nearest  to  the  Charter  House, 
and  in  one  of  those  cool,  shady  streets,  of  which 
a few,  widely  scattered  and  dispersed,  yet  remain 
in  such  old  parts  of  the  metropolis — each  tene- 
ment quietly  vegetating  like  an  ancient  citizen 
who  long  ago  retired  from  business,  and  dozing 
on  in  its  infirmity  until  in  course  of  time  it 
tumbles  down,  and  is  replaced  by  some  extrava- 
gant young  heir,  flaunting  in  stucco  and  orna- 
mental work,  and  all  the  vanities  of  modern 
days — in  this  quarter,  and  in  a street  of  this 
description,  the  business  of  the  present  chapter 
lies. 

At  the  time  of  which  it  treats,  though  only 
six-and-sixty  years  ago,  a very  large  part  of  what 
is  London  now  had  no  existence.  Even  in  the 
brains  of  the  wildest  speculators,  there  had 
sprung  up  no  long  rows  of  streets  connecting 
High  gate  with  Whitechapel,  no  assemblages  of 
palaces  in  the  swampy  levels,  nor  little  cities  in 
the  open  fields.  Although  this  part  of  town  was 
then,  as  now,  parcelled  out  in  streets,  and  plen- 
tifully peopled,  it  wore  a different  aspect.  There 
were  gardens  to  many  of  the  houses,  and  trees 
by  the  pavement  side  ; with  an  air  of  freshness 
breathing  up  and  down,  which  in  these  days 
would  be  sought  in  vain.  Fields  were  nigh  at 
hand,  through  which  the  New  River  took  its 
winding  course,  and  where  there  was  merry  hay- 
making in  the  summer-time.  Nature  was  not 


SUCCESS 


407 


SUMMER 


so  far  removed,  or  hard  to  get  at,  as  in  these 
days  : and  although  there  were  busy  trades  in 
Clerkenwell,  and  working  jewelers  by  scores,  it 
was  a purer  place,  with  farm-houses  nearer  to 
it  than  many  modern  Londoners  would  readily 
believe,  and  lovers’  walks  at  no  great  distance, 
which  turned  into  squalid  courts,  long  before 
the  lovers  of  this  age  were  born,  or,  as  the 
phrase  goes,  thought  of. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  4. 

SUCCESS-A  crime. 

“ If  a man  would  commit  an  inexpiable 
offence  against  any  society,  large  or  small,  let 
him  be  successful.  They  will  forgive  him  any 
crime  but  that.” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  30. 

SUCCESS— Constancy  the  secret  of. 

“ Look  hopefully  at  the  distance  ! Rick,  the 
world  is  before  you  ; and  it  is  most  probable 
that  as  you  enter  it,  so  it  will  receive  you.  Trust 
in  nothing  but  in  Providence  and  your  own 
efforts.  Never  separate  the  two,  like  the  hea- 
then wagoner.  Constancy  in  love  is  a good 
thing ; but  it  means  nothing,  and  is  nothing, 
without  constancy  in  every  kind  of  effort.  If 
you  had  the  abilities  of  all  the  great  men,  past 
and  present,  you  could  do  nothing  well  without 
sincerely  meaning  it,  and  setting  about  it.  If 
you  entertain  the  supposition  that  any  real  suc- 
cess, in  great  things  or  in  small,  ever  was  or 
could  be,  ever  will  or  can  be,  wrested  from  For- 
tune by  fits  and  starts,  leave  that  wrong  idea 
here,  or  leave  your  cousin  Ada  here.” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  13. 

SUICIDE— Excuse  for. 

“ Do  you  know,”  simpered  Cleopatra,  revers- 
ing the  knave  of  clubs,  who  had  come  into  her 
game  with  his  heels  uppermost,  “ that  if  anything 
could  tempt  me  to  put  a period  to  my  life,  it 
would  be  curiosity  to  find  out  what  it’s  all  about 
and  what  it  means  ; there  are  so  many  provok- 
ing mysteries,  really,  that  are  hidden  from  us.” 

Dombey  dr1  Son,  Chap.  21. 

SUMMER— Q,uiet,  in  London. 

But  these  are  small  oases,  and  I am  soon  back 
again  in  metropolitan  Arcadia.  It  is  my  impres- 
sion that  much  of  its  serene  and  peaceful  charac- 
ter is  attributable  to  the  absence  of  customary 
Talk.  How  do  I know  but  there  may  be  subtle 
influences  in  Talk  to  vex  the  souls  of  men  who 
don’t  hear  it?  Plow  do  I know  but  that  Talk, 
five,  ten,  twenty  miles  off,  may  get  into  the  air, 
and  disagree  with  me?  If  I rise  from  my  bed 
vaguely  troubled  and  wearied  and  sick  of  my 
life  in  the  session  of  Parliament,  who  shall  say 
that  my  noble  friend,  my  right  reverend  friend, 
my  right  honorable  friend,  my  honorable  friend, 
my  honorable  and  learned  friend,  or  my  honor- 
able and  gallant  friend,  may  not  be  responsible 
for  that  effect  upon  my  nervous  system  ? Too 
much  Ozone  in  the  air,  I am  informed  and  fully 
believe  (though  I have  no  idea  what  it  is),  would 
affect  me  in  a marvellously  disagreeable  way  ; 
why  may  not  too  much  Talk  ? I don’t  see  or  hear 
the  Ozone;  I don’t  see  or  hear  the  Talk.  And 
there  is  so  much  Talk  ; so  much  too  much  ; such 
loud  cry,  and  such  scant  supply  of  wool  ; such  a 
deal  of  fleecing,  and  so  little  fleece  ! Hence,  in  the 
Arcadian  season,  I find  it  a delicious  triumph 
to  walk  down  to  deserted  Westminster  and  see 


the  Courts  shut  up  ; to  walk  a little  farther  and 
see  the  Two  Houses  shut  up;  to  stand  in  the 
Abbey  Yard,  like  the  New  Zealander  of  the  grand 
English  History  (concerning  which  unfortunate 
man  a whole  rookery  of  mares’  nests  is  general- 
ly being  discovered),  and  gloat  upon  the  ruins 
of  Talk.  Returning  to  my  primitive  solitude,  and 
lying  down  to  sleep,  my  grateful  heart  expands 
with  the  consciousness  that  there  is  no  adjourned 
Debate,  no  ministerial  explanation,  nobody  to 
give  notice  of  intention  to  ask  the  noble  Lord 
at  the  head  of  her  Majesty’s  government  five- 
and-twenty  bootless  questions  in  one,  no  term- 
time  with  legal  argument,  no  Nisi  Prius  with 
eloquent  appeal  to  British  jury  ; that  the  air  will 
to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  re- 
main untroubled  by  this  superbundant  genera- 
ting of  Talk.  In  a minor  degree  it  is  a delicious 
triumph  to  me  to  go  into  the  club,  and  see  the 
carpets  up,  and  the  Bores  and  the  other  dust 
dispersed  to  the  four  winds.  Again,  New  Zea- 
lander-like, I stand  on  the  cold  hearth,  and  say 
in  the  solitude:  “ Here  I watched  Bore  A I,  with 
voice  always  mysteriously  low,  and  head  always 
mysteriously  drooped,  whispering  political  se- 
crets into  the  ears  of  Adam’s  confiding  children. 
Accursed  be  his  memory  forever  and  a day  ! ” 

* * * * 

I might  stand,  night  and  day,  for  a month  to 
come,  in  Saville  Row,  with  my  tongue  out,  yet 
not  find  a doctor  to  look  at  it  for  love  or  money. 
The  dentists’  instruments  are  rusting  in  their 
drawers,  and  their  horrible  cool  parlors,  where 
people  pretend  to  read  the  Every-Day  Book  and 
not  to  be  afraid,  are  doing  penance  for  their 
grimness,  in  white  sheets.  The  light-weight  of 
shrewd  appearance,  with  one  eye  always  shut 
up,  as  if  he  were  eating  a sharp  gooseberry  in 
all  seasons,  who  usually  stands  at  the  gateway 
of  the  livery-stables  on  very  little  legs  under  a 
very  large  waistcoat,  has  gone  to  Doncaster. 
Of  such  undesigning  aspect  is  his  guileless  yard 
now,  with  its  gravel  and  scarlet  beans,  and  the 
yellow  Break  housed  under  a glass  roof  in  a 
corner,  that  I almost  believe  I could  not  be 
taken  in  there,  if  I tried.  In  the  places  of  busi- 
ness of  the  great  tailors,  the  cheval  glasses  are 
dim  and  dusty  for  lack  of  being  looked  into. 
Ranges  of  brown  paper  coat  and  waistcoat  bod- 
ies look  as  funereal  as  if  they  were  the  hatch- 
ments of  the  customers  with  whose  names  they 
are  inscribed  ; the  measuring  tapes  hang  idle 
oft  the  wall  ; the  order-taker,  left  on  the  hope- 
less chance  of  some  one  looking  in,  yawns  in 
the  last  extremity  over  the  book  of  patterns,  as 
if  he  were  trying  to  read  that  entertaining  libra- 
ry. The  hotels  in  Brook  Street  have  no  one  in 
them,  and  the  staffs  of  servants  stare  disconso- 
lately for  next  season  out  of  all  the  windows. 
The  very  man  who  goes  about  like  an  erect 
Turtle  between  two  boards  recommendatory  of 
the  Sixteen  Shilling  Trousers,  is  aware  of  him- 
self as  a hollow  mockery,  and  eats  filberts  while 
he  leans  his  hinder  shell  against  a wall. 

Among  these  tranquillizing  objects  it  is  my 
delight  to  walk  and  meditate.  Soothed  by  the 
repose  around  me,  I wander  insensibly  to  con- 
siderable distances,  and  guide  myself  back  by 
the  stars.  Thus  I enjoy  the  contrast  of  a few  still 
partially  inhabited  and  busy  spots,  where  all  the 
lights  are  not  fled,  where  all  the  garlands  are  not 
dead,  whence  all  but  I have  not  departed.  Then 
does  it  appear  to  me  that  in  this  age  three  things 


SUMMER 


468 


SUMMER 


are  clamorously  required  of  Man  in  the  miscella- 
neous thoroughfares  of  the  metropolis.  Firstly, 
that  he  have  his  boots  cleaned.  Secondly,  that 
he  eat  a penny  ice.  Thirdly,  that  he  get  him- 
self photographed.  Then  do  I speculate,  what 
have  those  seam- worn  artists  been  who  stand 
at  the  photograph  doors  in  Greek  caps,  sample 
in  hand,  and  mysteriously  salute  the  public — the 
female  public  with  a pressing  tenderness — to 
come  in  and  be  “took?”  What  did  they  do 
with  their  greasy  blandishments  before  the  era  of 
cheap  photography  ? Of  what  class  were  their 
previous  victims,  and  how  victimized?  And 
how  did  they  get,  and  how  did  they  pay  for, 
that  large  collection  of  likenesses,  all  purport- 
ing to  have  been  taken  inside,  with  the  taking  of 
none  of  which  had.that  establishment  any  more 
to  do  than  with  the  taking  of  Delhi  ? 

A happy  Golden  Age,  and  a serene  tranquil- 
lity. Charming  picture,  but  it  will  fade.  The 
iron  age  will  return,  London  will  come  back  to 
town  ; if  I show  my  tongue  then  in  Saville  Row 
for  half  a minute,  I shall  be  prescribed  for  ; the 
Doctor’s  man  and  the  Dentist’s  man  will  then 
pretend  that  these  days  of  unprofessional  inno- 
cence never  existed.  Where  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ivlem  and  their  bed  will  be  at  that  time  passes 
human  knowledge : but  my  hatter  hermitage 
will  then  know  them  no  more,  nor  will  it  then 
know  me.  The  desk  at  which  I have  written 
these  meditations  will  retributively  assist  at  the 
making-out  of  my  account,  and  the  wheels  of 
gorgeous  carriages  and  the  hoofs  of  high- 
stepping  horses  will  crush  the  silence  out  of 
Bond  Street — will  grind  Arcadia  away,  and 
give  it  to  the  elements  in  granite  powder. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  16. 

SUMMER. 

Spring  flew  swiftly  by,  and  summer  came.  If 
the  village  had  been  beautiful  at  first,  it  was  now 
in  the  full  glow  and  luxuriance  of  its  richness. 
The  great  trees,  which  had  looked  shrunken  and 
bare  in  the  earlier  months,  had  now  burst  into 
strong  life  and  health ; and  stretching  forth 
their  green  arms  over  the  thirsty  ground,  con- 
verted open  and  naked  spots  into  choice  nooks, 
where  was  a deep  and  pleasant  shade  from 
which  to  look  upon  the  wide  prospect,  steeped 
in  sunshine,  which  lay  stretched  beyond.  The 
earth  had  donned  her  mantle  of  brightest  green  ; 
and  shed  her  richest  perfumes  abroad.  It  was 
the  prime  and  vigor  of  the  year  ; all  things  wefe 
glad  and  flourishing. — Oliver  Twisl,  Chap.  33. 

SUMMER— August  scenery. 

There  is  no  month  in  the  whole  year,  in  which 
nature  wears  a more  beautiful  appearance  than 
in  the  month  of  August.  Spring  has  many  beau- 
ties, and  May  is  a fresh  anti  blooming  month, 
but  the  charms  of  this  time  of  year  are  en- 
hanced by  their  contrast  with  the  winter  sea- 
son. August  has  no  such  advantage.  It  comes 
when  we  remember  nothing  but  clear  skies, 
green  fields,  and  sweet-smelling  flowers — when 
the  recollection  of  snow,  and  ice,  and  bleak 
winds,  has  faded  from  our  minds  as  completely 
ns  they  have  disappeared  from  the  earth, — and 
yet  what  a pleasant  time  it  is  ! Orchards  and 
corn-fields  ring  with  the  hum  of  labor ; trees 
bend  beneath  the  thick  clusters  of  rich  fruit 
which  bow  their  branches  to  the  ground  ; and 
the  corn,  piled  in  graceful  sheaves,  or  waving 


in  every  light  breath  that  sweeps  above  it,  as  if 
it  wooed  the  sickle,  tinges  the  landscape  with  q 
golden  hue.  A mellow  softness  appears  to 
hang  over  the  whole  earth  ; the  influence  of  the 
season  seems  to  extend  itself  to  the  very  wagon, 
whose  slow  motion  across  the  well-reaped  field 
is  perceptible  only  to  the  eye,  but  strikes  with 
no  harsh  sound  upon  the  ear. 

As  the  coach  rolls  swiftly  past  the  fields  and 
orchards  which  skirt  the  road,  groups  of  women 
and  children,  piling  the  fruit  in  sieves,  or  gath- 
ering the  scattered  ears  of  corn,  pause  for  an 
instant  from  their  labor,  and  shading  the  sun- 
burnt face  with  a still  browner  hand,  gaze  upon 
the  passengers  with  curious  eyes  ; while  some 
stout  urchin,  too  small  to  work,  but  too  mis- 
chievous to  Ire  left  at  home,  scrambles  over  the 
side  of  the  basket  in  which  he  has  been  depos- 
ited for  security,  and  kicks  and  screams  with 
delight.  The  reaper  stops  in  his  work,  and 
stands  with  folded  arms,  looking  at  the  vehicle 
as  it  whirls  past ; and  the  rough  cart-horses  be- 
stow a sleepy  glance  upon  the  smart  coach  team, 
which  says,  as  plainly  as  a horse’s  glance  can, 
“It’s  all  very  fine  to  look  at,  but  slow  going, 
over  a heavy  field,  is  better  than  warm  work 
like  that,  upon  a dusty  road,  after  all.”  Yon 
cast  a look  behind  you,  as  you  turn  a corner  of 
the  road.  The  women  and  children  have  re- 
sumed their  labor:  the  reaper  once  more  stoops 
to  his  work  : the  cart-horses  have  moved  on : 
and  all  are  again  in  motion. 

Pickwick , Chap.  16. 

SUMMER— A legal  vacation. 

It  is  the  hottest  long  vacation  known  for 
many  years.  All  the  young  clerks  are  madly  in 
love,  and,  according  to  their  various  degrees, 
pine  for  bliss  with  thebeloved  object,  at  Mar- 
gate, Ramsgate,  or  Gravesend.  All  the  middle- 
aged  clerks  think  their  family  too  large.  All 
the  unowned  dogs  who  stray  into  the  Inns  of 
Court,  and  pant  about  staircases  and  other  dry 
places,  seeking  water,  give  short  howls  of  ag- 
gravation. All  the  blind  men’s  dogs  in  the 
streets  draw  their  masters  against  pumps,  or 
trip  them  over  buckets.  A shop  with  a sun- 
blind,  and  a watered  pavement,  and  a bowl  of 
gold  and  silver  fish  in  the  window,  is  a sanc- 
tuary. Temple  Bar  gets  so  hot,  that  it  is,  to  the 
adjacent  Strand  and  Fleet  Street,  what  a heater 
is  in  an  urn,  and  keeps  them  simmering  all 
night. 

There  are  offices  about  the  Inns  of  Court  in 
which  a man  might  be  cool,  if  any  coolness  were 
worth  purchasing  at  such  a price  in  dullness  ; 
but  the  little  thoroughfares  immediately  out- 
side those  retirements  seem  to  blaze.  In  Mr. 
Krook’s  court,  it  is  so  hot  that  the  people  turn 
their  houses  inside  out,  and  sit  in  chairs  upon 
the  pavement. 

* * * * * 

Over  all  the  legal  neighborhood,  there  hangs, 
like  some  great  veil  of  rust,  or  gigantic  cobweb, 
the  idleness  and  pensiveness  of  the  long  vaca- 
tion. Mr.  Snagsby,  law-stationer,  of  Cook’s 
Court,  Cursitor  Street,  is  sensible  of  the  influ- 
ence ; not  only  in  his  mind  as  a sympathetic 
and  contemplative  man,  but  also  in  his  business 
as  a law-stationer  aforesaid.  He  has  more  lei- 
sure for  musing  in  Staple  Inn  and  in  the  Rolls 
Yard,  during  the  long  vacation,  than  at  other 
seasons  ; and  he  says  to  the  two  ’prentices,  what 


SUMMER  SCENERY 


469 


SUNDAY 


a thing  it  is  in  such  hot  weather  to  think  that 
you  live  in  an  island,  with  the  sea  a-rolling  and 
a-bowling  right  round  you. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  ig. 

SUMMER  SCENERY,  and  sentiment. 

Plashvvater  Weir-Mill  Lock  looked  tianquil 
and  pretty  on  an  evening  in  the  summer-time. 
A soft  air  stirred  the  leaves  of  the  fresh  green 
trees,  and  passed  like  a smooth  shadow  over  the 
river,  and  like  a smoother  shadow  over  the 
yielding  grass.  The  voice  of  the  falling  water, 
like  the  voices  of  the  sea  and  the  wind,  were  as 
an  outer  memory  to  a contemplative  listener; 
but  not  particularly  so  to  Mr.  Riderhood,  who 
sat  on  one  of  the  blunt  wooden  levers  of  his 
lock-gates,  dozing.  Wine  must  be  got  into  a 
butt  by  some  agency  before  it  can  be  drawn 
out  ; and  the  wine  of  sentiment  never  having 
been  got  into  Mr.  Riderhood  by  any  agency, 
nothing  in  nature  tapped  him. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  IV.,  Chap.  I. 

SUMMER  VACATION-Of  Courts. 

It  is  the  long  vacation  in  the  regions  of 
Chancery  Lane.  The  good  ships  Law  and 
Equity,  those  teak-built,  copper-bottomed,  iron- 
fastened,  brazen-faced,  and  not  by  any  means 
fast-sailing  Clippers,  are  laid  up  in  ordinary. 
The  Flying  Dutchman,  with  a crew  of  ghostly 
clients  imploring  all  whom  they  may  encounter 
to  peruse  their  papers,  has  drifted,  for  the  time 
being,  Heaven  knows  where.  The  Courts  are 
all  shut  up  ; the  public  offices  lie  in  a hot  sleep  ; 
Westminster  Hall  itself  is  a shady  solitude 
where  nightingales  might  sing,  and  a tenderer 
class  of  suitors  than  is  usually  found  there, 
walk. 

The  Temple,  Chancery  Lane,  Serjeants’  Inn, 
and  Lincoln’s  Inn  even  unto  the  Fields,  are  like 
tidal  harbors  at  low  water  ; where  stranded  pro- 
ceedings, offices  at  anchor,  idle  clerks  lounging 
on  lop-sided  stools  that  will  not  recover  their 
perpendicular  until  the  current  of  Term  sets  in, 
lie  high  and  dry  upon  the  ooze  of  the  long  vaca- 
tion. Outer  doors  of  chambers  are  shut  up  by 
the  score,  messages  and  parcels  are  to  be  left  at 
the  Porter's  Lodge  by  the  bushel.  A crop  of 
grass  would  grow  in  the  chinks  of  the  stone 
pavement  outside  Lincoln's  Inn  Hall,  but  that 
the  ticket-porters,  who  have  nothing  to  do  be- 
yond sitting  in  the  shade  there,  with  their  white 
aprons  over  their  heads  to  keep  the  flies  off, 
grub  it  up  and  eat  it  thoughtfully. 

There  is  only  oiie  Judge  in  town.  Even  he 
only  comes  twice  a-week  to  sit  in  chambers.  If 
the  country  folks  of  those  assize  towns  on  his 
circuit  could  see  him  now  ! No  full-bottomed 
wig,  no  red  petticoats,  no  fur,  no  javelin-men, 
no  white  wands.  Merely  a close-shaved  gentle- 
man, in  white  trousers  and  a white  hat,  with 
sea-bronze  on  the  judicial  countenance,  and  a 
strip  of  bark  peeled  by  the  solar  rays  from  the 
judicial  nose,  who  calls  in  at  the  shell-fish  shop 
as  he  comes  along,  and  drinks  iced  ginger-beer  ! 

The  bar  of  England  is  scattered  over  the  face 
of  the  earth.  How  England  can  get  on  through 
four  long  summer  months  without  its  bar — which 
is  its  acknowledged  refuge  in  adversity,  and  its 
only  legitimate  triumph  in  prosperity — is  beside 
the  question  ; assuredly  that  shield  and  buckler 
of  Britannia  are  not  in  present  wear.  The 
learned  gentleman  who  is  always  so  tremen- 


dously indignant  at  the  unprecedented  outrage 
committed  on  the  feelings  of  his  client  by  the 
opposite  party,  that  he  never  seems  likely  to  re- 
cover it,  is  doing  infinitely  better  than  might  be 
expected,  in  Switzerland.  The  learned  gentle- 
man who  does  the  withering  business,  and  who 
blights  all  opponents  with  his  gloomy  sarcasm, 
is  as  merry  as  a grig  at  a French  watering-place. 
The  learned  gentleman  who  weeps  by  the  pint 
on  the  smallest  provocation,  has  not  shed  a tear 
these  six  weeks.  The  very  learned  gentleman 
who  has  cooled  the  natural  heat  of  his  gingery 
complexion  in  pools  and  fountains  of  law,  until 
he  has  become  great  in  knotty  arguments  for 
term-time,  when  he  poses  the  drowsy  Bench 
with  legal  “chaff,”  inexplicable  to  the  uniniti- 
ated and  to  most  of  the  initiated  too,  is  roam- 
ing, with  a characteristic  delight  in  aridity  and 
dust,  about  Constantinople.  Other  dispersed 
fragments  of  the  same  great  Palladium  are  to 
be  found  on  the  canals  of  Venice,  at  the  second 
cataract  of  the  Nile,  in  the  baths  of  Germany, 
and  sprinkled  on  the  sea-sand  all  over  the  Eng- 
lish coast.  Scarcely  one  is  to  be  encountered  in 
the  deserted  region  of  Chancery  Lane.  If  such 
a lonely  member  of  the  bar  do  flit  across  the 
waste,  and  come  upon  a prowling  suitor  who  is 
unable  to  leave  off  haunting  the  scenes  of  his 
anxiety,  they  frighten  one  another,  and  retreat 
into  opposite  shades. — Bleak  House,  Chap.  19. 

SUMMER  WEATHER. 

The  summer  weather  in  his  bosom  was  re- 
flected in  the  breast  of  Nature.  Through  deep 
greeh  vistas  where  the  boughs  arched  over-head, 
and  showed  the  sunlight  flashing  in  the  beautiful 
perspective  ; through  dewy  fern,  from  which  the 
startled  hares  leaped  up,  and  fled  at  his  approach  ; 
by  mantled  pools,  and  fallen  trees,  and  down  in 
hollow  places,  rustling  among  last  year’s  leaves, 
whose  scent  woke  memory  of  the  past,  the  pla- 
cid Pecksniff  strolled.  By  meadow  gates  and 
hedges  fragrant  with  wild  roses  ; and  by  thatch- 
ed-roofed  cottages  whose  inmates  humbly  bowed 
before  him  as  a man  both  good  and  wise  : the 
worthy  Pecksniff  walked  in  tranquil  meditation. 
The  bee  passed  onward,  humming  of  the  work 
he  had  to  do  ; the  idle  gnats,  for  ever  going 
round  and  round  in  one  contracting  and  ex- 
panding ring,  yet  always  going  on  as  fast  as  he, 
danced  merrily  before  him  ; the  color  of  the 
long  grass  came  and  went,  as  if  the  light  clouds 
made  it  timid  as  they  floated  through  the  dis- 
tant air.  The  birds,  so  many  Pecksniff  con- 
sciences, sang  gaily  upon  every  branch  ; and 
Mr.  Pecksniff  paid  his  homage  to  the  day  by 
ruminating  on  his  projects  as  he  walked  along. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  30. 

SUNDAY— In  London. 

Where  are  all  the  people  who  on  busy  work- 
ing-days pervade  these  scenes?  The  locomo- 
tive banker’s  clerk,  who  carries  a black  port- 
folio chained  to  him  by  a chain  of  steel, — - 
where  is  he?  Does  he  go  to  bed  with  his 
chain  on, — to  church  with  his  chain  on, — or 
does  he  lay  it  by  ? And  if  he  lays  it  by,  what 
becomes  of  his  portfolio  when  he  is  unchained 
for  a holiday?  The  waste  paper  baskets  of 
these  closed  counting-houses  would  let  me  into 
many  hints  of  business  matters  if  I had  the  ex- 
ploration of  them  ; and  what  secrets  of  the 
heart  should  I discover  on  the  “ pads”  of  the 


SUNDAYS 


470 


SUN 


young  clerks, — the  sheets  of  cartridge-paper 
and  blotting-paper  interposed  between  their 
writing  and  their  desks  1 Pads  are  taken  into 
confidence  on  the  tenderest  occasions ; and 
oftentimes,  when  I have  made  a business  visit, 
and  have  sent  in  my  name  from  the  outer 
office,  have  I had  it  forced  on  my  discursive 
notice,  that  the  officiating  young  gentleman  has 
over  and  over  again  inscribed  Amelia,  in  ink 
of  various  dates,  on  corners  of  his  pad.  Indeed, 
the  pad  may  be  regarded  as  the  legitimate  mod- 
ern successor  of  the  old  forest-tree,  whereon 
these  young  knights  (having  no  attainable  for- 
est nearer  than  Epping)  engraved  the  names 
of  their  mistresses.  After  all,  it  is  a more  sat- 
isfactory process  than  carving,  and  can  be 
oftener  repeated.  So  these  courts  in  their 
Sunday  rest  are  courts  of  Love  Omnipotent 
(I  rejoice  to  bethink  myself),  dry  as  they  look. 
And  here  is  Garraway’s,  bolted  and  shuttered 
hard  and  fast ! It  is  possible  to  imagine  the 
man  who  cuts  the  sandwiches,  on  his  back  in 
a hayfiekl  ; it  is  possible  to  imagine  his  desk, 
like  the  desk  of  a clerk  at  church,  without  him, — 
but  imagination  is  unable  to  pursue  the  men 
who  wait  at  Garraway’s  all  the  week  for  the 
men  who  never  come.  When  they  are  forcibly 
put  out  of  Garraway’s  on  Saturday  night, — 
which  they  must  be,  for  they  never  would  go 
out  of  their  own  accord, — where  do  they  van- 
ish until  Monday  morning?  On  the  first  Sun- 
day that  I ever  stayed  here,  I expected  to  find 
them  hovering  about  these  lanes,  like  restless 
ghosts,  and  trying  to  peep  into  Garraway’s 
through  chinks  in  the  shutters,  if  not  endeavor- 
ing to  turn  the  lock  of  the  door  with  false 
keys,  picks,  and  screw-drivers.  But  the  won- 
der is  that  they  go  clean  away  ! And,  now  I 
think  of  it,  the  wonder  is  that  every  working- 
day  pervader  of  these  scenes  goes  clean  away. 
The  man  who  sells  the  dogs’  collars  and  the 
little  toy  coal-scuttles  feels  under  as  great  an  obli- 
gation to  go  afar  off  as  Glyn  and  Co.,  or  Smith, 
Payne,  and  Smith.  There  is  an  old  monastery- 
crypt  under  Garraway’s  (I  have  been  in  it 
among  the  port  wine),  and  perhaps  Garraway’s, 
taking  pity  on  the  mouldy  men  who  wait  in 
its  public  room  all  their  lives,  gives  them  cool 
house-room  down  there  over  Sundays  ; but  the 
catacombs  of  Paris  would  not  be  large  enough 
to  hold  the  rest  of  the  missing.  This  charac- 
teristic of  London  City  greatly  helps  its  being 
the  quaint  place  it  is  in  the  weekly  pause  of 
business,  and  greatly  helps  my  Sunday  sensation 
in  it  of  being  the  Last  Man. 

Uncovwiercial  Traveller , Chap.  21. 

SUNDAYS— In  childhood. 

“ Heaven  forgive  me,”  said  he,  “ and  those 
who  trained  me.  How  I have  hated  this  day  !” 

There  was  the  dreary  Sunday  of  his  child- 
hood, when  he  sat  with  his  hands  before  him, 
scared  out  of  his  senses  by  a horrible  tract  which 
commenced  business  with  the  poor  child  by  ask- 
ing him  in  its  title,  Why  he  was  going  to  Perdi- 
tion?— apiece  of  curiosity  that  he  really,  in  a 
frock  and  drawers,  was  not  in  a condition  to  sat- 
isfy— and  which,  for  the  further  attraction  of  his 
infant  mind,  had  a parenthesis  in  every  other 
line  with  some  such  hiccupping  reference  as 
2 Ep.  Thcss.  c.  iii.  v.  6 & 7.  There  was  the 
sleepy  Sunday  of  his  boyhood,  when,  like  a mili- 
tary deserter,  he  was  marched  to  chapel  by  a 


picquet  of  teachers  three  times  a day,  morally 
handcuffed  to  another  boy  ; and  when  he  would 
willingly  have  bartered  two  meals  of  indigesti- 
ble sermon  for  another  ounce  or  two  of  inferior 
mutton  at  his  scanty  dinner  in  the  flesh.  There 
was  the  interminable  Sunday  of  his  nonage,  when 
his  mother,  stern  of  face  and  unrelenting  of 
heart,  would  sit  all  day  behind  a bible — bound, 
like  her  own  construction  of  it,  in  the  hardest, 
barest,  and  straightest  boards,  with  one  dinted 
ornament  on  the  cover  like  the  drag  of  a chain, 
and  a wrathful  sprinkling  of  red  upon  the  edges 
of  the  leaves — as  if  it,  of  all  books ! were  a fortifi- 
cation against  sweetness  of  temper,  natural  affec- 
tion, and  gentle  intercourse.  There  was  the  re- 
sentful Sunday  of  a little  later,  when  he  sat 
glowering  and  glooming  through  the  tardy 
length  of  the  day,  with  a sullen  sense  of  injury 
in  his  heart,  and  no  more  real  knowledge  of  the 
beneficent  history  of  the  New  Testament,  than 
if  he  had  been  bred  among  idolaters.  There  was 
a legion  of  Sundays,  all  days  of  unserviceable 
bitterness  and  mortification,  slowly  passing  be- 
fore him. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

SUNDAY  EVENING  In  London. 

It  was  Sunday  evening  in  London,  gloomy, 
close,  and  stale.  Maddening  church  bells  of  all 
degrees  of  dissonance,  sharp  and  flat,  cracked 
and  clear,  fast  and  slow,  made  the  brick  and 
mortar  echoes  hideous.  Melancholy  streets,  in  a 
penitential  garb  of  soot,  steeped  the  souls  of  the 
people  who  were  condemned  to  look  at  them 
out  of  windows,  in  dire  despondency.  In  every 
thoroughfai-e,  up  almost  every  alley,  and  down 
almost  every  turning,  some  doleful  bell  was 
throbbing,  jerking,  tolling,  as  if  the  Plague  were 
in  the  city  and  the  dead-carts  were  going  round. 
Everything  was  bolted  and  barred  that  could  by 
possibility  furnish  relief  to  an  overworked  peo- 
ple. No  pictures,  no  unfamiliar  animals,  no  rare 
plants  or  flowers,  no  natural  or  artificial  won- 
ders of  the  ancient  world — all  taboo  with  that 
enlightened  strictness  that  the  ugly  South  Sea 
gods  in  the  British  Museum  might  have  sup- 
posed themselves  at  home  again.  Nothing  to 
see  but  streets,  streets,  streets.  Nothing  to 
breathe  but  streets,  streets,  streets.  Nothing  to 
change  the  brooding  mind,  or  raise  it  up.  No- 
thing for  the  spent  toiler  to  do,  but  to  compare 
the  monotony  of  his  seventh  day  with  the  mo- 
notony of  his  six  days,  think  what  a weary  life  he 
led,  and  make  the  best  of  it — or  the  worst,  ac- 
cording to  the  probabilities. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

SUN. 

“ This  brigand  of  a sun.” 

Jjittle  Dorrit , Chap.  1. 

SUN— A punctual  servant. 

That  punctual  servant  of  all  work,  the  sun, 
had  just  risen,  and  begun  to  strike  a light  on 
the  morning  of  the  thirteenth  of  May,  one 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  twenty-seven,  when 
Mr.  Samuel  Pickwick  burst  like  another  sun 
from  his  slumbers,  threw  open  his  chamber  win- 
dow, and  looked  out  upon  the  world  beneath. 
Goswell  Street  was  at  his  feet,  Goswell  Street 
was  on  his  right  hand — as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  Goswell  .Street  extended  on  his  left  ; and 
the  opposite  side  of  Goswell  Street  was  over 
the  way.  “ Such,”  thought  Mr.  Pickwick, 


SUN 


471 


SUNSHINE 


“ are  the  narrow  views  of  those  philosophers 
who,  content  with  examining  the  things  that 
lie  before  them,  look  not  to  the  truths  which 
are  hidden  beyond.  As  well  might  I be  con- 
tent to  gaze  on  Goswell  Street  forever,  without 
one  effort  to  penetrate  to  the  hidden  countries 
which  on  every  side  surround  it.”  And  having 
given  vent  to  this  beautiful  reflection,  Mr.  Pick- 
wick proceeded  to  put  himself  into  his  clothes, 
and  his  clothes  into  his  portmanteau. 

Pickwick , Chap.  2. 

SUN— In  the  city. 

There  was  a tiny  blink  of  sun  peeping  in 
from  the  great  street  round  the  corner,  and  the 
smoky  sparrows  hopped  over  it  and  back  again, 
brightening  as  they  passed  : or  bathed  in  it,  like 
a stream,  and  became  glorified  sparrows,  uncon- 
nected with  chimneys. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  29. 

SUN— Its  influence  on  Bag-stock. 

“ Sit  down,”  said  Cleopatra,  listlessly  waving 
her  fan,  “ a long  way  off.  Don’t  come  too  near 
me,  for  I am  frightfully  faint  and  sensitive  this 
morning,  and  you  smell  of  the  Sun.  You  are 
absolutely  tropical.” 

“ By  George,  Ma’am,”  said  the  Major,  “ the 
time  has  been  when  Joseph  Bagstock  has  been 
grilled  and  blistered  by  the  Sun  ; the  time  was, 
when  he  was  forced,  Ma’am,  into  such  full  blow, 
by  high  hothouse  heat  in  the  West  Indies,  that 
he  was  known  as  the  Flower.  A man  never 
heard  of  Bagstock,  Ma’am,  in  those  days  ; he 
heard  of  the  Flower — the  Flower  of  Ours.  The 
Flower  may  have  faded,  more  or  less,  Ma’am,” 
observed  the  Major,  dropping  into  a much  nearer 
chair  than  had  been  indicated  by  his  cruel  Di- 
vinity, “ but  it  is  a tough  plant  yet,  and  constant 
as  the  evergreen.” — Dombey  0°  Son,  Chap.  26. 

SUNRISE— Its  associations. 

He  turned  to  where  the  sun  was  rising,  and 
beheld  it,  in  its  glory,  as  it  broke  upon  the 
scene. 

So  awful,  so  transcendent  in  its  beauty,  so 
divinely  solemn.  As  he  cast  his  faded  eyes  upon 
it,  where  it  rose,  tranquil  and  serene,  unmoved 
by  all  the  wrong  and  wickedness  on  which  its 
beams  had  shone  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  who  shall  say  that  some  weak  sense  of 
virtue  upon  Earth,  and  its  reward  in  Heaven, 
did  not  manifest  itself,  even  to  him?  If  ever 
he  remembered  sister  or  brother  with  a touch  of 
tenderness  and  remorse,  who  shall  say  it  was 
not  then  ? 

He  needed  some  such  touch  then.  Death 
was  on  him.  He  was  marked  off  from  the  living 
world,  and  going  down  into  his  grave. 

Dombey  dr3  Son,  Chap.  55. 

SUN— A blazing-  summer’s. 

Thirty  years  ago,  Marseilles  lay  burning  in 
the  sun,  one  day. 

A blazing  sun  upon  a fierce  August  day  was 
no  greater  rarity  in  southern  France  then,  than 
at  any  other  time,  before  or  since.  Everything 
in  Marseilles,  and  about  Marseilles,  had  stared  at 
the  fervid  sky,  and  been  stared  at  in  return,  un- 
til a staring  habit  had  become  universal  there. 
Strangers  were  stared  out  of  countenance  by  star- 
ing white  houses,  staring  white  walls,  staring 
white  streets,  staring  tracts  of  arid  road,  staring 


hills  from  which  verdure  was  burnt  away.  The 
only  things  to  be  seen  not  fixedly  staring  and 
glaring  were  the  vines,  drooping  under  their  load 
of  grapes.  These  did  occasionally  wink  a little, 
as  the  hot  air  barely  moved  their  faint  leaves. 

There  was  no  wind  to  make  a ripple  on  the 
foul  water  within  the  harbor,  or  on  the  beautiful 
sea  without.  The  line  of  demarcation  between 
the  two  colors,  black  and  blue,  showed  the 
point  which  the  pure  sea  would  not  pass  ; but  it 
lay  as  quiet  as  the  abominable  pool,  with  which 
it  never  mixed.  Boats  without  awnings  were 
too  hot  to  touch  ; ships  blistered  at  their  moor- 
ings ; the  stones  of  quays  had  not  cooled,  night 
or  day,  for  months.  Hindoos,  Russians,  Chinese, 
Spaniards,  Portuguese,  Englishmen,  Frenchmen, 
Genoese,  Neapolitans,  Venetians,  Greeks,  Turks, 
descendants  from  all  the  builders  of  Babel,  come 
to  trade  at  Marseilles,  sought  the  shade  alike — 
taking  refuge  in  any  hiding-place  from  a sea  too 
intensely  blue  to  be  looked  at,  and  a sky  of  pur- 
ple, set  with  one  great  flaming  jewel  of  fire. 

The  universal  stare  made  the  eyes  ache. 
Towards  the  distant  line  of  Italian  coast,  in- 
deed, it  was  a little  relieved  by  light  clouds  of 
mist,  slowly  rising  from  the  evaporation  of  the 
sea;  but  it  softened  nowhere  else.  Faraway, 
the  staring  roads,  deep  in  dust,  stared  from  the 
hill-side,  stared  from  the  hollow,  stared  from 
the  interminable  plain.  Far  away,  the  dusty 
vines  overhanging  wayside  cottages,  and  the 
monotonous  wayside  avenues  of  parched  trees 
without  shade,  drooped  beneath  the  stare  of 
earth  and  sky.  So  did  the  horses  with  drowsy 
bells,  in  long  files  of  carts,  creeping  slowly  to- 
wards the  interior ; so  did  their  recumbent  dri- 
vers, when  they  were  awake,  which  rarely  hap- 
pened ; so  did  the  exhausted  laborers  in  the 
fields.  Everything  that  lived  or  grew,  was  op- 
pressed by  the  glare  ; except  the  lizard,  passing 
swiftly  over  rough  stone  walls,  and  the  cicala, 
chirping  his  dry  hot  chirp,  like  a rattle.  The 
very  dust  was  scorched  brown,  and  something 
quivered  in  the  atmosphere  as  if  the  air  itself 
were  panting. 

Blinds,  shutters,  curtains,  awnings,  were  all 
closed  and  drawn  to  keep  out  the  stare.  Grant 
it  but  a chink  or  keyhole,  and  it  shot  in  like  a 
white-hot  arrow.  The  churches  were  the  freest 
from  it.  To  come  out  of  the  twilight  of  pillars 
and  arches  — dreamily  dotted  with  winking 
lamps,  dreamily  peopled  with  ugly  old  shadows, 
piously  dozing,  spitting,  and  begging — was  to 
plunge  into  a fiery  river,  and  swim  for  life  to 
the  nearest  strip  of  shade.  So,  with  people 
lounging  and  lying  wherever  shade  was,  with 
but  little  hum  of  tongues  or  barking  of  dogs, 
with  occasional  jangling  of  discordant  church 
bells,  and  rattling  of  vicious  drums,  Marseilles, 
a fact  to  be  strongly  smelt  and  tasted,  lay  broil- 
ing in  the  sun  one  day. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  1. 

SUNSHINE. 

The  clear  cold  sunshine  glances  into  the 
brittle  woods,  and  approvingly  beholds  the 
sharp  wind  scattering  the  leaves  and  drying  the 
moss.  It  glides  over  the  park  after  the  mov- 
ing shadows  of  the  clouds,  and  chases  them,, 
and  never  catches  them,  all  day.  It  looks  in  at 
the  windows,  and  touches  the  ancestral  por- 
traits with  bars  and  patches  of  brightness,  nev- 
er contemplated  by  the  painters.  Athwart  the 


SUNSET 


472 


SUSAN  NIPPER 


picture  of  my  Lady,  over  the  great  chimney- 
piece,  it  throws  a broad  bend-sinister  of  light, 
that  strikes  down  crookedly  into  the  hearth, 
and  seems  to  rend  it. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  12. 

SUNSET— A summer. 

A tranquil  summer  sunset  shone  upon  him  as 
he  approached  the  end  of  his  walk,  and  passed 
through  the  meadows  by  the  river-side.  He 
had  that  sense  of  peace,  and  of  being  lightened 
of  a weight  of  care,  which  country  quiet  awak- 
ens in  the  breasts  of  dwellers  in  towns.  Every- 
thing within  his  view  was  lovely  and  placid. 
The  rich  foliage  of  the  trees,  the  luxuriant 
grass  diversified  with  wild  flowers,  the  little 
green  islands  in  the  river,  the  beds  of  rushes, 
the  water-lilies  floating  on  the  surface  of  the 
stream,  the  distant  voices  in  boats,  borne  music- 
ally towards  him  on  the  ripple  of  the  water  and 
the  evening  air,  were  all  expressive  of  rest.  In 
the  occasional  leap  of  a fish,  or  dip  of  an  oar, 
or  twittering  of  a bird  not  yet  at  roost,  or  dis- 
tant barking  of  a dog,  or  lowing  of  a cow — in 
all  such  sounds  there  was  the  prevailing  breath 
of  rest,  which  seemed  to  encompass  him  in 
every  scent  that  sweetened  the  fragrant  air. 
The  long  lines  of  red  and  gold  in  the  sky,  and 
the  glorious  track  of  the  descending  sun,  were 
all  divinely  calm.  Upon  the  purple  tree-tops 
far  away,  and  on  the  green  height  near  at 
hand,  up  which  the  shades  were  slowly  creep- 
ing, there  was  an  equal  hush.  Between  the 
real  landscape  and  its  shadow  in  the  water, 
there  was  no  division  ; both  were  so  untroubled 
and  clear,  and,  while  so  fraught  with  solemn 
mystery  of  life  and  death,  so  hopefully  reas- 
suring to  the  gazer’s  soothed  heart,  because  so 
tenderly  and  mercifully  beautiful. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  28. 

SUNSET— In  a Cathedral. 

“ Dear  me,”  said  Mr.  Grewgious,  peeping  in, 
“it’s  like  looking  down  the  throat  of  Old 
Time.” 

Old  Time  heaved  a mouldy  sigh  from  tomb 
and  arch  and  vault  ; and  gloomy  shadows  be- 
gan to  deepen  in  corners  ; and  damps  began 
to  rise  from  green  patches  of  stone  ; and  jewels, 
cast  upon  the  pavement  of  the  nave  from  stain- 
ed glass  by  the  declining  sun,  began  to  perish. 
Within  the  grill-gate  of  the  chancel,  up  the 
steps  surmounted  loomingly  by  the  fast-dark- 
ening organ,  white  robes  could  be  dimly  seen, 
and  one  feeble  voice,  rising  and  falling  in  a 
cracked,  monotonous  mutter,  could  at  intervals 
be  faintly  heard.  In  the  free  outer  air,  the 
river,  the  green  pastures,  and  the  brown  arable 
lands,  the  teeming  hills  and  dales,  were 
reddened  by  the  sunset  ; while  the  distant  little 
windows  in  windmills  and  farm  homesteads, 
shone,  patches  of  bright,  beaten  gold.  In  the 
Cathedral,  all  became  gray,  murky,  and  sepul- 
chral, and  the  cracked,  monotonous  mutter 
went  on  like  a dying  voice,  until  the  organ  and 
the  choir  burst  forth,  and  drowned  it  in  a sea 
of  music.  Then  the  sea  fell,  and  the  dying 
voi  ■ • tliei  feeble  * ■ 1 1 ■ > 1 1 , and  then  1 lie 

< • h h,  md  beat  its  life  out,  and  lashed  1 lie 
roof,  and  surged  among  the  arches,  and  pierced 
the  heights  <>\  1 II'-  great  tower ; and  then  the 
tea  was  dry,  and  all  was  still. 

Edwin  Drood}  Chap.  9. 


SUNSET. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  in  the  west,  and, 
glancing  out  of  a red  mist,  pierced  with  its  rays 
opposite  loop-holes  and  pieces  of  fret-work  in 
the  spires  of  city  churches,  as  if  with  golden  ar- 
rows that  struck  through  and  through  them— 
and  far  away,  athwart  the  river  and  its  flat 
banks,  it  was  gleaming  like  a path  of  fire — and 
out  at  sea  it  was  irradiating  sails  of  ships — and, 
looked  towards,  from  quiet  churchyards,  upon 
hill-tops  in  the  country,  it  was  steeping  distant 
prospects  in  a flush  and  glow  that  seemed  to 
mingle  earth  and  sky  together  in  one  glorious 
suffusion. — Dombey  & Son , Chap.  49. 

SUNSET  -It3  effect  on  pictures. 

Through  some  of  the  fiery  windows,  beautiful 
from  without,  and  set,  at  this  sunset  hour,  not  in 
dull  gray  stone  but  in  a glorious  house  of  gold, 
the  light  excluded  at  other  windows  pours  in, 
rich,  lavish,  overflowing  like  the  summer  plenty 
in  the  land.  Then  do  the  frozen  Dcd locks  thaw. 
Strange  movements  come  upon  their  features, 
as  the  shadows  of  leaves  play  there.  A dense 
Justice  in  a corner  is  beguiled  into  a wink.  A 
staring  Baronet,  with  a truncheon,  gets  a dimple 
in  his  chin.  Down  into  the  bosom  of  a stony 
shepherdess  there  steals  a fleck  of  tight  and 
warmth,  that  would  have  done  ic  good  a hun- 
dred years  ago.  One  ancestrcss  of  Volumnia, 
in  high-heeled  shoes,  very  like  her — casting  the 
shadow  of  that  virgin  event  before  her  full  two 
centuries — shoots  out  into  a halo  and  becomes  a 
saint.  A maid  of  honor  of  the  court  of  Charles 
the  Second,  with  large  round  eyes  (and  other 
charms  to  correspond),  seems  to  bathe  in  glow- 
ing water,  and  it  ripples  as  it  glows. 

But  the  fire  of  the  sun  is  dying.  Even  now 
the  floor  is  dusky,  and  shadow  slowly  mounts 
the  walls,  bringing  the  Dedlocks  down  like  age 
and  death.  And  now,  upon  my  Lady’s  picture 
over  the  great  chimney-piece,  a weird  shade 
falls  from  some  old  tree,  that  turns  it  pale,  and 
flutters  it,  and  looks  as  if  a great  arm  held  a 
veil  or  hood,  watching  an  opportunity  to 
draw  it  over  her.  Higher  and  darker  rises  the 
shadow  on  the  wall — now  a red  gloom  on  the 
ceiling — now  the  fire  is  out. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  40. 

SUNSET— On  the  Mississippi. 

The  decline  of  day  here  was  very  gorgeous, 
tingeing  the  firmament  deeply  with  red  and 
gold  up  to  the  very  keystone  of  the  arch 
above  us.  As  the  sun  went  down  behind  the 
bank,  the  slightest  blades  of  grass  upon  it 
seemed  to  become  as  distinctly  visible  as  the 
arteries  in  the  skeleton  of  a leaf,  and  when,  as 
it  slowly  sank,  the  red  and  golden  bars  upon 
the  water  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer  yet,  as  if 
they  were  sinking  too,  and  all  the  glowing 
colors  of  departing  day  paled,  inch  by  inch, 
before  the  sombre  night,  the  scene  became  a 
thousand  times  more  lonesome  and  more  dreary 
than  before,  and  all  its  influences  darkened  with 
the  sky. — American  Notes , Chap.  12. 

SUSAN  NIPPER.  Her  saying-s. 

“Oh  well,  Miss  Floy!  And  won’t  your  Pa 
be  angry  neither ! ” cried  a quick  voice  at  the 
door,  proceeding  from  a short,  brown,  womanly 
girl  of  fourteen,  with  a little  snub  nose,  and 
black  eyes  like  jet  beads.  “ When  it  was  ’tick- 


SU3AN  NIPPER 


473 


SUSAN  NIPPER 


erlerly  given  out  that  you  wasn’t  to  go  and  wor- 
rit the  wet  nurse.” 

“ She  don’t  worry  me,”  was  the  surprised 
rejoinder  of  Polly.  “ I am  very  fond  of  chil- 
dren.” 

“ Oh  ! but  begging  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards, that  don’t  matter,  you  know,”  returned  the 
black-eyed  girl,  who  was  so  desperately  sharp 
and  biting  that  she  seemed  to  make  one’s  eyes 
water.  “ I may  be  very  fond  of  pennywinkles, 
Mrs.  Richards,  but  it  don’t  follow  that  I’m  to 
have  ’em  for  tea.” 

“ This  house  ain’t  so  exactly  ringing  with 
merry-making,”  said  Miss  Nipper,  “that  one 
need  be  lonelier  than  one  must  be.  Your  Toxes 
and  your  Chickses  may  draw  out  my  two  front 
double  teeth,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  that’s  no  rea- 
son why  I need  offer  ’em  the  whole  set.” 

Dorn  bey  6°  Son,  Chap.  3. 


“ You  might  keep  me  in  a strait- waistcoat  for 
six  weeks,”  said  Nipper,  “ and  when  I got  it  off 
I’d  only  be  more  aggravated.  Who  ever  heard 
the  like  of  them  two  Griffins,  Mrs.  Richards?” 

* * * * * 

“ Oh  ! bless  your  heart,  Mrs.  Richards,”  cried 
Susan,  “ temporaries  always  orders  permanen- 
cies here,  didn’t  you  know  that,  why  wherever 
was  you  born,  Mrs.  Richards?  But  wherever 
you  was  born,  Mrs.  Richards,”  pursued  Spitfire, 
shaking  her  head  resolutely,  “ and  whenever, 
and  however  (which  is  best  known  to  yourself), 
you  may  bear  in  mind,  please,  that  it’s  one  thing 
to  give  orders,  and  quite  another  thing  to  take 
’em.  A person  may  tell  a person  to  dive  off  a 
bridge  head  foremost  into  live-and-forty  feet  of 
water,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  a person  may  be  very 
far  from  diving.” — Dombey  Sf  Son , Chap.  5. 


“ Ndw,  Miss  Floy,  you  come  along  with  me, 
and  don’t  go  hanging  back  like  a naughty 
wicked  child  that  judgments  is  no  example  to, 
don’t.” — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  3. 


“ If  I hadn’t  more  manliness  than  that  insipid- 
est  of  his  sex,  I’d  never  take  pride  in  my  hair 
again,  but  turn  it  up  behind  my  ears,  and  wear 
coarse  caps,  without  a bit  of  border,  until  death 
released  me  from  my  insignificance.  I may  not 
be  a Amazon,  Miss  Floy,  and  wouldn’t  so  de- 
mean myself  by  such  disfigurement,  but  anyways 
I’m  not  a giver  up,  I hope.” 

“ Give  up  ! What?”  cried  Florence,  with  a 
face  of  terror. 

“ Why,  nothing,  Miss,”  said  Susan.  “ Good 
gracious,  nothing  ! It’s  only  that  wet  curl-paper 
of  a man,  Perch,  that  any  one  might  almost  make 
away  with,  with  a touch,  and  really  it  would  be 
a blessed  event  for  all  parties  if  some  one  would 
take  pity  on  him,  and  would  have  the  goodness  ! ” 
Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  23. 

“ Giving  consent  when  asked,  and  offering 
when  unasked,  Miss,  is  quite  two  things  ; I may 
not  have  my  objections  to  a young  man’s  keep- 
ing company  with  me,  and  when  he  puts  the 
question,  may  say  ‘ ves,’  but  that’s  not  saying 
‘ would  you  be  so  kind  as  like  me.’  ” 

“ But  you  can  buy  me  the  books,  Susan  ; and 
you  will,  when  you  know  I want  them.” 

“Well,  Miss,  and  why  do  you  want  ’em?”  re- 
plied Nipper;  adding,  in  a lower  voice.  “ If  it 


was  to  fling  at  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  head,  I’d  buy  a 
cart-load.” — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  12. 


“ Talk  of  him  being  a change,  indeed  !”  ob- 
served Miss  Nipper  to  herself  with  boundless 
contempt.  “ If  he’s  a change  give  me  a con- 
stancy.”— Dombey  Sr  Son , Chap.  ib. 

“ My  comfort  is,”  said  Susan,  looking  back  at 
Mr.  Dombey,  “ that  I have  told  a piece  of  truth 
this  day  which  ought  to  have  been  told  long  be- 
fore, and  can’t  be  told  too  often  or  too  plain,  and 
that  no  amount  of  Pipchinses — I hope  the  num- 
ber of  ’em  mayn’t  be  great  ” (here  Mrs.  Pipchin 
uttered  a very  sharp  “ Go  along  with  you  ! ” and 
Miss  Nipper  repeated  the  look)  “can  unsay 
what  I have  said,  though  they  gave  a whole  year 
full  of  warnings  beginning  at  ten  o’clock  in 
the  forenoon,  and  never  leaving  off  till  twelve 
at  night,  and  died  of  the  exhaustion  which 
would  be  a jubilee  !” — Dombey  Sr3  Son,  Chap.  44. 

As  the  knight-errants  of  old  relieved  their 
minds  by  carving  their  mistresses  names  in  des- 
erts, and  wildernesses,  and  other  savage  places 
where  there  was  no  probability  of  there  ever 
being  anybody  to  read  them,  so  did  Miss  Susan 
Nipper  curl  her  snub  nose  into  drawers  and 
wardrobes,  put  away  winks  of  disparagement  in 
cupboards,  shed  derisive  squints  into  stone  pitch- 
ers, and  contradict  and  call 'names  out  of  the 
passage. — Domb:y  Son-.  Chap.  5. 

“How  dare  you  talk  in  this  way  to  a gentle- 
woman who  has  seen  better  days.” 

To  which  Miss  Nipper  rejoined  from  her 
castle,  that  she  pitied  the  better  days  that  had 
seen  Mrs.  Pipchin  ; and  that  for  her  part  she 
considered  the  worst  days  in  the  year  to  be 
about  that  lady’s  mark,  except  that  they  were 
much  too  good  for  her. 

“ But  you  needn’t  trouble  yourself  to  make  a 
noise  at  my  door,”  said  Susan  Nipper,  “nor  to 
contaminate  the  key  hole  with  your  eye.  I’m 
packing  up  and  going  you  may  take  your  affida- 
vit.”— Dombey  Sr3  Son,  Chap.  44. 

“ I thought  you  would  have  been  pleased,” 
said  Polly. 

“ Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  I’m  very  well  pleased, 
thank  you,”  returned  Susan,  who  had  suddenly 
become  so  very  upright  that  she  seemed  to  have 
put  an  additional  bone  in  her  stays. 

“You  don’t  show  it,”  said  Polly. 

“Oh  ! Being  only  a permanency,  I couldn’t  be 
expected  to  show  it  like  a temporary,”  said  Su- 
san Nipper.  “ Temporaries  carries  it  all  before 
’em  here,  I find,  but  though  there’s  a excellent 
party-wall  between  this  house  and  the  next,  I 
mayn’t  exactly  like  to  go  to  it,  Mrs.  Richards, 
notwithstanding. — Dombey  Sr  Son,  Chap.  3. 

“ Oh,  it’s  very  well  to  say  * don’t,’  Miss  Floy,” 
returned  the  Nipper,  much  exasperated:  “but 
raly  begging  your  pardon  we’re  coming  to  such 
passes  that  it  turns  all  the  blood  in  a person’s 
body  into  pins  and  needles,  with  their  pints  all 
ways.” — Dombey  Sr3  Son,  Chap.  43. 

“ For  though  I can  bear  a great  deal,  I am  not 
a camel,  neither  am  I,”  added  Susan,  after  a 
moment’s  consideration,  “ if  I know  myself,  a 
dromedary  neither.” — Dombey  Sf  Son,  Chap.  23. 


SURPRISES 


474 


TASTE 


* Well  Miss  Floy,”  returned  the  Nipper, 
‘‘when  you  say  don’t,  I never  do  I hope,  but 
Mrs.  Pipchin  acts  like  early  gooseberries  upon 
me  Miss,  and  nothing  less.” 

Dombcy  dr9  Son,  Chap.  43. 

“ Don’t  speak  to  me,  Miss  Floy,  for  though  I’m 
pretty  firm  I’m  not  a marble  doorpost,  my  own 
dear.” — Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  44. 

SURPRISES. 

Surprises,  like  misfortunes,  rarely  come  alone. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  6. 

SUSPICION— A maxim  of  life. 

“ You  will  not  have  forgotten  that  it  was  a 
maxim  with  Foxey — our  revered  father,  gentle- 
men— ‘ Always  suspect  everybody.’  That’s  the 
maxim  to  go  through  life  with  ! ” 

* «•  * * * 

With  deference  to  the  better  opinion  of  Mr. 
Brass,  and  more  particularly  to  the  authority  of 
his  Great  Ancestor,  it  may  be  doubted,  with 
humility,  whether  the  elevating  principle  laid 
down  by  the  latter  gentleman,  and  acted  upon 
by  his  descendant,  is  always  a prudent  one,  or 
attended  in  practice  with  the  desired  results. 
This  is,  beyond  question,  a bold  and  presump- 
tuous doubt,  inasmuch  as  many  distinguished 
characters,  called  men  of  the  world,  long  headed 
customers,  knowing  dogs,  shrewd  fellows,  capi- 
tal hands  at  business,  and  the  like,  have  made, 
and  do  daily  make,  this  axiom  their  polar  star 
and  compass.  Still,  the  doubt  may  be  gently 
insinuated.  And  in  illustration  it  may  be  ob- 
served, that  if  Mr.  Brass,  not  being  over-suspi- 
cious, had,  without  prying  and  listening,  left  his 
sister  to  manage  the  conference  on  their  joint 
behalf,  or,  prying  and  listening,  had  not  been  in 
such  a mighty  hurry  to  anticipate  her  (which  he 
would  not  have  been,  but  for  his  distrust  and 
jealousy),  he  would  probably  have  found  him- 
self much  better  off  in  the  end.  Thus,  it  will 
always  happen  that  these  men  of  the  world, 
who  go  through  it  in  armor,  defend  themselves 
from  quite  as  much  good  as  evil  ; to  say  nothing 
of  the  inconvenience  and  absurdity  of  mounting 
guard  with  a microscope  at  all  times,  and  of 
wearing  a coat  of  mail  on  the  most  innocent 
occasions. — Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  66. 

SUSQUEHANNA-Crossing  the. 

The  mist,  wreathing  itself  into  a hundred  fan- 
tastic shapes,  moved  solemnly  upon  the  water ; 
and  the  gloom  of  evening  gave  to  all  an  air  of 
mystery  and  silence  which  greatly  enhanced  its 
natural  interest. 

We  crossed  this  river  by  a wooden  bridge, 
roofed  and  covered  in  on  all  sides,  and  nearly  a 
mile  in  length.  It  was  profoundly  dark,  per- 
plexed with  great  beams  crossing  and  recrossing 
it  at  every  possible  angle  ; and  through  the 
broad  chinks  and  crevices  in  the  floor,  the  rapid 
river  gleamed,  far  down  below,  like  a legion  of 
eyes.  We  had  no  lamps  : and  as  the  horses 
stumbled  and  floundered  through  this  place, 
towards  the  distant  speck  of  dying  light,  it 
seemed  interminable. 

American  Notes , Chap.  9. 

SYMPATHY. 

“ What  are  wc  to  live  for  but  sympathy  ? What 
else  is  so  extremely  charming?  Without  that 


gleam  of  sunshine  on  our  cold,  cold  earth,"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  arranging  her  lace  tucker,  and 
complacently  observing  the  effect  of  her  bare 
lean  arm,  looking  upward  from  the  wrist,  “ how 
could  we  possibly  bear  it  ? In  short,  obdurate 
man  ! ” glancing  at  the  Major,  round  the  screen, 
“ I would  have  my  world  all  heart ; and  Faith 
is  so  excessively  charming,  that  I won’t  allow 
you  to  disturb  it,  do  you  hear?” 

The  Major  replied  that  it  was  hard  in  Cleo- 
patra to  require  the  world  to  be  all  heart,  and 
yet  to  appropriate  to  herself  the  hearts  of  all  the 
world. — Dombey  Sr3  Son,  Chap.  21. 

S Y MPATIIY— Silent. 

Florence,  with  her  hand  upon  the  Captain’s 
arm,  so  sorrowful  and  timid,  and  the  Captain, 
with  his  rough  face  and  burly  figure,  so  quietly 
protective  of  her,  stood  in  the  rosy  light  of  the 
bright  evening  sky,  without  saying  a word. 
However  strange  the  form  of  speech  into  which 
he  might  have  fashioned  the  feeling,  if  he  had 
had  to  give  it  utterance,  the  Captain  felt  as 
sensibly  as  the  most  eloquent  of  men  could 
have  done,  that  there  was  something  in  the  tran- 
quil time  and  in  its  softened  beauty  that  would 
make  the  wounded  heart  of  Florence  overflow  ; 
and  that  it  was  better  that  such  tears  should 
have  their  way.  So  not  a word  spake  Captain 
Cuttle.  But  when  he  felt  his  arm  clasped  closer, 
and  when  he  felt  the  lonely  head  come  nearer 
to  it,  and  lay  itself  against  his  homely  coarse 
blue  sleeve,  he  pressed  it  gently  with  his  rugged 
hand,  and  understood  it,  and  was  understood. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  49. 

SYMPATHY-The  influence  of. 

Surrounded  by  unfeeling  creditors,  and  mer- 
cenary attendants  upon  the  sick,  and  meeting 
in  the  height  of  her  anxiety  and  sorrow  with 
little  regard  or  sympathy,  even  from  the  women 
about  her,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  affection- 
ate heart  of  the  child  should  have  been  touched 
to  the  quick  by  one  kind  and  generous  spirit, 
however  uncouth  the  temple  in  which  it  dwelt. 
Thank  Heaven,  that  the  temples  of  such  spirits 
are  not  made  with  hands,  and  that  they  may  be 
even  more  worthily  hung  with  poor  patch- 
work  than  with  purple  and  fine  linen  ! 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  II. 


T 

TASTE -Viewed  from  Gradgrind’s  stand- 
point. 

There  was  a library  in  Coketown,  to  which 
general  access  was  easy.  Mr.  Gradgrind  greatly 
tormented  his  mind  about  what  the  people  read 
in  this  library  : a point  whereon  little  rivers  of 
tabular  statements  periodically  flowed  into  the 
howling  ocean  of  tabular  statements,  which  no 
diver  ever  got  to  any  depth  in  and  came  up  sane. 
It  was  a disheartening  circumstance,  but  a melan- 
choly fact,  that  even  these  readers  persisted  in 
wondering.  They  wondered  about  human  nature, 
human  passions,  human  hopes  and  fears,  the 
struggles,  triumphs  and  defeats,  the  cares  and 


TASTES  AND  HABITS 


475 


TEA-DRINKING 


joys  and  sorrows,  the  lives  and  deaths,  of  com- 
mon men  and  women  ! They  sometimes,  after 
fifteen  hours’  work,  sat  down  to  read  mere  fables 
about  men  and  women,  more  or  less  like  them- 
selves, and  about  children,  more  or  less  like 
their  own.  They  took  De  Foe  to  their  bosoms, 
instead  of  Euclid,  and  seemed  to  be  on  the 
whole  more  comforted  by  Goldsmith  than  by 
Cocker.  Mr.  Gradgrind  was  for  ever  working, 
in  print  and  out  of  print,  at  this  eccentric  sum, 
and  he  never  could  make  out  how  it  yielded 
this  unaccountable  product. 

Hard  Times , Book  /.,  Chap.  8. 

TASTES  AND  HABITS-Social. 

My  voyages  (in  paper  boats)  among  savages 
often  yield  me  matter  for  reflection  at  home.  It 
is  curious  to  trace  the  savage  in  the  civilized 
man,  and  to  detect  the  hold  of  some  savage  cus- 
toms on  conditions  of  society  rather  boastful  of 
being  high  above  them. 

I wonder,  is  the  Medicine-Man  of  the  North 
American  Indians  never  to  be  got  rid  of,  out  of 
the  North  American  country?  Fie  comes  into 
my  Wigwam  on  all  manner  of  occasions,  and 
with  the  absurdest  “ Medicine.”  I always  find 
it  extremely  difficult,  and  I often  find  it  simply 
impossible,  to  keep  him  out  of  my  Wigwam. 
For  his  legal  “ Medicine”  he  sticks  upon  his 
head  the  hair  of  quadrupeds,  and  plasters  the 
same  with  fat,  and  dirty-white  powder,  and  talks 
a gibberish  quite  unknown  to  the  men  and 
squaws  of  his  tribe.  For  his  religious  “ Medi- 
cine” he  puts  on  puffy  white  sleeves,  little  black 
aprons,  large  black  waistcoats  of  a peculiar  cut, 
collarless  coats,  with  Medicine  button-holes, 
Medicine  stockings  and  gaiters  and  shoes,  and 
tops  the  whole  with  a highly  grotesque  Medici- 
nal hat.  In  one  respect,  to  be  sure,  I am  quite 
free  from  him.  On  occasions  when  the  Medi- 
cine-Man in  general,  together  with  a large  num- 
ber of  the  miscellaneous  inhabitants  of  his 
village,  both  male  and  female,  are  presented  to 
the  principal  Chief,  his  native  “ Medicine”  is  a 
comical  mixture  of  old  odds  and  ends  (hired  of 
traders),  and  new  things  in  antiquated  shapes, 
and  pieces  of  red  cloth  (of  which  he  is  particu- 
larly fond),  and  white  and  red  and  blue  paint 
for  the  face.  The  irrationality  of  this  particular 
Medicine  culminates  in  a mock  battle-rush,  from 
which  many  of  the  squaws  are  borne  out  much 
dilapidated.  I need  not  observe  how  unlike 
this  is  to  a Drawing-Room  at  St.  James’s  Palace. 

* ❖ * * * 

If  we  submit  ourselves  meekly  to  the  Medi- 
cine-Man and  the  Conjuror,  and  are  not  exalted 
by  it,  the  savages  may  retort  upon  us  that  we 
act  more  unwisely  than  they  in  other  matters 
wherein  we  fail  to  imitate  them.  It  is  a widely 
diffused  custom  among  savage  tribes,  when  they 
meet  to  discuss  any  affair  of  public  importance, 
to  sit  up  all  night  making  a horrible  noise,  dan- 
cing, blowing  shells,  and  (in  cases  where  they 
are  familiar  with  fire-arms)  flying  out  into  open 
places  and  letting  off"  guns.  It  is  questionable 
whether  our  legislative  assemblies  might  not 
take  a hint  from  this.  A shell  is  not  a melo- 
dious wind-instrument,  and  it  is  monotonous  ; 
but  it  is  as  musical  as,  and  not  more  monoto- 
nous than,  my  Honorable  friend’s  own  trumpet, 
or  the  trumpet  that  he  blows  so  hai'd  for  the 
Minister.  The  uselessness  of  arguing  with  any 
supporter  of  a Government  or  of  an  Opposition, 


is  well  known.  Try  dancing.  It  is  a better  ex- 
ercise, and  has  the  unspeakable  recommenda- 
tion that  it  couldn’t  be  reported.  The  honor- 
able and  savage  member  who  has  a loaded  gun, 
and  has  grown  impatient  of  debate,  plunges  out 
of  doors,  fires  in  the  air,  and  returns  calm  and 
silent  to  the  Palaver.  Let  the  honorable  and 
civilized  member  similarly  charged  with  a speech 
dart  into  the  cloisters  of  Westminster  Abbey  in 
the  silence  of  night,  let  his  speech  oft",  and  come 
back  harmless.  It  is  not  at  first  sight  a very 
rational  custom  to  paint  a broad  blue  stripe 
across  one’s  nose  and  both  cheeks,  and  a broad 
red  stripe  from  the  forehead  to  the  chin,  to  attach 
a few  pounds  of  wood  to  one’s  under  lip,  to 
stick  fish-bones  in  one’s  ears  and  a brass  cur- 
tain ring  in  one’s  nose,  and  to  rub  one’s  body 
all  over  with  rancid  oil,  as  a preliminary  to  en- 
tering on  business.  But  this  is  a question  of 
taste  and  ceremony,  and  so  is  the  Windsor  Uni- 
form. The  manner  of  entering  on  the  busi- 
ness itself  is  another  question.  A council  of  six 
hundred  savage  gentlemen  entirely  independent 
of  tailors,  sitting  on  their  hams  in  a ring,  smok- 
ing, and  occasionally  grunting,  seem  to  me,  ac- 
cording to  the  experience  I have  gathered  in  my 
voyages  and  travels,  somehow  to  do  what  they 
come  together  for  ; whereas,  that  is  not  at  all  the 
general  experience  of  a council  of  six  hundred 
civilized  gentlemen  very  dependent  on  tailors, 
and  sitting  on  mechanical  contrivances.  It  is 
better  that  an  Assembly  should  do  its  utmost  to 
envelop  itself  in  smoke,  than  that  it  should  di- 
rect its  endeavors  to  enveloping  the  public  in 
smoke ; and  I would  rather  it  buried  half  a hun- 
dred hatchets  than  buried  one  subject  demanding 
attention. — Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  26. 

TEA  - DRINKING  — A pastoral,  at  Mrs. 

Weller’s. 

“ What  do  you  think  them  women  does  t’other 
day,”  continued  Mr.  Weller,  after  a short  pause, 
during  which  he  had  significantly  struck  the  side 
of  his  nose  with  his  fore-finger  some  half  dozen 
times.  “ What  do  you  think  they  does,  t’other 
day,  Sammy  ? ” 

“ Don’t  know,”  replied  Sam,  “ what  ? ” 

“ Goes  and  gets  up  a grand  tea  drinkin’  for  a 
feller  they  calls  their  shepherd,”  said  Mr.  Weller. 
“ I was  a standing  starin’  in  at  the  pictur  shop 
down  at  our  place,  when  I sees  a little  bill  about 
it ; ‘ tickets  half-a-crown.  All  applications  to 
be  made  to  the  committee.  Secretary,  Mrs. 
Weller;’  and  when  I got  home  there  was  the 
committee  a sittin’  in  our  back  parlor.  Four- 
teen women  ; I wish  you  could  ha’  heard  ’em, 
Sammy.  There  they  was,  a passin’  resolutions, 
and  wotin’  supplies,  and  all  sorts  o’  games. 
Well,  what  with  your  mother-in-law  a worrying 
me  to  go,  and  what  with  my  looking  for’ard  to 
seein’  some  queer  starts  if  I did,  I put  my  name 
down  for  a ticket ; at  six  o’clock  on  the  Friday 
evenin’  I dresses  myself  out  wery  smart,  and 
off"  I goes  with  the  old  ’ooman,  and  up  we  walks 
into  a fust  floor  where  there  was  tea-things  for 
thirty,  and  a whole  lot  o’  women  as  begins  whis- 
perin’ to  one  another,  and  lookin’  at  me,  as  if 
they’d  never  seen  a rayther  stout  gen’lm’n  of 
eight-and-fifty  afore.  By-and-bye,  there  comes 
a great  bustle  down  stairs,  and  a lanky  chap  with 
a red  nose  and  a white  neckcloth  rushes  up,  and 
sings  out,  ‘ Here’s  the  shepherd  a coming  to 
wisit  his  faithful  flock  ; and  in  comes  a fat 


TEA-DRINKING 


470 


TEARS 


chap  in  black,  vith  a great  white  face,  a 
smilin’  avay  like  clockwork.  Such  goin’s  on, 
Sammy ! ‘ The  kiss  of  peace,’  says  the  shep- 

herd ; and  then  he  kissed  the  women  all  round, 
and  ven  he’d  done,  the  man  vith  the  red  nose 
began.  I was  just  a thinkin’  whether  I hadn’t 
better  begin  too — ’specially  as  there  was  a wery 
nice  lady  a siltin’  next  me — ven  in  comes  the 
tea,  and  your  mother-in-law,  as  had  been  makin’ 
the  kettle  bile  down-stairs.  At  it  they  went, 
tooth  and  nail.  Such  a precious  loud  hymn, 
Sammy,  while  the  tea  was  a brewing  ; such  a 
grace  ; such  eatin’  and  drinkin! ! I wish  you 
could  ha’  seen  the  shepherd  walkin’  into  the 
ham  and  muffins.  I never  see  such  a chap  to 
eat  and  drink ; never.  The  red-nosecl  man 
warn’t  by  no  means  the  sort  of  person  you’d 
like  to  grub  by  contract,  but  he  was  nothin’  to 
the  shepherd.  Well ; arter  the  tea  was  over, 
they  sang  another  hymn,  and  then  the  shepherd 
began  to  preach:  and  wery  well  he  did  it,  con- 
siderin’ how  heavy  them  muffins  must  have  lied 
on  his  chest.  Presently  lie  pulls  up,  all  of  a 
sudden,  ancl  hollers  out  ‘ Where  is  the  sinner; 
where  is  the  mis’rable  sinner?’  Upon  which, 
all  the  women  looked  at  me,  and  began  to  groan 
as  if  they  was  a dying.  I thought  it  was  rather 
sing’ler,  but  hows’ever,  I says  nothing.  Present- 
ly he  pulls  up  again,  and  lookin’  wery  hard  at 
me,  says, ‘Where  is  the  sinner;  where  is  the 
mis’rable  sinner?’  and  all  the  women  groans 
again,  ten  times  louder  than  afore.  I got  rather 
wild  at  this,  so  I takes  a step  or  two  for’ard  and 
says,  ‘ My  friend,’  says  I,  ‘ did  you  apply  that 
’ere  observation  to  me?’  ’Stead  of  begging 
my  pardon  as  any  gen’lm’n  would  ha’  done,  he 
got  more  abusive  than  ever  ; called  me  a wessel, 
Sammy — a wessel  of  wrath — and  all  sorts  o’ 
names.  So  my  blood  being  reg’larly  up,  I first 
give  him  two  or  three  for  himself,  and  then  two 
or  three  more  to  hand  over  to  the  man  with  the 
red  nose,  and  walked  off.  I wish  you  could  ha’ 
heard  how  the  women  screamed,  Sammy,  ven 
they  picked  up  the  shepherd  from  under  the 
table.” — Pickwick , Chap.  22. 

TEA-DRINKING- A serious. 

On  this  particular  occasion  the  women  drank 
tea  to  a most  alarming  extent  ; greatly  to  the 
horror  of  Mr.  Weller,  senior,  who,  utterly  regard- 
less of  all  Sam’s  admonitory  nudgings,  stared 
about  him  in  every  direction  with  the  most  un- 
disguised astonishment. 

“ Sammy,”  whispered  Mr.  Weller,  “ if  some  o’ 
these  here  people  don’t  want  tappin’  to-morrow 
mornin’,  I ain’t  your  father,  and  that’s  wot  it  is. 
Why,  this  here  old  lady  next  me  is  a drowndin’ 
herself  in  tea.” 

“ He  quiet,  can’t  you?”  murmured  Sam. 

“Sam,”  whispered  Mr.  Weller,  a . moment 
afterwards,  in  a tone  of  deep  agitation,  “mark 
my  voids,  my  boy.  If  that  ’ere  secretary  fellow 
keeps  on  for  only  five  minutes  more,  he’ll  blow 
hissclf  up  with  toast  and  water.” 

“ Well,  let  him,  if  he  likes,”  replied  Sam  ; “ it 
ain't  mi  bis’ness  o’  yourn.” 

“If  this  here  lasts  much  longer,  Sammy,”  said 
Mr.  Weller,  in  the  same  low  voice,  “ I shall  feel 
it  my  fluty,  as  a human  bein',  to  rise  and  address 
the  cheer.  There’s  a young  'ooman  on  the  next 
form  but  two,  as  has  drunk  nine  breakfast  cups 
and  a half : and  she’s  a sWellin’ wisibly  before 
my  wery  eyes.” 


There  is  little  doubt  that  Mr.  Weller  would 
have  carried  his  benevolent  intention  into  im- 
mediate execution,  if  a great  noise,  occasioned 
by  putting  up  the  cups  and  saucers,  had  not 
very  fortunately  announced  that  the  tea-drink- 
ing was  over. — Pickwick , Chap.  33. 

TEA-DRINKER-Mr.  Venus  as  a. 

“ Brother,”  said  Wegg,  when  this  happy  un- 
derstanding was  established,  “ I should  like  to 
ask  you  something.  You  remember  the  night 
when  I first  looked  in  here,  and  found  you  float- 
ing  your  powerful  mind  in  tea?” 

Still  swilling  tea,  Mr.  Venus  nodded  assent. 

“ And  there  you  sit,  sir,”  pursued  Wegg  with 
an  air  of  thoughtful  admiration,  “as  if  you  had 
never  left  off!  There  you  sit,  sir,  as  if  you  had 
an  unlimited  capacity  of  assimilating  the  fragrant 
article!  There  you  sit,  sir,  in  the  midst  of  your 
works,  looking  as  if  you’d  been  called  upon 
for  Home,  Sweet  Home,  and  was  olMeeging 
the  company  ! ” 

Our  Mutual  Friend ',  Book  III. , Chap.  7. 

TEA— A Termagant  at. 

There  was  no  one  with  Flora  but  Mr.  F’s 
Aunt,  which  respectable  gentlewoman,  basking 
in  a balmy  atmosphere  of  tea  and  toast,  was  en- 
sconced in  an  easy  chair  by  the  fireside,  with  a 
little  table  at  her  elbow,  and  a clean  white  hand- 
kerchief spread  over  her  lap  on  which  two  pieces 
of  toast  at  that  moment  awaited  consumption 
Bending  over  a steaming  vessel  of  tea,  and  look- 
ing through  the  steam,  and  breathing  forth  the 
steam,  like  a malignant  Chinese  enchantress  en- 
gaged in  the  performance  of  unholy  rites,  Mr. 
F’s  Aunt  put  clown  her  great  teacup  and  ex- 
claimed, “ Drat  him,  if  he  an’t  come  back 
again  ! ” — Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  9. 

TEARS. 

Heaven  knows  we  need  never  be  ashamed  of 
our  tears,  for  they  are  rain  upon  the  blinding 
dust  of  earth,  overlying  our  hard  hearts. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  19. 

TEARS— Sam  Weller’s  opinion  of. 

“Come,  come,”  interposed  Sam,  who  had 
witnessed  Mr.  Trotter’s  tears  with  considerable 
impatience,  “blow  this  here  water-cart  bis’ness. 
It  won’t  do  no  good,  this  won’t.” 

.“Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  reproachfully,  “ I 
am  sorry  to  find  that  you  have  so  little  respect 
for  this  young  man’s  feelings.” 

“ Plis  feelins  is  all  wery  well,  sir,”  replied 
Mr.  Weller  ; “ and  as  they’re  so  wery  fine,  and 
it’s  a pity  he  should  lose  ’em,  I think  he’d  bet- 
ter keep  ’em  in  his  own  buzzum,  than  let  ’em 
ewaporate  in  hot  water,  ’specially  as  they  do  no 
good.  Tears  never  yet  wound  up  a clock,  or 
worked  a steam  ingen’.  The  next  time  you  go 
out  to  a smoking  party,  young  fellow,  fill  your 
pipe  with  that  ’ere  reflection  ; and  for  the  pres- 
ent just  put  that  bit  of  pink  gingham  into  your 
pocket.  'T’an’t  so  handsome  that  you  need 
keep  waving  it  about,  as  if  you  was  a tight- 
rope dancer.” — Pickwick , Chap.  16. 

TEARS— Of  disappointment. 

Many  a man  who  would  have  stood  within 
a home  dismantled,  strong  in  his  passion  and 
design  of  vengeance,  has  had  the  firmness  of 
his  nature  conquered  by  the  razing  of  an  air- 


TEARS 


477 


TEETH 


built  castle.  When  the  log-liut  received  them 
for  the  second  time,  Martin  lay  down  upon  the 
ground,  and  wept  aloud. 

“Lord  love  you,  sir!”  cried  Mr.  Tapley,  in 
great  terror  ; “ Don’t  do  that  ! Don’t  do  that, 
sir  ! Anything  but  that ! It  never  helped  man, 
woman,  or  child,  over  the  lowest  fence  yet,  sir, 
and  it  never  will.  Besides  its  being  no  use  to 
you,  it’s  worse  than  of  no  use  to  me,  for  the 
least  sound  of  it  will  knock  me  Hat  down.  I 
can’t  stand  up  agin  it,  sir.  Anything  but 
that ! ” — Martin  Chuzzlezvit,  Chap.  23. 

TEARS  — Pecksniffian. 

He  was  not  angry,  he  was  not  vindictive,  he 
was  not  cross,  he  was  not  moody,  but  he  was 
grieved  ; he  was  sorely  grieved.  As  he  sat  down 
by  the  old  man’s  side,  two  tears — not  tears  like 
those  with  which  recording  angels  blot  their 
entries  out,  but  drops  so  precious  that  they  use 
them  for  their  ink — stole  down  his  meritorious 
cheeks. — Martin  Chuzzlezuit,  Chap.  31. 

TEARS— The  mist  of. 

But  Florence  cannot  see  him  plainly,  in  a lit- 
tle time,  for  there  is  a mist  between  her  eyes 
arid  him,  and  her  dead  brother  and  dead  mother 
shine  in  it  like  angels. 

Dombey  Son , Chap.  32. 

It  was  a natural  emotion,  not  to  be  suppress- 
ed, and  it  would  make  way  even  between  the 
ingers  of  the  hands  with  which  she  covered  up 
her  face.  The  overcharged  and  heavy-laden 
breast  must  sometimes  have  that  vent,  or  the 
poor,  wounded,  solitary  heart  within  it  would 
have  fluttered  like  a bird  with  broken  wings, 
and  sunk  down  in  the  dust. 

Dombey  dr5  Son , Chap.  18. 

TEARS— Hydraulic. 

Mr.  Brownlow’s  heart,  being  large  enough  for 
any  six  ordinary  old  gentlemen  of  humane  dis- 
position, forced  a supply  of  tears  into  his  eyes, 
by  some  hydraulic  process  which  we  are  not 
sufficiently  philosophical  to  be  in  a condition  to 
explain. — Oliver  7 'wist,  Chap.  12. 

TEARS— A remedy. 

But,  tears  were  not  the  things  to  find  their 
way  to  Mr.  Bumble’s  soul  ; his  heart  was  water- 
proof. Like  washable  beaver  hats  that  improve 
with  rain,  his  nerves  were  rendered  stouter  and 
more  vigorous  by  showers  of  tears,  which,  be- 
ing tokens  of  weakness,  and  so  far  tacit  admis- 
sions of  his  own  power,  pleased  and  exalted 
him.  He  eyed  his  good  lady  with  looks  of  great 
satisfaction,  and  begged,  in  an  encouraging  man- 
ner, that  she  should  cry  her  hardest  ; the  exer- 
cise being  looked  upon,  by  the  faculty,  as 
strongly  conducive  to  health. 

“ It  opens  the  lungs,  washes  the  countenance, 
exercises  the  eyes,  and  softens  down  the  tem- 
per,” said  Mr.  Bumble.  “ So  cry  away  !” 

Oliver  Tzuist,  Chap.  37. 

TEARS— Not  the  only  proofs  of  distress. 

“ There  is  no  deception  now  Mr.  Weller. 
Tears,”  said  Job,  with  a look  of  momentary  sly- 
ness, “ tears  are  not  the  only  proofs  of  distress, 
nor  the  best  ones.” 

“ No,  they  ain’t,”  replied  Sam,  expressively. 

“ They  may  be  put  on,  Mr.  Weller,”  said  Job. 


“ I know  they  may,”  said  Sam  ; “ some  peo- 
ple, indeed,  has  ’em  always  ready  laid  on,  and 
can  pull  out  the  plug  wenever  they  likes.” 

“ Yes,”  replied  Job  ; “ but  these  sort  of  things 
are  not  so  easily  counterfeited,  Mr.  Weller,  and 
it  is  a more  painful  process  to  get  them  up.” 
As  he  spoke,  he  pointed  to  his  sallow,  sunken 
cheeks,  and,  drawing  up  his  coat-sleeve,  dis- 
closed an  arm  which  looked  as  if  the  bone  could 
be  broken  at  a touch:  so  sharp  and  brittle  did 
it  appear,  beneath  its  thin  covering  of  flesh. 

Pickzuick,  Chap.  45. 

TEARS-Of  Job  Trotter. 

Job  Trotter  bowed  low  ; and  in  spite  of  Mr. 
Weller’s  previous  remonstrance,  the  tears  again 
rose  to  his  eyes. 

“ I never  see  such  a feller,”  said  Sam.  “ Bless- 
ed if  I don’t  think  he’s  got  a main  in  his  head 
as  is  always  turned  on.” — Pickzvick,  Chap.  16. 

TEARS- Valuable. 

“ Tears  !”  cried  the  old  gentleman,  with  such 
an  energetic  jump,  that  he  fell  down  two  or 
three  steps  and  grated  his  chin  against  the  wall. 
“ Catch  the  crystal  globules — catch  ’em — bottle 
’em  up — cork  ’em  tight — put  sealing-wax  on  the 
top — seal  ’em  with  a cupid — label  ’em  ‘ Best 
quality’ — and  stow  ’em  away  in  the  fourteen 
binn,  with  a bar  of  iron  on  the  top  to  keep  the 
thunder  off ! ” 

Issuing  these  commands,  as  if  there  were  a 
dozen  attendants  all  actively  engaged  in  their 
execution,  he  turned  his  velvet  cap  inside  out, 
put  it  on  with  great  dignity  so  as  to  obscure  his 
right  eye  and  three-fourths  of  his  nose,  and 
sticking  his  arms  a-kimbo,  looked  very  fiercely 
at  a sparrow  hard  by,  till  the  bird  flew  away. 
He  then  put  his  cap  in  his  pocket  with  an  air 
of  great  satisfaction,  and  addressed  himself  with 
respectful  demeanor  to  Mrs.  Nickleby. 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  41. 

TEAR-DROP-A. 

A tear  trembled  on  his  sentimental  eye-licl, 
like  a rain-drop  on  a window-frame. 

Pickzuick,  Chap.  11. 

TEARS-Of  Mig-grs. 

At  this  cruel  rebuke,  Miggs,  whose  tears  wrere 
always  ready  for  large  or  small  parties,  on  the 
shortest  notice  and  the  most  reasonable  terms, 
fell  a crying  violently  ; holding  both  her  hands 
tight  upon  her  heart  meanwhile,  as  if  nothing 
less  would  prevent  its  splitting  into  small  frag- 
ments.— Barnaby  Pudge,  Chap.  7. 

TEETH— The  attraction  of. 

He  had  no  power  of  concealing  anything  with 
that  battery  of  attraction  in  full  play. 

* * * * * 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  did  a great  deal  of 
business  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  bestowed 
his  teeth  upon  a great  many  people.  In  the 
office,  in  the  court,  in  the  street,  and  on  ’Change, 
they  glistened  and  bristled  to  a terrible  extent. 
Five  o’clock  arriving,  and  with  it  Mr.  Carker’s 
bay  horse,  they  got  on  horseback,  and  went 
gleaming  up  Cheapside. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  22. 

TEETH— Chattering-. 

“ Ugh,  you  disgraceful  boy  ! ” exclaimed  Miss 


3LEGRAPH 


478 


THEATRE 


Wren,  attracted  by  the  sound  of  his  chattering 
teeth,  “ I wish  they’d  all  drop  down  your  throat 
and  play  at  dice  in  your  stomach  !” 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  ///.,  Chap.  io. 

TELEGRAPH  -Wires. 

Plain  to  the  dark  eyes  of  her  mind,  as  the 
electric  wires  which  ruled  a colossal  strip  of 
music-paper  out  of  the  evening  sky,  were  plain 
to  the  dark  eyes  of  her  body  ; Mrs.  Sparsit  saw 
her  staircase,  with  the  figure  coming  down. 

Hard  Times , Book  II.,  Chap.  II. 

TEMPTATION  -A  teacher. 

“Jacques,”  said  Defarge  ; “judiciously  show 
a cat  milk,  if  you  wish  her  to  thirst  for  it.  Ju- 
diciously show  a dog  his  natural  prey,  if  you 
wish  him  to  bring  it  down  one  day.” 

Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Chap.  15. 

TEMPER— Mrs.  Joe  Garg-ery’s. 

When  I got  home  at  night,  and  delivered  this 
message  for  Joe,  my  sister  “went  on  the  Ram- 
page,” in  a more  alarming  degree  than  at  any 
previous  period.  She  asked  me  and  Joe  whether 
we  supposed  she  was  door-mats  under  our  feet, 
and  how  we  dared  to  use  her  so,  and  what  com- 
pany we  graciously  thought  she  was  fit  for? 
When  she  had  exhausted  a torrent  of  such  in- 
quiries, she  threw  a candlestick  at  Joe,  burst 
into  a loud  sobbing,  got  out  the  dustpan — which 
was  always  a very  bad  sign — put  on  her  coarse 
apron,  and  began  cleaning  up  to  a terrible  ex- 
tent. Not  satisfied  with  a dry  cleaning,  she 
took  to  a pail  and  scrubbing  brush,  and  cleaned 
us  out  of  house  and  home,  so  that  we  stood 
shivering  in  the  back  yard. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  12. 

Joe,  who  had  ventured  into  the  kitchen  after 
me  as  the  dustpan  had  retired  before  us,  drew 
the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  nose  with  a con- 
ciliatory air,  when  Mrs.  Joe  darted  a look  at 
him,  and,  when  her  eyes  were  withdrawn,  se- 
cretly crossed  his  two  forefingers,  and  exhibited 
them  to  me,  as  our  token  that  Mrs.  Joe  was  in 
a cross  temper.  This  was  so  much  her  normal 
state,  that  Joe  and  I would  often,  for  weeks  to- 
gether, be,  as  to  our  fingers,  like  monumental 
Crusaders  as  to  their  legs. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  4. 

TEMPER— The  thermometer  of  Mrs.  Var- 

den’s. 

Mrs.  Varden  was  seldom  very  Protestant  at 
meals,  unless  it  happened  that  they  were  under- 
done, or  over-done,  or  indeed  that  anything  oc- 
curred to  put  her  out  of  humor.  Her  spirits 
rose  considerably  on  beholding  these  goodly 
preparations,  and  from  the  nothingness  of  good 
works,  she  passed  to  the  somethingness  of  ham 
and  toast  with  great  cheerfulness.  Nay,  under 
the  influence  of  these  wholesome  stimulants,  she 
sharply  reproved  her  daughter  for  being  low 
and  despondent  (which  she  considered  an  unac- 
ceptable frame  of  mind),  and  remarked,  as  she 
held  her  own  plate  for  a fresh  supply,  that  it 
would  be  well  for  Dolly,  who  pined  over  the  loss 
of  a toy  and  a sheet  of  paper,  if  she  would  reflect 
upon  the  voluntary  sacrifices  of  the  missionaries 
in  foreign  parts  who  lived  chiefly  on  salads. 

'I  he  proceedings  of  such  a day  occasioned 
various  fluctuations  in  the  human  thermometer, 


and  especially  in  instruments  so  sensitively  and 
delicately  constructed  as  Mrs.  Varden.  Thus, 
at  dinner  Mrs.  V.  stood  at  summer  heat ; genial, 
smiling,  and  delightful.  After  dinner,  in  the 
sunshine  of  the  wine,  she  went  up  at  least  half- 
a-dozen  degrees,  and  '.-as  perfectly  enchanting. 
As  its  effect  subsided,  she  fell  rapidly,  went  to 
sleep  for  an  hour  or  so  at  temperate,  and  woke 
at  something  below  freezing.  Now  she  was  at 
summer  heat  again,  in  the  shade  ; and  when  tea 
was  over,  and  old  John,  producing  a bottle  of 
cordial  from  one  of  the  oaken  cases,  insisted  on 
her  sipping  two  glasses  thereof  in  slow  succes- 
sion, she  stood  steadily  at  ninety  for  one  hour 
and  a quarter.  Profiting  by  experience,  the 
locksmith  took  advantage  of  this  genial  weather 
to  smoke  his  pipe  in  the  porch,  and  in  conse- 
quence of  this  prudent  management,  he  was 
fully  prepared,  when  the  glass  went  down  again, 
to  start  homewards  directly. 

Barnaby  Rudge.  Chap.  21. 

TEMPER-  And  devotion. 

Like  some  other  ladies  who  in  remote  ages 
flourished  upon  this  globe,  Mrs.  Varden  was 
most  devout  when  most  ill-tempered.  When- 
ever she  and  her  husband  were  at  unusual  va- 
riance, then  the  Protestant  Manual  was  in  high 
feather. — Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  4. 

THEATRE— Maggy’s  idea  of  a. 

“ Maggy  and  I have  been  to-night,”  she  an- 
swered, subduing  herself  with  the  quiet  effort 
that  had  long  been  natural  to  her,  “to  the  thea- 
tre where  my  sister  is  engaged.” 

“And  oh  ain’t  it  a Ev’nly  place,”  suddenly 
interrupted  Maggy,  who  seemed  to  have  the 
power  of  going  to  sleep  and  waking  up  when- 
ever she  chose.  “Almost  as  good  as  a hospital. 
Only  there  ain’t  no  Chicking  in  it.” 

Here  she  shook  herself,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  14. 

THEATRE— Deserted. 

Between  the  bridge  and  the  two  great  thea- 
tres there  was  but  the  distance  of  a few  hun- 
dred paces,  so  the  theatres  came  next.  Grim 
and  black  within,  at  night,  those  great  dry 
Wells,  and  lonesome  to  imagine,  with  the  rows 
of  faces  faded  out,  the  lights  extinguished,  and 
the  seats  all  empty.  One  would  think  that 
nothing  in  them  knew  itself  at  such  a time  but 
Yorick’s  skull.  In  one  of  my  night  walks,  as 
the  church  steeples  were  shaking  the  March 
winds  and  rain  with  the  strokes  of  Four,  I 
passed  the  outer  boundary  of  one  of  these  great 
deserts,  and  entered  it.  With  a dim  lantern  in 
my  hand,  I groped  my  well-known  way  to  the 
stage,  and  looked  over  the  orchestra — which 
was  like  a great  grave  dug  for  a time  of  pesti- 
lence— into  the  void  beyond.  A dismal  cavern 
of  an  immense  aspect,  with  the  chandelier  gone 
dead  like  everything  else,  and  nothing  visible 
through  mist  and  fog  and  space  but  tiers  of 
winding-sheets.  The  ground  at  my  feet  where, 
when  last  there,  I had  seen  the  peasantry  of 
Naples  dancing  among  the  vines,  reckless  of  the 
burning  mountain  which  threatened  to  over- 
whelm them,  was  now  in  possession  of  a strong 
serpent  of  engine-hose,  watchfully  lying  in  wait 
for  the  serpent  Fire,  and  ready  to  fly  at  it  if  it 
showed  its  forked  tongue.  A ghost  of  a watch- 
man, carrying  a faint  corpse  candle,  haunted  the 


THEATRE 


479 


THOUGHT 


distant  upper  gallery  and  flitted  away.  Retir- 
ing within  the  proscenium,  and  holding  my  light 
above  my  head  towards  the  rolled-up  curtain — 
green  no  more,  but  black  as  ebony — my  sight 
lost  itself  in  a gloomy  vault,  showing  faint  in- 
dications in  it  of  a shipwreck  of  canvas  and 
cordage.  Methought  I felt  much  as  a diver 
might  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  13. 

THEATRE— An  old. 

Such  desolation  as  has  fallen  on  this  theatre, 
enhanced  in  the  spectator’s  fancy  by  its  gay  in- 
tention and  design,  none  but  worms  can  be 
familiar  with.  A hundred  and  ten  years  have 
passed  since  any  play  was  acted  here.  The  sky 
shines  in  through  the  gashes  in  the  roof ; the 
boxes  are  dropping  down,  wasting  away,  and 
only  tenanted  by  rats  ; damp  and  mildew  smear 
the  faded  colors,  and  make  spectral  maps  upon 
the  panels  ; lean  rags  are  dangling  down  where 
there  were  gay  festoons  on  the  proscenium  ; the 
stage  has  rotted  so,  that  a narrow  wooden  gal- 
lery is  thrown  across  it,  or  it  would  sink  be- 
neath the  tread,  and  bury  the  visitor  in  the 
gloomy  depths  beneath.  The  desolation  and 
decay  impress  themselves  on  all  the  senses.  The 
air  has  a mouldering  smell,  and  an  earthy  taste  ; 
any  stray  outer  sounds  that  straggle  in  with 
some  lost  sunbeam,  are  muffled  and  heavy  ; and 
the  worm,  the  maggot,  and  the  rot  have  changed 
the  surface  of  the  wood  beneath  the  touch,  as 
time  will  seam  and  roughen  a smooth  hand.  If 
ever  Ghosts  act  plays,  they  act  them  on  this 
ghostly  stage. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

THEATRE-  First  impressions  of  a. 

It  was  Covent  Garden  Theatre  that  I chose  ; 
and  there,  from  the  back  of  a centre  box,  I saw 
Julius  Ceesar  and  the  new  Pantomime.  To  have 
all  those  noble  Romans  alive  before  me,  and 
walking  in  and  out  for  my  entertainment,  in- 
stead of  being  the  stern  taskmasters  they  had 
been  at  school,  was  a most  novel  and  delightful 
effect.  But  the  mingled  reality  and  mystery  of 
the  whole  show,  the  influence  upon  me  of  the 
poetry,  the  lights,  the  music,  the  company,  the 
smooth  stupendous  changes  of  glittering  and 
brilliant  scenery,  were  so  dazzling,  and  opened 
up  such  illimitable  regions  of  delight,  that  when 
I came  out  into  the  rainy  street,  at  twelve  o’clock 
at  night,  I felt  as  if  I had  come  from  the  clouds, 
where  I had  been  leading  a romantic  life  for 
ages,  to  a bawling,  splashing,  link-lighted,  um- 
brella-struggling, hackney-coach-jostling,  pat- 
ten-clinking, muddy,  miserable  world. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  19. 

THEFT— An  emporium  of. 

In  its  filthy  shops  are  exposed  for  sale,  huge 
bunches  of  second-hand  silk  handkerchiefs,  of 
all  sizes  and  patterns  ; for  here  reside  the  traders 
who  purchase  them  from  pickpockets.  Hundreds 
of  these  handkerchiefs  hang  dangling  from  pegs 
outside  the  windows  or  flaunting  from  the  door- 
post ; and  the  shelves,  within,  are  piled  with 
them.  Confined  as  the  limits  of  Field  Lane  are, 
it  has  its  barber,  its  coffee-shop,  its  beer-shop, 
and  its  fried-fish  warehouse.  It  is  a commercial 
colony  of  itself : the  emporium  of  petty  larceny  : 
visited  at  early  morning,  and  setting-in  of  dusk, 
by  silent  merchants,  who  traffic  in  dark  back- 
parlors  ; and  who  go  as  strangely  as  they  comp.  j 


Here,  the  clothesman,  the  shoe-vamper,  and  the 
rag-merchant,  display  their  goods,  as  sign-boards 
to  the  petty  thief ; here,  stores  of  old  iron  and 
bones,  and  heaps  of  mildewy  fragments  of  wool- 
len-stuff and  linen,  rust  and  rot  in  the  grimy 
cellars. — Oliver  Twist , Chap.  26. 

THIEF— “ Stop.” 

“Stop  thief!  Stop  thief!”  There  is  a magic 
in  the  sound.  The  tradesman  leaves  his  coun- 
ter, and  the  carman  his  wagon  ; the  butcher 
throws  down  his  tray  ; the  baker  his  basket ; 
the  milk-man  his  pail  ; the  errand-boy  his  par- 
cels ; the  school-boy  his  marbles  ; the  pavior 
his  pickaxe  ; the  child  his  battledore.  Away 
they  run,  pell-mell,  helter-skelter,  slap-dash  : 
tearing,  yelling,  and  screaming  : knocking  down 
the  passengers  as  they  turn  the  corners  : rousing 
up  the  dogs,  and  astonishing  the  fowls : and 
streets,  squares,  and  courts,  re-echo  with  the 
sound. 

“ Stop  thief ! Stop  thief ! ” The  cry  is  taken 
up  by  a hundred  voices,  and  the  crowd  accumu- 
late at  every  turning.  Away  they  fly  : splashing 
through  the  mud,  and  rattling  along  the  pave- 
ments : up  go  the  windows,  out  run  the  people, 
onward  bear  the  mob,  a whole  audience  desert 
Punch  in  the  very  thickest  of  the  plot,  and,  join- 
ing the  rushing  throng,  swell  the  shout,  and 
lend  fresh  vigor  1 y the  cry,  “ Stop  thief ! Stop 
thief ! ” 

“ Stop  thief  ! Stop  thief ! ” There  is  a passion 
for  hunting  something  deeply  implanted  in  the 
human  breast.  One  wretched.,  breathless  child, 
panting  with  exhaustion,  terror  in  his  looks, 
agony  in  his  eye,  large  drops  of  perspiration 
streaming  down  his  face,  strains  every  nerve  to 
make  head  upon  his  pursuers  ; and  as  they  follow 
on  his  track,  and  gain  upon  him  every  instant, 
they  hail  his  decreasing  strength  with  still  louder 
shouts,  and  whoop  and  scream  with  joy.  “ Stop 
thief!”  Ay,  stop  him  for  God’s  sake,  were  it 
only  in  mercy  ! — Oliver  Twist , Chap.  10. 

THIS  AND  THAT— The  success  of  a combi- 
nation. 

According  to  the  success  with  which  you  put 
this  and  that  together,  you  get  a woman  and  a 
fish  apart,  or  a Mermaid  in  combination. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

THOU  GHT3— Depressing-. 

Whatever  thoughts  he  called  up  to  his  aid, 
they  came  upon  him  in  depressing  and  discourag- 
ing shapes,  and  gave  him  no  relief.  Even  the 
diamonds  on  his  fingers  sparkled  with  the 
brightness  of  tears,  and  had  no  ray  of  hope  in 
all  their  brilliant  lustre. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  17. 

THOUGHT— A jumble  of. 

Thinking  begets,  not  only  thought,  but 
drowsiness  occasionally,  and  the  more  the 
locksmith  thought,  the  more  sleepy  he  be- 
came. 

A man  may  be  very  sobei — or  at  least  firmly 
set  upon  his  legs  on  that  neutral  ground  which 
lies  between  the  confines  of  perfect  sobriety  and 
slight  tipsiness — and  yet  feel  a strong  tendency 
to  mingle  up  present  circumstances  with  others 
which  have  no  manner  of  connection  with  them  ; 
to  confound  all  consideration  of  persons, 
things,  times,  and  places  ; and  to  jumble  his 


THOUGHTS 


480 


TIDE 


disjointed  thoughts  together  in  a kind  of  mental 
kaleidoscope,  producing  combinations  as  unex- 
pected as  they  are  transitory. 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  3. 

THOUGHTS. 

“ My  lad,”  said  the  Captain,  whose  opinion 
of  Mr.  Toots  was  much  improved  by  this  can- 
did avowal,  “a  man’s  thoughts  is  like  the  winds, 
and  nobody  can’t  answer  for  'em  for  certain, 
any  length  of  time  together.  Is  it  a treaty  as 
to  words  ? ” — Dombey  Sf  Son,  Chap.  39. 

“My  lad,”  gasped  the  Captain,  in  a choked 
and  trembling  voice,  and  with  a curious  action 
going  on  in  the  ponderous  fist  ; “ there’s  a many 
words  I could  wish  to  say  to  you,  but  I don’t 
rightly  know  where  they’re  stowed  just  at 
present.  My  young  friend,  Wal’r,  was  drownded 
only  last  night,  according  to  my  reckoning,  and 
it  puts  me  out,  you  see.  But  you  and  me  will 
come  alongside  o’  one  another  again,  my  lad,” 
said  the  Captain,  holding  up  his  hook,  “ if  we 
live.” — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  32. 


Ideas,  like  ghosts  (according  to  the  common 
notion  of  ghosts),  must  be  spoken  to  a little  be- 
fore they  will  explain  themselves;  and  Tools 
had  long  left  off  asking  any  questions  of  his  own 
mind.  Some  mist  there  may  have  been,  issuing 
from  that  leaden  casket,  his  cranium,  which,  if 
it  could  have  taken  shape  and  form,  would  have 
become  a genie  ; but  it  could  not  ; and  it  only 
so  far  followed  the  example  of  the  smoke  in  the 
Arabian  story,  as  to  roll  out  in  a thick  cloud, 
and  there  hang  and  hover.  But  it  left  a little 
figure  visible  upon  a lonely  shore,  and  Toots 
was  always  staring  at  it. 

Dombey  of  Son,  Chap.  12. 


The  Captain  found  it  difficult  to  unload  his 
old  ideas  upon  the  subject,  and  to  take  a per- 
fectly new  cargo  on  board,  with  that  rapidity 
which  the  circumstances  required,  or  without 
jumbling  and  confounding  the  two. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  14. 

“ Dombey,”  said  the  Major,  rapping  him  on 
the  arm  with  his  cane,  “don’t  be  thoughtful. 
It’s  a bad  habit.  Old  Joe,  Sir,  wouldn’t  be  as 
tough  as  you  see  him,  if  he  had  ever  encouraged 
it.  You  are  too  great  a man,  Dombey,  to  be 
thoughtful.  In  your  position,  Sir,  you’re  far 
above  that  kind  of  thing.” 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  20. 

“Polly,  old  ’ooman,”  said  Mr.  Toodle,  “I 
don’t  know  as  I said  it  partickler  along  o’  Rob, 
I’m  sure.  I starts  light  with  Rob  only  ; I comes 
to  a branch  ; I takes  on  what  I finds  there  ; and 
a whole  train  of  ideas  gets  coupled  on  to  him, 
afore  I knows  where  I am,  or  where  they  comes 
from.  What  a junction  a man’s  thoughts  is,” 
said  Mr.  Toodle,  “ to  be  sure  ! ” 

Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  38. 

THOUGHT  A haunting  topic  of. 

Left  alone,  with  the  expressive  looks  and  ges- 
tures of  Mr.  Baptist,  otherwise  Giovanni  Bap- 
tista  Cavallcllo,  vividly  before  him,  Clennam 
entered  on  a weary  day.  It  was  in  vain  that  he 
tried  to  control  his  attention,  by  directing  it  to 
any  businc  . , occupation  or  train  of  thought;  it 


rode  at  anchor  by  the  haunting  topic,  and  would 
hold  to  no  other  idea.  As  though  a criminal 
should  be  chained  in  a stationary  boat  on  a deep, 
clear  river,  condemned,  whatever  countless 
leagues  of  water  flowed  past  him,  always  to  see 
the  body  of  the  fellow-creature  he  had  drowned 
lying  at  the  bottom,  immovable  and  unchange- 
able, except  as  the  eddies  made  it  broad  01 
long,  now  expanding,  now  contracting  its  ter- 
rible lineaments  ; so  Arthur,  below  the  shifting 
current  of  transparent  thoughts  and  fancies 
which  were  gone  and  succeeded  by  others  as 
soon  as  come,  saw,  steady  and  dark,  and  not  tc 
be  stirred  from  its  place,  the  one  subject  that  he 
endeavored  with  all  his  might  to  rid  himself  of, 
and  that  he  could  not  fly  from. 

Little  Dorrii,  Book  II.,  Chap.  23. 

TIDE— High. 

But,  the  moment  the  tide  begins  to  make,  the 
Pavilionstone  Harbor  begins  to  revive.  It  feels 
the  breeze  of  the  rising  water  before  the  water 
comes,  and  begins  to  flutter  and  stir.  When  the 
little  shallow  waves  creep  in,  barely  overlapping 
one  another,  the  vanes  at  the  mastheads  wake, 
and  become  agitated.  As  the  tide  rises,  the 
fishing-boats  get  into  good  spirits  and  dance, 
the  flag-staff  hoists  a bright  red  flag,  the  steam- 
boat smokes,  cranes  creak,  horses  and  carriages 
dangle  in  the  air,  stray  passengers  and  luggage 
appear.  Now,  the  shipping  is  afloat,  and  comes 
up  buoyantly,  to  look  at  the  wharf.  Now,  the 
carts  that  have  come  down  for  coals,  load  away 
as  hard  as  they  can  load.  Now,  the  steamer 
smokes  immensely,  and  occasionally  blows  at 
the  paddle-boxes  like  a vaporous  whale — greatly 
disturbing  nervous  loungers.  Now,  both  the 
tide  and  the  breeze  have  risen,  and  you  are 
holding  your  hat  on  (if  you  want  to  see  how  the 
ladies  hold  their  hats  on,  with  a stay,  passing 
over  the  broad  brim  and  down  the  nose,  come 
to  Pavilionstone).  Now,  everything  in  the  har- 
bor splashes,  dashes,  and  bobs.  Now,  the  Down 
Tidal  Train  is  telegraphed,  and  you  know  (with- 
out knowing  how  you  know),  that  two  hundred 
and  eighty-seven  people  are  coming.  Now,  the 
fishing-boats  that  have  been  out,  sail  in  at  the 
top  of  the  tide.  Now,  the  bell  goes,  and  the 
locomotive  hisses  and  shrieks,  and  the  train 
comes  gliding  in,  and  the  two  hundred  and 
eighty-seven  come  scuffling  out.  Now,  there  is 
not  only  a tide  of  water,  but  a tide  of  people, 
and  a tide  of  luggage — all  tumbling  and  flowing 
and  bouncing  about  together.  Now,  after  in- 
finite bustle,  the  steamer  steams  out,  and  we 
(on  the  Pier)  are  all  delighted  when  she  rolls  as 
if  she  would  roll  her  funnel  out,  and  are  all  dis-  *! 
appointed  when  she  don’t.  Now,  the  other 
steamer  is  coming  in,  and  the  Custom-House  ; 
prepares,  and  the  wharf-laborers  assemble,  and 
the  hawsers  are  made  ready,  and  the  Hotel 
Porters  come  rattling  down  with  van  and  truck, 
eager  to  begin  more  Olympic  games  with  more 
luggage.  And  this  is  the  way  in  which  we  go 
on,  down  at  Pavilionstone,  every  tide.  And,  if 
you  want  to  live  a life  of  luggage,  or  to  see  it 
lived,  or  to  breathe  sweet  air  which  will  send 
you  to  sleep  at  a moment’s  notice  at  any  period 
of  the  day  or  night,  or  to  disport  yourself  upon 
or  in  the  sea,  or  to  scamper  about  Kent,  or  to 
come  out  of  town  for  the  enjoyment  of  all  or  any 
of  these  pleasures,  come  to  Pavilionstone. 

Out  0/  7 'own.  Reprinted  Pieces. 


TIMBER-YARD 


481 


TOBACCO-CHEWING 


TIMBER-YARD. 

To  go  gliding  to  and  fro  among  the  stacks  of 
timber  would  be  a convenient  kind  of  travelling 
in  foreign  countries, — among  the  forests  of 
North  America,  the  sodden  Honduras  swamps, 
the  dark  pine  woods,  the  Norwegian  frosts,  and 
the  tropical  heats,  rainy  seasons,  and  thunder- 
storms. The  costly  store  of  timber  is  stacked 
and  stowed  away  in  sequestered  places,  with  the 
pervading  avoidance  of  flourish  or  effect.  It 
makes  as  little  of  itself  as  possible,  and  calls  to 
no  one,  “ Come  and  look  at  me  ! ” And  yet  it 
is  picked  oyt  from  the  trees  of  the  world  ; picked 
out  for  length,  picked  out  for  breadth,  picked 
out  for  straightness,  picked  out  for  crookedness, 
chosen  with  an  eye  to  every  need  of  ship  and 
boat.  Strangely  twisted  pieces  lie  about,  pre- 
cious in  the  sight  of  shipwrights.  Sauntering 
through  these  groves,  I come  upon  an  open 
glade  where  workmen  are  examining  some  tim- 
ber recently  delivered.  Quite  a pastoral  scene, 
with  a background  of  river  and  windmill ! And 
no  more  like  War  than  the  American  States  are 
at  present  like  a Union. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  24. 

TIME— Its  progress. 

“Another  Christmas  come,  another  year 
gone  ! ” murmured  the  Chemist  with  a gloomy 
sigh.  “ More  figures  in  the  lengthening  sum  of 
recollection  that  we  work  and  work  at  to  our 
torment  till  Death  idly  jumbles  all  together,  and 
rubs  all  out.” — Haunted  Man , Chap.  1. 

TIME— Is  money. 

“ He  will  talk  about  business,  and  won’t  give 
away  his  time  for  nothing.  He’s  very  right. 
Time  is  money,  time  is  money.” 

“ He  was  one  of  us  who  made  that  saying, 
I should  think,”  said  Ralph.  “ Time  is  money, 
and  very  good  money  too,  to  those  who  reckon 
interest  by  it.  Time  is  money  ! Yes,  and  time 
costs  money  ; it’s  rather  an  expensive  article  to 
some  people  we  could  name,  or  I forget  my 
trade.” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  47. 

TIME— A slippery  animal. 

“ And  talk  of  Time  slipping  byyou,  as  if  it  was 
an  animal  at  rustic  sports  with  its  tail  soaped.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  IV.,  Chap.  12. 

TIME— The  factory  of. 

It  seemed  as  if,  first  in  her  own  fire  with- 
in the  house,  and  then  in  the  fiery  haze  without, 
she  tried  to  discover  what  kind  of  woof  Old 
Time,  that  greatest  and  longest  established 
Spinner  of  all,  would  weave  from  the  threads  he 
had  already  spun  into  a woman.  But  his  factory 
is  a secret  place,  his  work  is  noiseless,  and  his 
Hands  are  mutes. — Hard  Times,  Bh.  I,  Chap.\ 4. 

TIME— Its  changes. 

Time  went  on  in  Coketown  like  its  own 
1 machinery  ; so  much  material  wrought  up,  so 
much  fuel  consumed,  so  many  powers  worn  out, 
so  much  money  made.  But,  less  inexorable 
than  iron,  steel,  and  brass.it  brought  its  varying 
seasons  even  into  that  wilderness  of  smoke  and 
brick,  and  made  the  only  stand  that  ever  7vas 
made  in  the  place,  against  its  direful  uniformity. 

“ Louisa  is  becoming,”  said  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
“almost  a young  woman.” 

Time,  with  his  innumerable  horse-power, 


worked  away,  not  minding  what  anybody  said, 
and  presently  turned  out  young  Thomas  a foot 
taller  than  when  his  father  had  last  taken  par- 
ticular notice  of  him. 

Hard  Times,  Book  I.,  Chap.  14. 

TIME— And  the  havoc  of  suffering:. 

We  all  change,  but  that’s  with  Time  ; Time 
does  his  work  honestly,  and  I don’t  mind  him. 
A fig  for  Time,  sir.  Use  him  well,  and  he’s  a 
hearty  fellow,  and  scorns  to  have  you  at  a dis- 
advantage. But  care  and  suffering  (and  those 
have  changed  her)  are  devils,  sir — secret, 
stealthy,  undermining  devils — who  tread  down 
the  brightest  flowers  in  Eden,  and  do  more  havoc 
in  a month  than  Time  does  in  a year. 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  26. 

TIME— A gentle  parent. 

• The  looker-on  was  a round  red-faced,  sturdy 
yeoman,  with  a double  chin,  and  a voice  husky 
with  good  living,  good  sleeping,  good  humor, 
and  good  health.  He  was  past  the  prime  of 
life,  but  Father  Time  is  not  always  a hard  pa- 
rent, and,  though  he  tarries  for  none  of  his  chil- 
dren, often  lays  his  hand  lightly  upon  those 
who  have  used  him  weli  ; making  them  old 
men  and  women  inexorably  enough,  but  leaving 
their  hearts  and  spirits  young  and  in  full  vigor. 
With  such  people  the  gray  head  is  but  the  im- 
pression of  the  old  fellow’s  hand  in  giving  them 
his  blessing,  and  every  wrinkle  but  a notch  in 
the  quiet  calendar  of  a well-spent  life. 

Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  2. 

TIME. 

On  the  brow  of  Dombey,  Time  and  his  bro- 
ther Care  had  set  some  marks,  as  on  a tree  that 
was  to  come  down  in  good  time — remorseless 
twins  they  are  for  striding  through  their  hu- 
man forests,  notching  as  they  go — while  the 
countenance  of  Son  was  crossed  and  recrossed 
with  a thousand  little  creases,  which  the  same 
deceitful  Time  would  take  delight  in  smooth- 
ing out  and  wearing  away  with  the  flat  part  of 
his  scythe,  as  a preparation  of  the  surface  for 
his  deeper  operations. — Dombey  U3  Son, Chap.  1. 

The  sea  had  ebbed  and  flowed,  through  a 
whole  year.  Through  a whole  year  the  winds 
and  clouds  had  come  and  gone  ; the  ceaseless 
work  of  Time  had  been  performed,  in  storm 
and  sunshine.  Through  a whole  year  the  tides 
of  human  chance  and  change  had  set  in  their 
allotted  courses. — Dombey  dr3  Son,  Chap.  58. 

TIME— Its  changes. 

“ The  world  has  gone  past  me.  I don’t  blame 
it ; but  I no  longer  understand  it.  Tradesmen 
are  not  the  same  as  they  used  to  be,  apprentices 
are  not  the  same,  business  is  not  the  same, 
business  commodities  are  not  the  same.  Seven- 
eighths  of  my  stock  is  old-fashioned.  I am  an 
old-fashioned  man  in  an  old-fashioned  shop,  in  a 
street  that  is  not  the  same  as  I remember  it.  I 
have  fallen  behind  the  time,  and  am  too  old  to 
catch  it  again.  Even  the  noise  it  makes  a long  way 
ahead,  confuses  me.” — Dombey  U3  Son,  Chap.  4. 

TOBACCO-CHEWING — In  America. 

As  Washington  may  be  called  the  head-quar- 
ters of  tobacco-tinctured  saliva,  the  time  is  come 
when  I must  confess,  without  any  disguise,  that 


TOBACCO 


482 


TOILETTE 


t lie  prevalence  of  those  two  odious  practices  of 
chewing  and  expectorating  began  about  this 
time  to  be  anything  but  agreeable,  and  soon  be- 
came most  offensive  and  sickening.  In  all  the 
public  places  of  America  this  filthy  custom  is 
recognized.  In  the  courts  of  law  the  judge  has 
his  spittoon,  the  crier  his,  the  witness  his,  and 
the  prisoner  his  ; while  the  jurymen  and  spec- 
tators are  provided  for,  as  so  many  men  who  in  the 
course  of  nature  must  desire  to  spit  incessantly. 
In  the  hospitals  the  students  of  medicine  are 
requested,  by  notices  upon  the  wall,  to  eject 
their  tobacco-juice  into  the  boxes  provided  for 
that  purpose,  and  not  to  discolor  the  stairs.  In 
public  buildings,  visitors  are  implored,  through 
the  same  agency,  to  squirt  the  essence  of  their 
quids,  or  “ plugs,”  as  I have  heard  them  called 
by  gentlemen  learned  in  this  kind  of  sweet- 
meat, into  the  national  spittoons,  and  not  about 
the  bases  of  the  marble  columns.  But  in  some 
parts  this  custom  is  inseparably  mixed  up  with 
every  meal  and  morning  call,  and  with  all  the 
transactions  of  social  life.  The  stranger  who 
follows  in  the  track  I took  myself  will  find  it  in 
its  full  bloom  and  glory,  luxuriant  in  all  its 
alarming  recklessness,  at  Washington.  And  let 
him  not  persuade  himself  (as  I once  did,  to  my 
shame),  that  previous  tourists  have  exaggerated 
its  extent.  The  thing  itself  is  an  exaggeration 
of  nastiness  which  cannot  be  outdone. 

On  board  this  steamboat  there  were  two  young 
gentlemen,  with  shirt-collars  reversed  as  usual, 
and  armed  with  very  big  walking-sticks,  who 
planted  two  seats  in  the  middle  of  the  deck,  at 
a distance  of  some  four  paces  apart,  took  out 
their  tobacco-boxes,  and  sat  down  opposite  each 
other  to  chew.  In  less  than  a quarter  of  an 
hour’s  time,  these  hopeful  youths  had  shed  about 
them  on  the  clean  boards  a copious  shower  of 
yellow  rain  ; clearing,  by  that  means,  a kind  of 
magic  circle,  within  whose  limits  no  intruders 
dared  to  come,  and  which  they  never  failed  to 
refresh  and  re-refresh  before  a spot  was  dry. 
This,  being  before  breakfast,  rather  disposed 
me,  I confess,  to  nausea  ; but  looking  atten- 
tively at  one  of  the  expectorators,  I plainly  saw 
that  he  was  young  in  chewing,  and  felt  inwardly 
uneasy  himself.  A glow  of  delight  came  over 
me  at  this  discovery  ; and  as  I marked  his  face 
turn  paler  and  paler,  and  saw  the  ball  of  tobacco 
in  his  left  cheek  quiver  with  his  suppressed 
agony,  while  yet  he  spat  and  chewed  and  spat 
again,  in  emulation  of  his  older  friend,  I could 
have  fallen  on  his  neck  and  implored  him  to  go 
on  for  hours. — American  Notes , Chap.  8. 

TOBACCO— Its  use  in  America. 

The  Senate  is  a dignified  and  decorous  body, 
and  its  proceedings  are  conducted  with  much 
gravity  and  order.  Both  houses  are  handsomely 
carpeted  ; but  the  state  to  which  these  carpets 
arc  reduced  by  the  universal  disregard  of  the 
spittoon  with  which  every  honorable  member 
is  accommodated,  and  the  extraordinary  im- 
provements on  the  patterns  which  are  squirted 
and  dabbled  upon  n in  evei  y direct  ion,  'In  not 
admit  of  being  described.  I will  merely  ob- 
serve, that  I strongly  recommend  all  strangers 
not  to  look  at  the  floor  ; and  if  they  happen  to 
drop  anything,  though  it  be  their  purse,  not  to 
pick  it  up  with  an  ungloved  hand  on  any  account. 

It  is  somewhat  remarkable  too,  at  first,  to  say 
the  least,  to  see  so  many  honorable  members 


with  swelled  faces  ; and  it  is  scarcely  less  re- 
markable to  discover  that  this  appearance  is 
caused  by  the  quantity  of  tobacco  they  contrive 
to  stow  within  the  hollow  of  the  cheek.  It  is 
strange  enough,  too,  to  see  an  honorable  gentle- 
man leaning  back  in  his  tilted  chair,  with  his 
legs  on  the  desk  before  him,  shaping  a conve- 
nient “ plug”  with  his  penknife,  and  when  it  is 
quite  ready  for  use,  shooting  the  old  one  from 
his  mouth,  as  from  a popgun,  and  clapping  the 
new  one  in  in  its  place. 

I was  surprised  to  observe  that  even  steady 
old  chewers  of  great  experience  are  not  always 
good  marksmen,  which  has  rather  inclined  me 
to  doubt  that  general  proficiency  with  the  rifle 
of  which  we  have  heard  so  much  in  England. 
Several  gentlemen  called  upon  me  who,  in  the 
course  of  conversation,  frequently  missed  the 
spittoon  at  five  paces,  and  one  (but  he  was  cer- 
tainly short-sighted)  mistook  the  closed  sash  for 
the  open  window,  at  three.  On  another  occa- 
sion, when  I dined  out,  and  was  sitting  with  two 
ladies  and  some  gentlemen  round  a fire  before 
dinner,  one  of  the  company  fell  short  of  the 
fireplace,  six  distinct  times.  I am  disposed  to 
think,  however,  that  this  was  occasioned  by  his 
not  aiming  at  that  object,  as  there  was  a white 
marble  hearth  before  the  fender,  which  was 
more  convenient,  and  may  have  suited  his  pur- 
pose better. — American  Notes , Chap.  8. 

* * * * * 

Either  they  carry  their  restlessness  to  such  a 
pitch  that  they  never  sleep  at  all,  or  they  expec- 
torate in  dreams,  which  would  be  a remarkable 
mingling  of  the  real  and  ideal.  All  night  long, 
and  every  night,  on  this  canal,  there  was  a per- 
fect storm  and  tempest  of  spitting ; and  once, 
my  coat  being  in  the  very  centre  of  a hurricane 
sustained  by  five  gentlemen  (which  moved  ver- 
tically, strictly  carrying  out  Reid’s  Theory  of  the 
Law  of  Storms),  I was  fain  the  next  morning  to 
lay  it  on  the  deck,  and  rub  it  down  with  fair 
water  before  it  was  in  a condition  to  be  worn 
again. — American  Notes , Chap.  io. 

TOILETTE— A boy’s. 

With  that,  she  pounced  on  me,  like  an  eagle 
on  a lamb,  and  my  face  was  squeezed  into 
wooden  bowls  in  sinks,  and  my  head  was  put 
under  taps  of  water-butts,  and  I was  soaped, 
and  kneaded,  and  towelled,  and  thumped,  and 
harrowed,  and  rasped,  until  I really  was  quite 
beside  myself.  (I  may  here  remark  that  I sup- 
pose myself  to  be  better  acquainted  than  any 
living  authority,  with  the  ridgy  effect  of  a wed- 
ding-ring, passing  unsympathetically  over  the 
human  countenance.) 

When  my  ablutions  were  completed,  I was 
put  into  clean  linen  of  the  stiffest  character,  like 
a young  penitent  into  sack-cloth,  and  was  truss- 
ed up  in  my  tightest  and  fearfullest  suit.  I 
was  then  delivered  over  to  Mr.  Pumblechook, 
who  formally  received  me  as  if  he  were  the 
sheriff,  and  who  let  o(T  upon  me  the  speech  that 
I knew  he  had  been  dying  to  make  all  along  : 
“ Boy,  be  forever  grateful  to  all  friends,  but  especi- 
ally unto  them  which  brought  you  up  by  hand  ! " 

“ Good-by,  Joe  ! ” 

“ God  bless  you,  Pip,  old  chap  ! " 

I had  never  parted  from  him  before,  and  what 
with  my  feelings  and  what  with  soap-suds,  I 
could  at  first  see  no  stars  from  the  chaise-cart. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  7. 


TOILETTE 


483 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 


TOILETTE— Of  Miss  Tippins. 

How  the  fascinating  Tippins  gets  on  when 
arraying  herself  for  the  bewilderment  of  the 
senses  of  men,  is  known  only  to  the  Graces  and 
her  maid  ; but  perhaps  even  that  engaging  crea- 
ture, though  not  reduced  to  the  self-dependence 
of  Twemlow,  could  dispense  with  a good  deal  of 
the  trouble  attendant  on  the  daily  restoration  of 
her  charms,  seeing  that  as  to  her  face  and  neck 
this  adorable  divinity  is,  as  it  were,  a diurnal 
species  of  lobster — throwing  off  a shell  every 
forenoon,  and  needing  to  keep  in  a retired  spot 
until  the  new  crust  hardens. 

O ur  Mutual  Friend. , Book  II.,  Chap . 16. 

TOLERATION. 

What  a mighty  pleasant  virtue  toleration 
. should  be  when  we  are  right,  to  be  so  very  plea- 
sant when  we  are  wrong,  and  quite  unable  to 
demonstrate  how  we  came  to  be  invested  with 
the  privilege  of  exercising  it ! 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  5. 

TOMBSTONES. 

The  court  brought  them  to  a churchyard  ; a 
paved  square  court,  with  a raised  bank  of  earth 
about  breast  high,  in  the  middle,  enclosed  by 
iron  rails.  Here,  conveniently  and  healthfully 
elevated  above  the  level  of  the  living,  were  the 
dead,  and  the  tombstones  ; some  of  the  latter 
droopingly  inclined  from  the  perpendicular,  as 
if  they  were  ashamed  of  the  lies  they  told. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book II.,  Chap.  15. 

TOURISTS— English. 

Mr.  Davis  always  had  a snuff-colored  great- 
coat on,  and  carried  a great  green  umbrella  in 
his  hand,  and  had  a slow  curiosity  constantly 
devouring  him,  which  prompted  him  to  do  ex- 
traordinary things,  such  as  taking  the  covers  off 
urns  in  tombs,  and  looking  in  at  the  ashes  as  if 
they  were  pickles — and  tracing  out  inscriptions 
with  the  ferule  of  his  umbrella,  and  saying, 
with  intense  thoughtfulness,  “ Here’s  a B you 
see,  and  there’s  a R,  and  this  is  the  way  we  goes 
on  in  ; is  it  ! ” His  antiquarian  habits  occasion- 
ed his  being  frequently  in  the  rear  of  the  rest ; 
and  one  of  the  agonies  of  Mrs.  Davis,  and  the 
party  in  general,  was  an  ever-present  fear  that 
Davis  would  be  lost.  This  caused  them  to 
scream  for  him,  in  the  strangest  places,  and  at 
the  most  improper  seasons.  And  when  he  came, 
slowly  emerging  out  of  some  Sepulchre  or  other, 
like  a peaceful  Ghoule,  saying,  “ Here  I am  ! ” 
Mrs.  Davis  invariably  replied,  “ You’ll  be  buried 
alive  in  a foreign  country,  Davis,  and  it’s  no  use 
trying  to  prevent  you  ! ” 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Davis,  and  their  party,  had,  pro- 
bably, been  brought  from  London  in  about  nine 
or  ten  days.  Eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  the 
Roman  legions  under  Claudius  protested  against 
being  led  into  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Davis’s  country, 
urging  that  it  lay  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
world. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

TOURISTS. 

The  whole  body  of  travellers  seemed  to  be  a 
collection  of  voluntary  human  sacrifices,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  and  delivered  over  to  Mr.  Eustace 
and  his  attendants,  to  have  the  entrails  of  their 
intellects  arranged  according  to  the  taste  of  that 
sacred  priesthood.  Through  the  rugged  remains 
of  temples  and  tombs  and  palaces  and  senate 


halls  and  theatres  and  amphitheatres  of  ancient 
days,  hosts  of  tongue-tied  and  blindfolded  mo- 
derns were  carefully  feeling  their  way,  inces- 
santly repeating  Prunes  and  Prism,  in  the  en- 
deavor to  set  their  lips  according  to  the  received 
form.  Mrs.  General  was  in  her  pure  element. 
Nobody  had  an  opinion.  There  was  a forma- 
tion of  surface  going  on  around  her  on  an 
amazing  scale,  and  it  had  not  a flaw  of  courage 
or  honest  free  speech  in  it. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  7. 

TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  SCENERY-The 
journey  of  Little  Nell. 

She  felt  that  to  bid  farewell  to  anybody  now, 
and  most  of  all  to  him  who  had  been  so  faithful 
and  so  true,  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  It 
was  enough  to  leave  dumb  things  behind,  and 
objects  that  were  insensible  both  to  her  love 
and  sorrow.  To  have  parted  from  her  only 
other  friend  upon  the  threshold  of  that  wild 
journey,  would  have  wrung  her  heart  indeed. 

Why  is  it  that  we  can  better  bear  to  part  in 
spirit  than  in  body,  and  while  we  have  the  for- 
titude to  act  farewell,  have  not  the  nerve  to  say 
it  ? On  the  eve  of  long  voyages  or  an  absence 
of  many  years,  friends  who  are  tenderly  attached 
will  separate  with  the  usual  look,  the  usual  press- 
ure of  the  hand,  planning  one  final  interview 
for  the  morrow,  while  each  well  knows  that  it  is 
but  a poor  feint  to  save  the  pain  of  uttering  that 
one  word,  and  that  the  meeting  will  never  be. 
Should  possibilities  be  worse  to  bear  than  cer- 
tainties ? We  do  not  shun  our  dying  friends  ; 
the  not  having  distinctly  taken  leave  of  one 
among  them,  whom  we  left  in  all  kindness  and 
affection,  will  often  embitter  the  whole  remain- 
der of  a life. 

The  town  was  glad  with  morning  light ; places 
that  had  shown  ugly  and  distrustful  all  night 
long,  now  wore  a smile  ; and  sparkling  sunbeams 
dancing  on  chamber  windows,  and  twinkling 
through  blind  and  curtain  before  sleepers’  eyes, 
shed  light  even  into  dreams,  and  chased  away 
the  shadows  of  the  night.  Birds  in  hot  rooms, 
covered  up  close  and  dark,  felt  it  was  morning, 
and  chafed  and  grew  restless  in  their  little  cells  ; 
bright-eyed  mice  crept  back  to  their  tiny  homes 
and  nestled  timidly  together  ; the  sleek  house- 
cat,  forgetful  of  her  prey,  sat  winking  at  the 
rays  of  sun  starting  through  keyhole  and  cran- 
ny of  the  door,  and  longed  for  her  stealthy  run 
and  warm  sleek  bask  outside.  The  nobler 
beasts  confined  in  dens,  stood  motionless  be- 
hind their  bars,  and  gazed  on  fluttering  boughs, 
and  sunshine  peeping  through  some  little  win- 
dow, with  eyes  in  which  old  forests  gleamed — 
then  trod  impatiently  the  track  their  prisoned 
feet  had  worn — and  stopped  and  gazed  again. 
Men  in  their  dungeons  stretched  their  cramp 
cold  limbs  and  cursed  the  stone  that  no  bright 
sky  could  warm.  The  flowers  that  slept  by  night, 
opened  their  gentle  eyes  and  turned  them  to  the 
day.  The  light,  creation’s  mind,  was  every- 
where, and  all  things  owned  its  power. 

The  two  pilgrims,  often  pressing  each  other’s 
hands,  or  exchanging  a smile  or  cheerful  look, 
pursued  their  way  in  silence.  Bright  and  happy 
as  it  was,  there  was  something  solemn  in  the 
long,  deserted  streets,  from  which,  like  bodies 
without  souls,  all  habitual  character  and  expres- 
sion had  departed,  leaving  but  one  dead  uni- 
form repose,  that  made  them  all  alike.  All  was 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 


484 


TOWN 


so  still  at  that  early  hour,  that  the  few  pale  peo- 
ple whom  they  met  seemed  as  much  unsuited  to 
the  scene,  as  the  sickly  lamp  which  had  been 
here  and  there  left  burning,  was  powerless  and 
faint  in  the  full  glory  of  the  sun. 

Before  they  had  penetrated  very  far  into  the 
labyrinth  of  men’s  abodes  which  yet  lay  between 
them  and  the  outskirts,  this  aspe<  i began  to  melt 
away,  and  noise  and  bustle  to  usurp  its  place. 
Some  straggling  carts  and  coaches  rumbling  by, 
first  broke  the  charm,  then  others  came,  then 
others  yet  more  active,  then  a crowd.  The  won- 
der was,  at  first,  to  see  a tradesman’s  room  win- 
dow open,  but  it  was  a rare  thing  to  see  one 
closed  ; then,  smoke  rose  slowly  fiom  the  chim- 
neys, and  sashes  were  thrown  up  to  let  in  air, 
and  doors  were  opened,  and  servant  girls,  look- 
ing lazily  in  all  directions  but  their  brooms, 
scattered  brown  clouds  of  dust  into  the  eyes  of 
shrinking  passengers,  or  listened  disconsolately 
to  milkmen  who  spoke  of  country  fairs, and  told  of 
wagons  in  the  mews,  with  awnings  and  all  things 
complete,  and  gallant  swains  to  boot,  which 
another  hour  would  see  upon  their  journey. 

This  quarter  passed,  they  came  upon  the 
haunts  of  commerce  and  great  traffic,  where 
many  people  were  resorting,  and  business  was 
already  rite.  The  old  man  looked  about  him 
with  a startled  and  bewildered  gaze,  for  these 
were  places  that  he  hoped  to  shun.  He  pressed 
his  finger  on  his  lip,  and  drew  the  child  along 
by  narrow  courts  and  winding  ways,  nor  did  he 
seem  at  ease  until  they  had  left  it  far  behind, 
often  casting  a backward  look  towards  it,  mur- 
muring that  ruin  and  self-murder  were  crouch- 
ing in  every  street,  and  would  follow  if  they 
scented  them  ; and  that  they  could  not  fly  too  fast. 

Again,  this  quarter  passed,  they  came  upon  a 
straggling  neighborhood,  where  the  mean  houses 
parcelled  off  in  rooms,  and  windows  patched 
with  rags  and  paper,  told  of  the  populous  pov- 
erty that  sheltered  there.  The  shops  sold  goods 
that  only  poverty  could  buy,  and  sellers  and 
buyers  were  pinched  and  griped  alike.  Here 
were  poor  streets  where  faded  gentility  essayed 
with  scanty  space  and  shipwrecked  means  to 
make  its  last  feeble  stand,  but  tax-gatherer  and 
creditor  came  there  as  elsewhere,  and  the  pov- 
erty that  yet  faintly  struggled  was  hardly  less 
squalid  and  manifest  than  that  which  had  long 
ago  submitted  and  given  up  the  game. 

This  was  a wide,  wide  track — for  the  humble 
followers  of  the  camp  of  wealth  pitch  their  tents 
round  about  it  for  many  a mile — but  its  charac- 
ter was  still  the  same.  Damp,  rotten  houses, 
many  to  let,  many  yet  building,  many  half-built 
and  mouldering  away — lodgings,  where  it  would 
be  hard  to  tell  which  needed  pity  most,  those 
who  let  or  those  who  came  to  take — children, 
scantily  fed  and  clothed,  spread  over  every  street, 
and  sprawling  in  the  dust — scolding  mothers, 
stamping  their  slipshod  feet  with  noisy  threats 
upon  the  pavement — shabby  fathers,  hurrying 
with  dispirited  looks  to  the  occupation  which 
brought  them  “daily  bread,”  and  little  more— 
mangling-women,  washerwomen,  cobblers,  tai- 
lors, chandlers,  driving  their  trades  in  parlors 
and  kitchens  and  back  rooms  and  garrets,  and 
sometimes  all  of  them  under  the  same  roof — 
brick-fields  skirting  gardens  paled  with  staves 
of  old  casks,  or  timber  pillaged  from  houses 
burned  down,  and  blackened  and  blistered  by 
the  flames — mounds  of  dock-weed,  nettles,  coarse 


grass  and  oyster-shells,  heaped  in  rank  confu- 
sion— small  dissenting  chapels  to  teach,  with  no 
lack  of  illustration,  the  miseries  of  Earth,  and 
plenty  of  new  churches,  erected  with  a little 
superfluous  wealth,  to  show  the  way  to  Heaven. 

At  length  these  streets  becoming  more  strag- 
gling yet,  dwindled  and  dwindled  away,  until 
there  were  only  small  garden-patches  bordering 
the  road,  with  many  a summer-house  innocent 
of  paint  and  built  of  old  timber  or  some  frag- 
ments of  a boat,  green  as  the  tough  cabbage- 
stalks  that  grew  about  it,  and  grottoed  at  the 
seams  with  toad-stools  and  tight  sticking  snails. 
To  these  succeeded  pert  cottages,  two  and  two, 
with  plots  of  ground  in  front,  laid  out  in  angu- 
lar beds  with  stiff  box  borders  and  narrow 
paths  between,  where  footstep  never  strayed  to 
make  the  gravel  rough.  Then  came  the  public- 
house,  freshly  painted  in  green  and  white, 
with  tea-gardens  and  a bowling-green,  spurn- 
ing its  old  neighbor  with  the  horse-trough 
where  the  wagons  stopped  ; then,  fields  ; and 
then,  some  houses,  one  by  one,  of  goodly  size 
with  lawns,  some  even  with  a lodge  where 
dwelt  a porter  and  his  wife.  Then  came  a 
turnpike  ; then,  fields  again  with  trees  and  hay- 
stacks ; then,  a hill ; and  on  the  top  of  that, 
the  traveller  might  stop,  and — looking  back  at 
old  Saint  Paul’s  looming  through  the  smoke, 
its  cross  peeping  above  the  cloud  (if  the  day 
were  clear),  and  glittering  in  the  sun  ; and 
casting  his  eyes  upon  the  Babel  out  of  which  it 
grew  until  he  traced  it  down  to  the  furthest 
outposts  of  the  invading  army  of  bricks  and 
mortar  whose  station  lay  for  the  present  nearly 
at  his  feet — might  feel  at  last  that  he  was  clear 
of  London. 

Near  such  a spot  as  this,  and  in  a pleasant 
field,  the  old  man  and  his  little  guide  (if  guide 
she  were,  who  knew  not  whither  they  were 
bound)  sat  down  to  rest.  She  had  had  the  pre- 
caution to  furnish  her  basket  with  some  slices 
of  bread  and  meat,  and  here  they  made  their 
frugal  breakfast. 

The  freshness  of  the  day,  the  singing  of  the 
birds,  the  beauty  of  the  waving  grass,  the  deep 
green  leaves,  the  wild  flowers,  and  the  thous- 
and exquisite  scents  and  sounds  that  floated  in 
the  air, — deep  joys  to  most  of  us,  but  most  of 
all  to  those  whose  life  is  in  a crowd  or  who  live 
solitarily  in  great  cities  as  in  the  bucket  of^a 
human  well,— sunk  into  their  breasts  and  made 
them  very  glad.  T.  he  child  had  repeated  hei 
artless  prayers  once  that  morning,  more  earn- 
estly perhaps  than  she  had  ever  done  in  all 
her  life,  but  as  she  felt  all  this,  they  rose  to  her 
lips  again.  The  old  man  took  off  his  hat  he 
had  no  memory  for  the  words — but  he  said 
amen,  and  that  they  were  very  good. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap . 15. 

TOWN  -A  factory. 

A long  suburb  of  red  brick  houses,— some 
with  patches  of  garden-ground,  where  coal-dust 
and  factory-smoke  darkened  the  shrinking  leaves, 
and  coarse,  rank  flowers,  and  where  the  strug- 
gling vegetation  sickened  and  sank  under  the 
hot  breath  of  kiln  and  furnace,  making  them  by 
its  presence  seem  yet  more  blighting  and  un- 
wholesome than  in  the  town  itself, — a long,  flat, 
straggling  suburb  passed,  they  came,  by  slow 
degrees,  upon  a cheerless  region,  where  not  a 
blade  of  grass  was  seen  to  grow,  where  not  a 


TOWNS 


485 


TOWN 


bud  put  forth  its  promise  in  the  spring,  where 
nothing  green  could  live  but  on  the  surface  of 
the  stagnant  pools,  which  here  and  there  lay 
idly  sweltering  by  the  black  road-side. 

' Advancing  more  and  more  into  the  shadow 
of  this  mournful  place,  its  dark  depressing  in- 
fluence stole  upon  their  spirits,  and  filled  them 
with  a dismal  gloom.  On  every  side,  and  far  as 
the  eye  could  see  into  the  heavy  distance,  tall 
chimneys,  crowding  on  each  other,  and  present- 
ing that  endless  repetition  of  the  same  dull,  ugly 
form,  which  is  the  horror  of  oppressive  dreams, 
poured  out  their  plague  of  smoke,  obscured  the 
light,  and  made  foul  the  melancholy  air.  On 
mounds  of  ashes  by  the  wayside,  sheltered  only 
by  a few  rough  boards,  or  rotten  pent-house 
roofs,  strange  engines  spun  and  writhed  like 
tortured  creatures  ; clanking  their  iron  chains, 
shrieking  in  their  rapid  whirl  from  time  to  time 
as  though  in  torment  unendurable,  and  making 
the  ground  tremble  with  their  agonies.  Dis- 
mantled houses  here  and  there  appeared,  tot- 
tering to  the  earth,  propped  up  by  fragments  of 
others  that  had  fallen  down,  unroofed,  window- 
less, blackened,  desolate,  but  yet  inhabited. 
Men,  women,  children,  wan  in  their  looks  and 
ragged  in  attire,  tended  the  engines,  fed  their 
tributary  fire,  begged  upon  the  road,  or  scowled 
half-naked  from  the  doorless  houses.  Then, 
came  more  of  the  wrathful  monsters,  whose  like 
they  almost  seemed  to  be  in  their  wildness  and 
their  untamed  air,  screeching  and  turning  round 
and  round  again  ; and  still,  before,  behind,  and 
to  the  right  arid  left,  was  the  same  interminable 
perspective  of  brick  towers,  never  ceasing  in 
their  black  vomit,  blasting  all  things  living  or  in- 
animate, shutting  out  the  face  of  day,  and  closing 
in  on  all  these  horrors  with  a dense  dark  cloud. 

But,  night-time  in  this  dreadful  spot  ! — night, 
when  the  smoke  was  changed  to  fire  ; when 
every  chimney  spirted  up  its  flame  ; and  places 
that  had  been  dark  vaults  all  day,  now  shone 
red-hot,  with  figures  moving  to  and  fro  within 
their  blazing  jaws,  and  calling  to  one  another 
with  hoarse  cries — night,  when  the  noise  of 
every  strange  machine  was  aggravated  by  the 
darkness  ; when  the  people  near  them  looked 
wilder  and  more  savage  ; when  bands  of  unem- 
ployed laborers  paraded  the  roads,  or  clustered 
by  torch-light  round  their  leaders,  who  told 
them,  in  stern  language,  of  their  wrongs,  and 
urged  them  on  to  frightful  cries  and  threats  ; 
when  maddened  men,  armed  with  sword  and 
firebrand,  spurning  the  tears  and  prayers  of 
women  who  would  restrain  them,  rushed  forth 
on  errands  of  terror  and  destruction,  to  work  no 
ruin  half  so  surely  as  their  own — night,  when 
carts  came  rumbling  by,  filled  with  rude  coffins 
(for  contagious  disease  and  death  had  been  busy 
with  the  living  crops)  ; when  orphans  cried,  and 
distracted  women  shrieked  and  followed  in  their 
wake — night,  when  some  called  for  bread,  and 
some  for  drink  to  drown  their  cares,  and  some 
with  tears,  and  some  with  staggering  feet,  and 
some  with  bloodshot  eyes,  went  brooding  home 
— night,  which,  unlike  the  night  that  Heaven 
sends  on  earth,  brought  with  it  no  peace,  nor 
quiet,  nor  signs  of  blessed  sleep — who  shall  tell 
the  terrors  of  the  night  to  the  young  wandering 
child  ! — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  45. 

TOWNS— Pickwick’s  description  of. 

“ The  principal  productions  of  these  towns,” 


says  Mr.  Pickwick,  ‘‘appear  to  be  soldiers,  sail- 
ors, Jews,  chalk,  shrimps,  officers,  and  dockyard 
men.  The  commodities  chiefly  exposed  for  sale 
in  the  public  streets  are  marine  stores,  hard- 
bake, apples,  flat-fish,  and  oysters.  The  streets 
present  a lively  and  animated  appearance,  occa- 
sioned chiefly  by  the  conviviality  of  the  military. 
It  is  truly  delightful  to  a philanthropic  mind,  to 
see  these  gallant  men  staggering  along  under 
the  influence  of  an  overflow,  both  of  animal 
and  ardent  spirits  ; more  especially  when  we 
remember  that  the  following  them  about,  and 
jesting  with  them,  affords  a cheap  and  innocent 
amusement  for  the  boy  population.  Nothing 
(adds  Mr.  Pickwick)  can  exceed  their  good  hu- 
mor. It  was  but  the  day  before  my  arrival  that 
one  of  them  had  been  most  grossly  insulted  in 
the  house  of  a publican.  The  bar-maid  had 
positively  refused  to  draw  him  any  more  liquor; 
in  return  for  which  he  had  (merely  in  playful- 
ness) drawn  his  bayonet,  and  wounded  the  girl 
in  the  shoulder.  And  yet  this  fine  fellow  was 
the  very  first  to  go  down  to  the  house  next 
morning,  and  express  his  readiness  to  overlook 
the  matter,  and  forget  what  had  occurred. 

“ The  consumption  of  tobacco  in  these  towns 
(continues  Mr.  Pickwick)  must  be  very  great ; 
and  the  smell  which  pervades  the  streets  must 
be  exceedingly  delicious  to  those  who  are  ex- 
tremely fond  of  smoking.  A superficial  traveller 
might  object  to  the  dirt  which  is  their  leading 
characteristic  ; but  to  those  who  view  it  as  an 
indication  of  traffic  and  commercial  prosperity, 
it  is  truly  gratifying.” — Pickwick , Chap.  2. 

TOWN— Approach  to  a manufacturing-. 

They  had,  for  some  time,  been  gradually  ap- 
proaching the  place  for  which  they  were  bound. 
The  water  had  become  thicker  and  dirtier ; 
other  barges,  coming  from  it,  passed  them  fre- 
quently ; the  paths  of  coal-ash  and  huts  of  star- 
ing brick,  marked  the  vicinity  of  some  great 
manufacturing  town  ; while  scattered  streets 
and  houses,  and  smoke  from  distant  furnaces, 
indicated  that  they  were  already  in  the  out- 
skirts. Now,  the  clustered  roofs,  and  piles  of 
buildings,  trembling  with  the  working  of  en- 
gines, and  dimly  resounding  with  their  shrieks 
and  throbbings  ; the  tall  chimneys  vomiting 
forth  a black  vapor,  which  hung  in  a dense  ill- 
favored  cloud  above  the  housetops  and  filled  the 
air  with  gloom  ; the  clank  of  hammers  beating 
upon  iron,  the  roar  of  busy  streets  and  noisy 
crowds,  gradually  augmenting  until  all  the  va- 
rious sounds  blended  into  one  and  none  was 
distinguishable  for  itself,  announced  the  termina- 
tion of  their  journey. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  43. 

TOWN-A  lazy. 

It  was  a pretty  large  town,  with  an  open 
square  which  they  were  crawling  slowly  across, 
and  in  the  middle  of  which  was  the  Town-Hall, 
with  a clock-tower  and  a weather-cock.  There 
were  houses  of  stone,  houses  of  red  brick, 
houses  of  yellow  brick,  houses  of  lath  and  plas- 
ter ; and  houses  of  wood,  many  of  them  very 
old,  with  withered  faces  carved  upon  the  beams, 
and  staring  down  into  the  street.  These  had 
very  little  winking  windows,  and  low-arched 
doors,  and,  in  some  of  the  narrower  ways,  quite 
overhung  the  pavement.  The  streets  were 
very  clean,  very  sunny,  very  empty,  and  very 


TOY-MAKER 


486 


TRANSCENDENTALISM 


dull.  A few  idle  men  lounged  about  the  two 
inns,  and  the  empty  market-place,  and  the 
tradesmen’s  doors,  and  some  old  people  were 
dozing  in  chairs  outside  an  alms-house  wall  ; 
but  scarcely  any  passengers  who  seemed  bent 
on  going  anywhere,  or  to  have  any  object  in 
view,  went  by  ; and  if  perchance  some  straggler 
did.  his  footsteps  echoed  on  the  hot  bright 
pavement  for  minutes  afterwards.  Nothing 
seemed  to  be  going  on  but  the  clocks,  and  they 
had  such  drowsy  faces,  such  heavy  lazy  hands, 
and  such  cracked  voices,  that  they  surely  must 
have  been  too  slow.  The  very  dogs  were  all 
asleep,  and  the  flies,  drunk  with  moist  sugar  in 
the  grocer’s  shop,  forgot  their  wings  and  brisk- 
ness, and  baked  to  death  in  dusty  corners  of 
the  window. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  28. 

TOY-MAKER-His  home. 

Caleb  and  his  daughter  were  at  work  togeth- 
er in  their  usual  working- room,  which  served 
them  for  their  ordinary  living-room  as  well  ; 
and  a strange  place  it  was.  There  were  houses 
in  it,  finished  and  unfinished,  for  Dolls  of  all 
stations  in  life.  Suburban  tenements  for  Dolls 
of  moderate  means  ; kitchens  and  single  apart- 
ments for  Dolls  of  the  lower  classes  ; capital 
town  residences  for  Dolls  of  high  estate.  Some 
of  these  establishments  were  already  furnished 
according  to  estimate,  with  a view  to  the  con- 
venience of  Dolls  of  limited  income  ; others 
could  be  fitted  on  the  most  expensive  scale,  at  a 
moment’s  notice,  from  whole  shelves  of  chairs 
and  tables,  sofas,  bedsteads,  and  upholstery. 
The  nobility  and  gentry  and  public  in  general, 
for  whose  accommodation  these  tenements  were 
designed,  lay,  here  and  there,  in  baskets,  staring 
straight  up  at  the  ceiling  ; but,  in  denoting  their 
degrees  in  society,  and  confining  them  to  their 
respective  stations  (which  experience  shows  to 
be  lamentably  difficult  in  real  life),  the  makers 
of  these  Dolls  had  far  improved  on  Nature,  who 
is  often  froward  and  perverse  ; for  they,  not 
resting  on  such  arbitrary  marks  as  satin,  cotton- 
print,  and  bits  of  rag,  had  superadded  striking 
personal  differences  which  allowed  of  no  mis- 
take. Thus  the  Doll-lady  of  distinction  had 
wax  limbs  of  perfect  symmetry ; but  only  she 
and  her  compeers.  The  next  grade  in  the  so- 
cial scale  being  made  of  leather,  and  the  next  of 
coarse  linen  stuff.  As  to  the  common-people, 
they  had  just  so  many  matches  out  of  tinder- 
boxes,  for  their  arms  and  legs,  and  there  they 
were — established  in  their  sphere  at  once,  be- 
yond the  possibility  of  getting  out  of  it. 

There  were  various  other  samples  of  his  handi- 
craft besides  Dolls,  in  Caleb  Plummer’s  room. 
There  were  Noah’s  Arks,  in  which  the  Birds 
and  Beasts  were  an  uncommonly  tight  fit,  I assure 
you  ; though  they  could  be  crammed  in,  any- 
how, at  the  roof,  and  rattled  and  shaken  into  the 
smallest  compass.  By  a bold  poetical  license, 
most  of  these  Noah’s  Arks  had  knockers  on  the 
doors  ; inconsistent  appendages  perhaps,  as  sug- 
gestive of  morning  callers  and  a Postman,  yet  a 
pleasant  finish  to  the  outside  of  the  building. 
There  were  scores  of  melancholy  little  carts, 
which,  when  the  wheels  went  round,  performed 
most  doleful  music.  Many  small  fiddles,  drums, 
and  other  instruments  of  torture  j no  end  of 
cannon,  shields,  swords,  spears,  and  guns. 
There  were  little  tumblers  in  red  breeches,  in- 
cessantly swarming  up  high  obstacles  of  red 


tape,  and  coming  down,  head  first,  on  the  other 
side  ; and  there  were  innumerable  old  gentle- 
men of  respectable,  not  to  say  venerable  appear- 
ance, insanely  flying  over  horizontal  pegs,  in- 
serted,  for  the  purpose,  in  their  own  street  doors. 
There  were  beasts  of  all  sorts  ; horses,  in  parti- 
cular, of  every  breed,  from  the  spotted  barrel  on 
four  pegs,  with  a small  tippet  for  a mane,  to 
the  thoroughbred  rocker  on  his  highest  mettle. 
As  it  would  have  been  hard  to  count  the  dozens 
upon  dozens  of  grotesque  figures  that  were  ever 
ready  to  commit  all  sorts  of  absurdities  on  the 
turning  of  a handle,  so  it  would  have  been  no 
easy  task  to  mention  any  human  folly,  vice,  or 
weakness,  that  had  not  its  type,  immediate  or 
remote,  in  Caleb  Plummer’s  room.  And  not  in 
an  exaggerated  form,  for  very  little  handles  will 
move  men  and  women  to  as  strange  perform- 
ances as  any  Toy  was  ever  made  to  undertake. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  2. 

TRADES— The  eccentricity  of. 

We  will  cite  two  or  three  cases  in  illustration 
of  our  meaning.  Six  or  eight  years  ago,  the  epi- 
demic began  to  display  itself  among  the  linen- 
drapers  and  haberdashers.  The  primary  symp- 
toms were  an  inordinate  love  of  plate-glass,  and 
a passion  for  gas-lights  and  gilding.  The  dis- 
ease gradually  progressed,  and  at  last  attained 
a fearful  height.  Quiet  dusty  old  shops  in 
different  parts  of  town,  were  pulled  down ; 
spacious  premises  with  stuccoed  fronts  and  gold 
letters,  were  erected  instead  ; floors  were  cover- 
ed with  Turkey  carpets  ; roofs,  supported  by 
massive  pillars  ; doors,  knocked  into  windows  ; 
a dozen  squares  of  glass  into  one  ; one  shop- 
man into  a dozen  ; and  there  is  no  knowing 
what  would  have  been  done,  if  it  had  not  been 
fortunately  discovered  just  in  time,  that  the 
Commissioners  of  Bankrupts  were  as  compe- 
tent to  decide  such  cases  as  the  Commissioners 
of  Lunacy,  and  that  a little  confinement  and 
gentle  examination  did  wonders.  The  disease 
abated.  It  died  away.  A year  or  two  of  com- 
parative tranquillity  ensued.  Suddenly  it  burst 
out  again  among  the  chemists  ; the  symp- 
toms were  the  same,  with  the  addition  of  a 
strong  desire  to  stick  the  royal  arms  over  the 
shop-door,  and  a great  rage  for  mahogany,  var- 
nish, and  expensive  floor-cloth.  Then  the  ho- 
siers were  infected,  and  began  to  pull  down  their 
shop-fronts  with  frantic  recklessness.  The 
mania  again  died  away,  and  the  public  began  to 
congratulate  themselves  on  its  entire  disappear- 
ance, when  it  burst  forth  with  tenfold  violence 
among  the  publicans,  and  keepers  of  “ wine- 
vaults.”  From  that  moment  it  has  spread  among 
them  with  unprecedented  rapidity,  exhibiting  a 
concatenation  of  all  the  previous  symptoms  ; 
onward  it  has  rushed  to  every  part  of  town, 
knocking  down  all  the  old  public-houses,  and 
depositing  splendid  mansions,  stone  balustrades, 
rosewood  fittings,  immense  lamps,  and  illumi- 
nated clacks,  at  the  corner  of  every  street. 

Scenes,  Chap.  22. 

TRANSCENDENTALISM -In  America. 

The  fruits  of  the  earth  have  their  growth  in 
corruption.  Out  of  the  rottenness  of  these 
things  there  has  sprung  up  in  Boston  a sect  of 
philosophers  known  as  Transcendentalists.  On 
inquiring  what  this  appellation  might  be  sup- 
posed to  signify,  I was  given  to  understand 


TRAVEL 


487 


TRAVEL 


that  whatever  was  unintelligible  would  be  cer- 
tainly transcendental.  Not  deriving  much  com- 
fort from  this  elucidation,  I pursued  the  inquiry 
still  further,  and  found  that  the  Transcendental- 
ists  are  followers  of  my  friend  Mr.  Carlyle,  or,  I 
should  rather  say,  of  a follower  of  his,  Mr.  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson.  This  gentleman  has  written 
a volume  of  Essays,  in  which,  among  much  that 
is  dreamy  and  fanciful  (if  he  will  pardon  me  for 
saying  so),  there  is  much  more  that  is  true  and 
manly,  honest  and  bold.  Transcendentalism 
has  its  occasional  vagaries  (what  school  has 
not?),  but  it  has  good  healthful  qualities  in  spite 
of  them  ; not  least  among  the  number  a hearty 
disgust  of  Cant,  and  an  aptitude  to  detect  her 
in  all  the  million  varieties  of  her  everlasting 
wardrobe.  And  therefore,  if  I were  a Boston- 
ian, I think  I would  be  a Transcendentalist. 

American  Notes , Chap.  3. 

TRAVEL— The  attractions  of  highway. 

What  a soothing,  luxurious,  drowsy  way  of 
travelling,  to  lie  inside  that  slowly  moving  moun- 
tain, listening  to  the  tinkling  of  the  horses’  bells, 
the  occasional  smacking  of  the  carter’s  whip,  the 
smooth  rolling  of  the  great  broad  wheels,  the 
rattle  of  the  harness,  the  cheery  good-nights  of 
passing  travellers  jogging  past  on  little  short- 
stepped  horses — all  made  pleasantly  indistinct 
by  the  thick  awning,  which  seemed  made  for 
lazy  listening  under,  till  one  fell  asleep  ! The 
very  going  to  sleep,  still  with  an  indistinct  idea, 
as  the  head  jogged  to  and  fro  upon  the  pillow, 
of  moving  onward  with  no  trouble  or  fatigue, 
and  hearing  all  these  sounds  like  dreamy  music, 
lulling  to  the  senses — and  the  slow  waking  up, 
and  finding  one’s  self  staring  out  through  the 
breezy  curtain  half-opened  in  the  front,  far  up 
into  the  cold  bright  sky  with  its  countless  stars, 
and  downward  at  the  driver’s  lantern,  dancing 
on  like  its  namesake  Jack  of  the  swamps  and 
marshes,  and  sideways  at  the  dark  grim  trees, 
and  forward  at  the  long  bare  road,  rising  up, 
up,  up,  until  it  stopped  abruptly  at  a sharp  high 
ridge  as  if  there  were  no  more  road,  and  all  be- 
yond was  sky — and  the  stopping  at  the  inn  to 
bait,  and  being  helped  out,  and  going  into  a 
room  with  fire  and  candles,  and  winking  very 
much,  and  being  agreeably  reminded  that  the 
night  was  cold,  and  anxious  for  very  comfort’s 
sake  to  think  it  colder  than  it  was  ! — What  a 
delicious  journey  was  that  journey  in  the  wagon. 

Then  the  going  on  again — so  fresh  at  first, 
and  shortly  afterwards  so  sleepy.  The  waking 
from  a sound  nap  as  the  mail  came  dashing  past 
like  a highway  comet,  with  gleaming  lamps  and 
rattling  hoofs,  and  visions  of  a guard  behind, 
standing  up  to  keep  his  feet  warm,  and  of  a gen- 
tleman in  a fur  cap  opening  his  eyes  and  look- 
ing wild  and  stupefied — the  stopping  at  the 
turnpike,  where  the  man  was  gone  to  bed,  and 
knocking  at  the  door  until  he  answered  with  a 
smothered  shout  from  under  the  bed-clothes  in 
the  little  room  above,  where  the  faint  light  was 
burning,  and  presently  came  down,  night-capped 
and  shivering,  to  throw  the  gate  wide  open,  and 
wish  all  wagons  off  the  road  except  by  day. 
The  cold  sharp  interval  between  night  and 
morning — the  distant  streak  of  light  widening 
and  spreading,  and  turning  from  gray  to  white, 
and  from  white  to  yellow,  and  from  yellow  to 
burning  red — the  presence  of  day,  with  all  its 
cheerfulness  and  life — men  and  horses  at  the 


plough — birds  in  the  trees  and  hedges,  and  boys 
in  solitary  fields,  frightening  them  away  with 
rattles.  The  coming  to  a town — people  busy 
in  the  markets  ; light  carts  and  chaises  round 
the  tavern  yard  ; tradesmen  standing  at  their 
doors  ; men  running  horses  up  and  down  the 
street  for  sale  ; pigs  plunging  and  grunting  in 
the  dirty  distance,  getting  off  with  long  strings 
at  their  legs,  running  into  clean  chemists’  shops 
and  being  dislodged  with  brooms  by  ’prentices  ; 
the  night  coach  changing  horses — the  passen- 
gers cheerless,  cold,  ugly,  and  discontented,  with 
three  months’  growth  of  hair  in  one  night — the 
coachman  fresh  as  from  a band-box,  and  exquis- 
itely beautiful  by  contrast  : — so  much  bustle, 
so  many  things  in  motion,  such  a variety  of  in- 
cidents— when  was  there  a journey  with  so  many 
delights  as  that  journey  in  the  wagon  ? 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  46. 

TRAVEL-Scenes  of. 

Among  the  day’s  unrealities  would  be  roads 
where  the  bright  red  vines  were  looped  and 
garlanded  together  on  trees  for  many  miles  ; 
woods  of  olives;  white  villages  and  towns  on 
hill-sides,  lovely  without,  but  frightful  in  their 
dirt  and  poverty  within  ; crosses  by  the  way  ; 
deep  blue  lakes  with  fairy  islands,  and  cluster- 
ing boats  with  awnings  of  bright  colors  and 
sails  of  beautiful  forms  ; vast  piles  of  building 
mouldering  to  dust  ; hanging-gardens  where 
the  weeds  had  grown  so  strong  that  their  stems, 
like  wedges  driven  home,  had  split  the  arch  and- 
rent  the  wall  ; stone-terraced  lanes,  with  the 
lizards  running  into  and  out  of  every  chink  ; 
beggars  of  all  sorts  everywhere  : pitiful,  pictur- 
esque, hungry,  merry : children  beggars  and 
aged  beggars.  Often,  at  posting-houses,  and 
other  halting-places,  these  miserable  creatures 
would  appear  to  her  the  only  realities  of  the 
day  ; and  many  a time,  when  the  money  she 
had  brought  to  give  them  was  all  given  away, 
she  would  sit  with  her  folded  hands,  thought- 
fully looking  after  some  diminutive  girl  leading 
her  gray  father,  as  if  the  sight  reminded  her  of 
something  in  the  days  that  were  gone. 

Again,  there  would  be  places  where  they 
stayed  the  week  together,  in  splendid  rooms, 
had  banquets  every  day,  rode  out  among  heaps 
of  wonders,  walked  through  miles  of  palaces, 
and  rested  in  dark  corners  of  great  churches  ; 
where  there  were  winking  lamps  of  gold  and 
silver  among  pillars  and  arches  ; kneeling  fig- 
ui’es  dotted  about  at  confessionals  and  on  the 
pavements  ; where  there  was  the  mist  and  scent 
of  incense  ; where  there  were  pictures,  fantas- 
tic images,  gaudy  altars,  great  heights  and  dis- 
tances, all  softly  lighted  through  stained  glass, 
and  the  massive  curtains  that  hung  in  the  door- 
ways. From  these  cities  they  would  go  on 
again,  by  the  roads  of  vines  and  olives,  through 
squalid  villages  where  there  was  not  a hovel 
without  a gap  in  its  filthy  walls,  not  a window 
with  a whole  inch  of  glass  or  paper ; where 
there  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  support  life, 
nothing  to  eat,  nothing  to  make,  nothing  to 
grow,  nothing  to  hope,  nothing  to  do  but  die. 

Again,  they  would  come  to  whole  towns  of 
palaces,  whose  proper  inmates  were  all  banish- 
ed, and  which  were  all  changed  into  barraek-s  : 
troops  of  idle  soldiers  leaning  out  of  the  state- 
windows,  where  their  accoutrements  hung  dry- 
ing on  the  marble  architecture,  and  showing 


TRAVEL 


488 


TRAVEL 


to  the  mind  like  hosts  of  rats  who  were  happily 
eating  away  the  props  of  the  edifices  that  sup- 
ported them,  and  must  soon,  with  them,  be 
smashed  on  the  heads  of  the  other  swarms  of 
soldiers,  and  the  swarms  of  priests,  and  the 
swarms  of  spies,  who  were  all  the  ill-looking 
population  left  to  be  ruined,  in  the  streets  below. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  3. 

TRAVEL— The  associations  of. 

When  the  wind  is  blowing  and  the  sleet  or 
rain  is  driving  against  the  dark  windows,  I love 
to  sit  by  the  lire,  thinking  of  what  I have  read 
in  books  of  voyage  and  travel.  Such  books 
have  had  a strong  fascination  for  my  mind 
from  my  earliest  childhood  ; and  I wonder  it 
should  have  come  to  pass  that  I never  have 
been  round  the  world,  never  have  been  ship- 
wrecked, ice-environed,  tomahawked,  or  eaten. 

Sitting  on  my  ruddy  hearth  in  the  twilight 
of  New  Year’s  Eve,  I find  incidents  of  travel 
rise  around  me' from  all  the  latitudes  and  longi- 
tudes of  the  globe.  They  observe  no  order  or 
sequence,  but  appear  and  vanish  as  they  will — 
“ come  like  shadows,  so  depart.”  Columbus, 
alone  upon  the  sea  with  his  disaffected  crew, 
looks  over  the  waste  of  waters  from  his  high  sta- 
tion on  the  poop  of  his  ship,  and  sees  the  first 
uncertain  glimmer  of  the  light,  “ rising  and  fall- 
ing with  the  waves,  like  a torch  in  the  bark 
of  some  fisherman,”  which  is  the  shining  star  of 
a new  world.  Bruce  is  caged  in  Abyssinia,  sur- 
rounded by  the  gory  horrors  which  shall  often 
startle  him  out  of  his  sleep  at  home  when  years 
have  passed  away.  Franklin,  come  to  the  end 
of  his  unhappy  overland  journey — would  that  it 
had  been  his  last  ! — lies  perishing  of  hunger 
with  his  brave  companions : each  emaciated 
figure  stretched  upon  its  miserable  bed  without 
the  power  to  rise  : all  dividing  the  weary  days 
between  their  prayers,  their  remembrances  of 
• the  dear  ones  at  home,  and  conversation  on  the 
pleasures  of  eating  ; the  last-named  topic  being 
ever  present  to  them,  likewise,  in  their  dreams. 
All  the  African  travellers,  way-worn,  solitary, 
and  sad,  submit  themselves  again  to  drunken, 
murderous,  man-selling  despots,  of  the  lowest 
order  of  humanity;  and  Mungo  Park,  fainting 
under  a tree  and  succored  by  a woman,  grate- 
fully remembers  how  his  Good  Samaritan  has 
always  come  to  him  in  woman’s  shape,  the  wide 
world  over. 

The  Long  Voyage.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

TRAVEL— Experiences  of. 

As  I wait  here  on  board  the  night  packet  for 
the  South  Eastern  Train  to  come  down  with 
the  Mail,  Dover  appears  to  me  to  be  illuminated 
for  some  intensely  aggravating  festivity  in  my 
personal  dishonor.  All  its  noises  smack  of 
taunting  praises  of  the  land,  and  dispraises  of 
the  gloomy  sea,  and  of  me  for  going  on  it.  The 
drums  upon  the  heights  have  gone  to  bed,  or  I 
know  they  would  rattle  taunts  against  me  for 
having  my  unsteady  footing  on  this  slippery 
deck.  The  many  gas  eyes  of  the  Marine 
Parade  twinkle  in  an  offensive  manner,  as  if 
with  derision.  The  distant  dogs  of  Dover  bark 
at  me  in  my  misshapen  wrappers,  as  if  I were 
Richard  the  Third. 

A screech,  a bell,  and  two  red  eyes  come  glid- 
ing down  the  Admiralty  J’ier  with  a smoothness 
of  motion  rendered  more  smooth  by  the  heaving 


of  the  boat.  The  sea  makes  noises  against  the 
pier,  as  if  sevet  il  hippopotami  were  lapping  at 
it,  and  were  p, evented  by  circumstances  over 
which  they  had  no  control  from  drinking  peace- 
ably. We,  the  i.oat,  become  violently  agitated, 
— rumble,  hum  cream,  roar,  and  establish  an 
immense  family  washing-day  at  each  paddle- 
box.  Bright  pan  ics  bre^ik  out  in  the  train  as 
the  doors  of  the  post-office  vans  are  opened  ; 
and  instantly  stoo  ing  figures  with  sacks  upon 
their  backs  begin  * > be  beheld  among  the  piles, 
descending,  as  it  would  seem,  in  ghostly  pro- 
cession to  Davy  J mes’s  Locker.  The  passen- 
gers come  on  boa  J, — a few  shadowy  French- 
men, with  hat-boi  ;S,  shaped  like  the  stoppers 
of  gigantic  case-boi  Je s ; a few  shadowy  Germans 
in  immense  fur  coa  » and  boots  ; a few  shadowy 
Englishmen  prepai-.J  for  the  worst,  and  pre- 
tending not  to  expet  ■ it.  I cannot  disguise  from 
my  uncommercial  11  nd  the  miserable  fact  that 
we  are  a body  of  ot  leasts  ; that  the  attendants 
on  us  are  as  scant  in  number  as  may  serve  to 
get  rid  of  us  with  the  least  possible  delay  ; that 
there  are  no  night-lo  tngers  interested  in  us; 
that  the  unwilling  lamps  shiver  and  shudder  at 
us  ; that  the  sole  objec  t is  to  commit  us  to  the 
deep  and  abandon  11s  Lo,  the  two  red  eyes 
glaring  in  increasing  distance,  and  then  the  very 
train  itself  has  gone  to  bed  before  we  are  off. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  17. 

TRAVEL— Preparations  for. 

Who  has  not  experienced  the  miseries  inevi- 
tably consequent  upon  a summons  to  under- 
take a hasty  journey  ? You  receive  an  intima- 
tion from  your  place  of  business — wherever  that 
may  be,  or  whatever  you  may  be — that  it  will  be 
necessary  to  leave  town  without  delay.  You  and 
your  family  are  forthwith  thrown  into  a state  of 
tremendous  excitement  ; an  express  is  immedi- 
ately despatched  to  the  washerwoman’s  ; every- 
body is  in  a bustle  ; and  you,  yourself,  with  a 
feeling  of  dignity  which  you  cannot  altogether 
conceal,  sally  forth  to  the  booking-office  to  se- 
cure your  place.  Here  a painful  consciousness 
of  your  own  unimportance  first  rushes  on  your 
mind — the  people  are  as  cool  and  collected  as 
if  nobody  were  going  out  of  town,  or  as  if  a 
journey  of  a hundred  odd  miles  were  a mere 
nothing.  You  enter  a mouldy-looking  room, 
ornamented  with  large  posting-bills  ; the  greater 
part  of  the  place  enclosed  behind  a huge  lum- 
bering rough  counter,  and  fitted  up  with  recesses 
that  look  like  the  dens  of  the  smaller  animals  in 
a travelling  menagerie,  without  the  bars.  Some 
half-dozen  people  are  “ booking”  brown-paper 
parcels,  which  one  of  the  clerks  flings  into  the 
aforesaid  recesses  with  an  air  of  recklessness 
which  you,  remembering  the  new  carpet-bag  you 
bought  in  the  morning,  feel  considerably  annoyed 
at ; porters,  looking  like  so  many  Atlases,  keep 
rushing  in  and  out,  with  large  packages  on  their 
shoulders  ; and  while  you  are  waiting  to  make 
the  necessary  inquiries,  you  wonder  what  on 
earth  the  booking-office  clerks  can  have  been 
before  they  were  booking-office  clerks  ; one  of 
them,  with  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  his  hands 
behind  him,  is  standing  in  front  of  the  fire,  like 
a full-length  portrait  of  Napoleon  ; the  other, 
with  his  hat  half  off  his  head,  enters  the  passen- 
gers’ names  in  the  books  with  a coolness  which 
is  inexpressibly  provoking  ; and  the  villain  whis- 
tles— actually  whistles — while  a man  asks  him 


TRAVELLING 


489 


TRAVELLERS 


what  the  fare  is  outside— -all  the  way  to  Holy- 
head  ! — in  frosty  weat  her,  too  ! They  are  clearly 
an  isolated  race,  evidently  possessing  no  sympa- 
thies or  feelings  in  common  with  the  rest  of 
mankind.  Your  turn  comes  at  last,  and  having 
paid  the  fare,  you  tremblingly  inquire — “ What 
time  will  it  be  necessary  for  me  to  be  here  in 
the  morning  ? ” — “ Six  o’clock,”  replies  the  whis- 
tler, carelessly  pitching  the  sovereign  you  have 
just  parted  with,  into  a wooden  bowl  on  the 
desk.  “ Rather  before  than  arter,”  adds  the  man 
with  the  semi-roasted  unmentionables,  with  just 
as  much  ease  and  complacency  as  if  the  whole 
world  got  out  of  bed  at  five.  You  turn  into  the 
street,  ruminating  as  you  bend  your  steps  home- 
wards on  the  extent  to  which  men  become  hard- 
ened in  cruelty,  by  custom. — Scenes , Chap.  15. 

TRAVELLIN G— In  imagination. 

There  are  not  many  places  that  I find  it  moi*e 
agreeable  to  revisit,  when  I am  in  an  idle  mood, 
than  some  places  to  which  I have  never  been. 
For  my  acquaintance  with  those  spots  is  of  such 
long  standing,  and  has  ripened  into  an  intimacy 
of  so  affectionate  a nature,  that  I take  a particu- 
lar interest  in  assuring  myself  that  they  are  un- 
changed. 

I never  was  in  Robinson  Crusoe' s Island , yet 
I frequently  return  there.  The  colony  he  estab- 
lished on  it  soon  faded  away,  and  it  is  unin- 
habited by  any  descendants  of  the  grave  and 
courteous  Spaniards,  or  of  Will  Atkins  and  the 
other  mutineers,  and  h,.s  relapsed  Into  its  origi- 
nal condition.  Not  a twig  of  its  wicker  houses 
remains,  its  goats  have  long  run  wild  again,  its 
screaming  parrots  would  darken  the  sun  with  a 
cloud  of  many  flaming  colors  if  a gun  were  fired 
thei-e,  no  face  is  ever  reflected  in  the  waters  of 
the  little  creek  which  Friday  swam  across  when 
pursued  by  his  two  brother  cannibals  with 
sharpened  stomachs.  After  comparing  notes 
with  other  ti*avellei*s  who  have  similarly  revisit- 
ed the  Island,  and  conscientiously  inspected  it, 
I have  satisfied  myself  that  it  contains  no  ves- 
tige of  Mr.  Atkins’s  domesticity  or  theology  ; 
though  his  track  on  the  memorable  evening  of 
his  landing  to  set  his  captain  ashore,  when  he 
was  decoyed  about  and  round  about  until  it  was 
dark,  and  his  boat  was  stove,  and  his  strength 
and  spirits  failed  him,  is  yet  plainly  to  be  ti'aced. 
So  is  the  hill-top  on  which  Robinson  was  struck 
dumb  with  joy  when  the  reinstated  captain 
pointed  to  the  ship,  riding  within  half  a mile  of 
the  shoi'e,  that  was  to  bear  him  away,  in  the 
nine-and-twentieth  year  of  his  seclusion  in  that 
lonely  place.  So  is  the  sandy  beach  on  which 
the  memorable  footstep  was  impi'essed,  and 
where  the  savages  hauled  up  their  canoes,  when 
they  came  ashore  for  those  dreadful  public  din- 
ners, which  led  to  a dancing  worse  than  speech- 
making. So  is  the  cave  where  the  flaring  eyes 
of  the  old  goat  made  such  a goblin  appearance 
in  the  dark.  So  is  the  site  of  the  hut  where 
Robinson  lived  with  the  dog,  and  the  paiTot,  and 
the  cat,  and  where  he  endured  those  first  agonies 
of  solitude,  which — sti'ange  to  say — never  in- 
volved axiy  ghostly  fancies  ; a circumstance  so 
very  l'emarkable,  that  perhaps  he  left  out  some- 
thing in  writing  his  record  ? Round  hundreds 
of  such  objects,  hidden  in  the  dense  tiopical 
foliage,  the  ti'opical  sea  breaks  evermore  ; and 
over  them  the  ti-opical  sky,  saving  in  the  short 
rainy  season,  shines  bright  and  cloudless. 


* * Mr  * * 

I was  never  in  the  robbers’  cave,  where  Gil 
Bias  lived  ; but  I often  go  back  there  and  find 
the  trap  door  just  as  heavy  to  raise  as  it  used  to 
be  while  that  wicked  old  disabled  Black  lies 
everlastingly  cursing  in  bed.  I was  never  in 
Don  Quixote’s  study,  where  he  read  his  books 
of  chivaky  until  he  rose  and  hacked  at  imagin- 
ary giants,  and  then  refi-eshed  himself  with  great 
draughts  of  water  ; yet  you  couldn’t  move  a 
book  in  it  without  my  knowledge  or  with  my 
consent.  I was  never  (thank  Heaven  !)  in  com- 
pany with  the  little  old  woman  who  hobbled 
out  of  the  chest,  and  told  the  mei*chant  Abudah 
to  go  in  seai'ch  of  the  Talisman  of  Oromanes  ; 
yet  I make  it  my  business  to  know  that  she  is 
well  preserved  and  as  intolerable  as  ever.  I 
was  never  at  the  school  where  the  boy  Hoiutio 
Nelson  got  out  of  bed  to  steal  the  pears,  not  be- 
cause he  wanted  any,  but  because  every  other 
boy  was  afraid  ; yet  I have  several  times  been 
back  to  this  Academy  to  see  him  let  down  out 
of  window  with  a sheet.  So  with  Damascus, 
and  Bagdad,  and  Brobingnag  (which  has  the 
curious  fate  of  being  usually  misspelt  when 
written),  and  Lilliput,  and  Laputa,  and  the  Nile, 
and  Abyssinia,  and  the  Ganges,  and  the ‘North 
Pole,  and  many  hundreds  of  places — I was 
never  at  them  ; yet  it  is  an  affair  of  my  life  to 
keep  them  intact,  and  I am  always  going 
back  to  them. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  15. 

TRAVELLER— Bagstock  as  a. 

The  Native  had  pi'eviously  packed,  in  all 
possible  and  impossible  parts  of  Mr.  Dombey’s 
chariot,  which  was  in  waiting,  an  unusual  quan- 
tity of  carpet-bags  and  small  portmanteaus,  no 
less  apoplectic  in  appeai-ance  than  the  Major 
himself  ; and  having  filled  his  own  pockets  with 
Seltzer  water,  East  India  sherry,  sandwiches, 
shawls,  telescopes,  maps,  and  newspapers,  any 
or  all  of  which  light  baggage  the  Major  might 
require  at  any  instant  of  the  journey,  he  an- 
nounced that  everything  was  x'eady.  To  com- 
plete the  equipment  of  this  unfortunate  foreigner 
(cun-ently  believed  to  be  a prince  in  his  own 
codntry),  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  rumble 
by  the  side  of  Mr.  Towlinson,  a pile  of  the 
Majoi-’s  cloaks  and  gi‘eat-coats  was  hurled  upon 
him  by  the  landlord,  who  aimed  at  him  from 
the  pavement  with  those  great  missiles  like  a 
Titan,  and  so  covered  him  up,  that  he  proceeded 
in  a living  tomb  to  the  railroad  station. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  20. 

TRAVELLING-Ry  twilight. 

The  savage  herdsmen  and  the  fierce-looking 
peasants,  who  had  chequered  the  way  while  the 
light  lasted,  had  all  gone  down  with  the  sun, 
and  left  the  wilderness  blank.  At  some  turns 
of  the  road,  a pale  flai-e  on  the  horizon,  like  an 
exhalation  from  the  ruin-sown  land,  showed  that 
the  city  was  yet  far  off ; but  this  poor  relief  wus 
rare  and  short-lived.  The  carriage  dipped  down 
again  into  a hollow  of  the  black,  dry  sea,  and 
for  a long  time  there  was  nothing  visible  save 
its  petrified  swell  and  the  gloomy  sky. 

Little  Dorrit,  Book  II.,  Chap.  19. 

TRAVELLERS— Unsociable. 

There  are  thi*ee  meals  a day.  Breakfast  at 
seven,  dinner  at  half  past  twelve,  supper  about 


TRAVELLER 


490 


TREES 


six.  At  each  there  are  a great  many  small 
dishes  and  plates  upon  the  table,  with  very  little 
in  them  ; so  that,  although  there  is  every  ap- 
pearance of  a mighty  “spread,”  there  is  seldom 
really  more  than  a joint ; except  for  those  who 
fancy  slices  of  beet  roots,  shreds  of  dried  beef, 
complicated  entanglements  of  yellow  pickle, 
maize,  Indian  corn,  apple-sauce,  and  pumpkin. 

Some  people  fancy  all  these  little  dainties  to- 
gether (and  sweet  preserves  beside),  by  way  of 
relish  to  their  roast  pig.  They  are  generally 
those  dyspeptic  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  eat 
unheard-of  quantities  of  hot  corn-bread  (almost 
as  good  for  the  digestion  as  a kneaded  pin- 
cushion) for  breakfast  and  for  supper.  Those 
who  do  not  observe  this  custom,  and  who  help 
themselves  several  times  instead,  usually  suck 
their  knives  and  forks  meditatively,  until  they 
have  decided  what  to  take  next  ; then  pull  them 
out  of  their  mouths,  put  them  in  the  dish,  help  ! 
themselves,  and  fall  to  work  again.  At  dinner 
there  is  nothing  to  drink  upon  the  table,  but 
great  jugs  full  of  cold  water.  Nobody  says  any- 
thing at  any  meal  to  anybody.  All  the  passen- 
gers are  very  dismal,  and  seem  to  have  tremen- 
dous secrets  weighing  on  their  minds.  There  is 
no  conversation,  no  laughter,  no  cheerfulness, 
no  sociality,  except  in  spitting  ; and  that  is  done 
in  silent  fellowship  round  the  stove  when  the 
meal  is  over.  Every  man  sits  down,  dull  and 
languid,  swallows  his  fare  as  if  breakfasts,  din- 
ners, and  suppers  were  necessities  of  nature 
never  to  be  coupled  with  recreation  or  enjoy- 
ment ; and,  having  bolted  his  food  in  a gloomy 
silence,  bolts  himself  in  the  same  state.  But 
for  these  animal  observances,  you  might  suppose 
the  whole  male  portion  of  the  company  to  be 
the  melancholy  ghosts  of  departed  book-keepers, 
who  had  fallen  dead  at  the  desk,  such  is  their 
weary  air  of  business  and  calculation.  Under- 
takers on  duty  would  be  sprightly  beside  them  ; 
and  a collation  of  funeral-baked  meats,  in  com- 
parison with  these  meals,  would  be  a sparkling 
festivity. 

The  people  are  all  alike,  too.  There  is  no  di- 
versity of  character.  They  travel  about  on  the 
same  errands,  say  and  do  the  same  things  in  ex- 
actly the  same  manner,  and  follow  in  the  same 
dull,  cheerless  round.  All  down  the  long  table 
there  is  scarcely  a man  who  is  in  anything  differ- 
ent from  his  neighbor.  It  is  quite  a relief  to 
have  sitting  opposite  that  little  girl  of  fifteen 
with  the  loquacious  chin  ; who,  to  do  her  justice, 
acts  up  to  it,  and  fully  identifies  Nature’s  hand- 
writing ; for,  of  all  the  small  chatter-boxes  that 
ever  invaded  the  repose  of  drowsy  ladies’ cabins, 
she  is  the  first  and  foremost. 

American  Notes , Chap.  11. 

TRAVELLER— The  uncommercial. 

Allow  me  to  introduce  myself — first,  nega- 
tively. 

No  landlord  is  my  friend  and  brother,  no 
chambermaid  loves  me,  no  waiter  worships  me,, 
no  boots  admires  and  envies  me.  No  round  of 
beef  or  tongue  or  ham  is  expressly  cooked  for 
me,  no  pigeon  pie  is  especially  made  for  me,  no 
hotel  advertisement  L personally  addressed  to 
me,  no  hotel  room  tapestried  with  great  coats 
and  railway  wrappers  is  set  apart  for  me,  no 
house  of  public  entertainment  in  the  United 
Kingdom  greatly  cares  for  my  opinion  of  its 
brandy  or  sherry.  When  I go  upon  my  journeys 


I am  not  usually  rated  at  a low  figure  in  the  bill ; 
when  I come  home  from  my  journeys  I never  get 
any  commission.  I know  nothing  about  prices, 
and  should  have  no  idea,  if  I were  put  to  it,  how 
to  wheedle  a man  into  ordering  something  he 
doesn’t  want.  As  a town  traveller  I am  never 
to  be  seen  driving  a vehicle  externally  like  a 
young  and  volatile  piano-forte  van,  and  internal- 
ly like  an  oven  in  which  a number  of  fiat  boxes 
are  baking  in  layers.  As  a country  traveller  l 
am  rarely  to  be  found  in  a gig,  and  am  never  to 
be  encountered  by  a pleasure  train,  waiting  on 
the  platform  of  a branch  station,  quite  a Druid 
in  the  midst  of  a light  Stonehenge  of  samples. 

And  yet — proceeding  now  to  introduce  my- 
self positively — I am  both  a town  traveller  and 
country  traveller,  and  am  always  on  the  road. 
Figuratively  speaking,  I travel  for  the  great  house 
of  Human  Interest  Brothers,  and  have  rather  a 
large  connection  in  the  fancy  goods  way.  Liter- 
ally speaking,  I am  always  wandering  here  and 
there  from  my  rooms  in  Covent  Garden,  Lon- 
don,— now  about  the  city  streets,  now  about  the 
country  by-roads, — seeing  many  little  things, 
and  some  great  things,  which,  because  they  in- 
terest me,  I think  may  interest  others. 

These  are  are  my  brief  credentials  as  the  Un- 
commercial Traveller. 

Uncovunercial  Traveller , Chap.  i. 

TREES. 

As  the  elms  bent  to  one  another,  like  giants 
who  were  whispering  secrets,  and  after  a few 
seconds  of  such  repose,  fell  into  a violent  flurry, 
tossing  their  wild  arms  about,  as  if  their  late 
confidences  were  really  too  wicked  for  their 
peace  of  mind,  some  weather-beaten,  ragged  old 
rooks’-nests  burdening  their  higher  branches, 
swung  like  wrecks  upon  a stormy  sea. 

David  Copperjield.  Chap.  I. 

Some  ancient  trees  before  the  house  were  still 
cut  into  fashions  as  formal  and  unnatural  as  the 
hoops  and  wigs  and  stiff  skirts  ; but  their  own 
allotted  places  in  the  great  procession  of  the 
dead  were  not  far  off,  and  they  would  soon  drop 
into  them  and  go  the  silent  way  of  the  rest. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  33. 

The  river  has  washed  away  its  banks,  and 
stately  trees  have  fallen  down  into  the  stream. 
Some  have  been  there  so  long  that  they  are 
mere  dry,  grisly  skeletons.  Some  have  just  top- 
pled over,  and,  having  earth  yet  about  their 
roots,  are  bathing  their  green  heads  in  the  river, 
and  putting  forth  new  shoots  and  branches, 
Some  are  almost  sliding  down,  as  you  look  at 
them.  And  some  were  drowned  so  long  ago 
that  their  bleached  arms  start  out  from  the  mid- 
dle of  the  current,  and  seem  to  try  to  grasp  the 
boat,  and  drag  it  under  water. 

American  Notes , Chap.  II. 

The  gaunt  trees,  whose  branches  waved  grim- 
ly to  and  fro,  as  if  in  some  fantastic  joy  at  the 
desolation  of  the  scene. 

Oliver  Twisty  Chap.  21. 

The  trunk  of  one  large  tree,  on  which  the  ob- 
durate bark  was  knotted  and  overlapped  like 
the  hide  of  a rhinoceros  or  some  kindred  mon- 
ster of  the  ancient  days  before  the  flood. 

Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  27. 


TREES 


491 


TWILIGHT 


The  eye  was  pained  to  see  the  stumps  of 
great  trees  thickly  strewn  in  every  field  of 
wheat,  and  seldom  to  lose  the  eternal  swamp 
and  dull  morass,  with  hundreds  of  rotten  trunks 
and  twisted  branches  steeped  in  its  unwhole- 
some waters.  It  was  quite  sad  and  oppressive 
to  come  upon  great  tracts  where  settlers  had 
been  burning  down  the  trees,  and  where  their 
wounded  bodies  lay  about,  like  those  of  mur- 
dered creatures,  while  here  and  there  some 
charred  and  blackened  giant  reared  aloft  two 
withered  arms,  and  seemed  to  call  down  curses 
on  his  foes. — American  Notes , Chap.  io. 

TREES— Dead  American. 

These  stumps  of  trees  are  a curious  feature  in 
American  travelling.  The  varying  illusions  they 
present  to  the  unaccustomed  eye,  as  it  grows 
dark,  are  quite  astonishing  in  their  number  and 
reality.  Now  there  is  a Grecian  urn  erected  in 
the  centre  of  a lonely  field  ; now  there  is  a 
woman  weeping  at  a tomb  ; now  a very  com- 
monplace old  gentleman  in  a white  waistcoat, 
with  a thumb  thrust  into  each  armhole  of  his 
coat ; now  a student  poring  on  a book  ; now  a 
crouching  negro  ; now  a horse,  a dog,  a can- 
non, an  armed  man,  a hunchback  throwing  off 
his  cloak  and  stepping  forth  into  the  light. 
They  were  often  as  entertaining  to  me  as  so 
many  glasses  in  a magic  lantern,  and  never  took 
their  shapes  at  my  bidding,  but  seemed  to  force 
themselves  upon  me,  whether  I would  or  no  ; 
and,  strange  to  say,  I sometimes  recognized  in 
them  counterparts  of  figures  once  familiar  to  me 
in  pictures  attached  to  childish  books  forgotten 
long  ago. — American  Notes , Chap.  14. 

TREES— In  a city. 

Even  in  the  winter-time,  these  groups  of  well- 
grown  trees,  clustering  among  the  busy  streets 
and  houses  of  a thriving  city,  have  a very  quaint 
appearance,  seeming  to  bring  about  a kind  of 
compromise  between  town  and  country,  as  if 
each  had  met  the  other  half-way,  and  shaken 
hands  upon  it,  which  is  at  once  novel  and  pleas- 
ant.— American  Notes , Chap.  5. 

TROUBLE— Skimpole  on  taking-. 

“And  why  should  you  take  trouble?  Here 
am  I,  content  to  receive  things  childishly,  as  they 
fall  out : and  I never  take  trouble ! I come 
down  here,  for  instance,  and  I find  a mighty 
potentate,  exacting  homage.  Very  well ! I say 
‘ Mighty  potentate,  here  is  my  homage  ! It’s 
easier  to  give  it  than  to  withhold  it.  Here  it  is. 
If  you  have  anything  of  an  agreeable  nature  to 
show  me,  I shall  be  happy  to  see  it  ; if  you  have 
anything  of  an  agreeable  nature  to  give  me,  I 
shall  be  happy  to  accept  it.’  Mighty  potentate 
replies  in  effect,  ‘ This  is  a sensible  fellow.  I 
find  him  accord  with  my  digestion  and  my 
bilious  system.  He  doesn’t  impose  upon  me 
the  necessity  of  rolling  myself  up  like  a hedge- 
hog with  my  points  outward.  I expand,  I open, 

I turn  my  silver  lining  outward  like  Milton’s 
cloud,  and  it’s  more  agreeable  to  both  of  us.’ 
That’s  my  view  of  such  things : speaking  as  a 
child!” — Bleak  House,  Chap.  18. 

TRUMPET-NOTES— Not  always  true. 

It  may  have  required  a stronger  effort  to  per- 
form this  simple  act  with  a pure  heart,  than  to 
achieve  many  and  many  a deed  to  which  the  | 


doubtful  trumpet  blown  by  fame  has  lustily  re- 
sounded. Doubtful,  because  from  its  long  hov- 
ering over  scenes  of  violence,  the  smoke  and 
steam  of  death  have  clogged  the  keys  of  tha: 
brave  instrument ; and  it  is  not  always  that  its 
notes  are  either  true  or  tuneful.  , 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chat).  12, 

TRUTH— Its  sacredness. 

The  bachelor,  among  his  various  occupations 
found  in  the  old  church  a constant  source  of  in- 
terest and  amusement. 

As  he  was  not  one  of  those  rough  spirits  who 
would  strip  fair  Truth  of  every  little  shadowy 
vestment  in  which  time  and  teeming  fancies  lowe 
to  array  her — and  some  of  which  become  her 
pleasantly  enough,  serving,  like  the  waters  of 
her  well,  to  add  new  graces  to  the  charms  they 
half  conceal  and  half  suggest,  and  to  awaken 
interest  and  pursuit  rather  than  languor  and 
indifference — as,  unlike  this  stern  and  obdurate 
class,  he  loved  to  see  the  goddess  crowned  with 
those  garlands  of  wild-flowers  which  tradition 
wreaths  for  her  gentle  wearing,  and  which  are 
often  freshest  in  their  homeliest  shapes, — he 
trod  with  a light  step  and  bore  with  a light 
hand  upon  the  dust  of  centuries,  unwilling  to 
demolish  any  of  the  airy  shrines  that  had  been 
raised  above  it,  if  any  good  feeling  or  affec- 
tion of  the  human  heart  were  hidden  there- 
abouts. 

»I»  ^ ^ 

In  a word,  he  would  have  had  every  stone 
and  plate  of  brass,  the  monument  only  of  deeds 
whose  memory  should  survive.  All  others  he 
was  willing  to  forget.  They  might  be  buried  in 
consecrated  ground,  but  he  would  have  had 
them  buried  deep,  and  never  brought  to  light 
again. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  54. 

TRUTH. 

There  is  no  playing  fast  and  loose  with  the 
truth,  in  any  game,  without  growing  the  worse 
for  it  .—Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  6. 

TRUTH— Not  always  welcome. 

The  truth  has  come  out,  as  it  plainly  has,  in  a 
manner  that  there’s  no  standing  up  against — and 
a very  sublime  and  grand  thing  is  truth,  gentle- 
men, in  its  way,  though,  like  other  sublime  and 
grand  things,  such  as  thunder-storms  and  that, 
we’re  not  always  over  and  above  glad  to  see  it. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  £6. 

TRUTH  AND  FALSEHOOD. 

There  are  some  falsehoods,  Tom,  on  which 
men  mount,  as  on  bright  wings,  towards  heaven. 
There  are  some  truths,  cold,  bitter,  taunting 
truths,  wherein  your  worldly  scholars  are  very 
apt  and  punctual,  which  bind  men  down  to 
earth  with  leaden  chains.  Who  would  not 
rather  have  to  fan  him,  in  his  dying  hour,  the 
lightest  feather  of  a falsehood  such  as  thine, 
than  all  the  quills  that  have  been  plucked 
from  the  sharp  porcupine,  reproachful  truth, 
since  time  began. 

Martin  Chuzzlexoit , Chap.  13. 

TWILIGHT— In  Summer. 

It  was  one  of  those  summer  evenings  when 
there  is  no  greater  darkness  than  a long  twi- 
light. The  vista  of  street  and  bridge  was  plain 
to  see,  and  the  sky  was  serene  and  beautiful. 


TWILIGHT 


492 


TWILIGHT 


People  stood  and  sat  at  their  doors,  playing  with 
children,  and  enjoying  the  evening  ; numbers 
were  walking  for  air : the  worry  of  the  day  had 
almost  worried  itself  out,  and  few  but  themselves 
were  hurried.  As  they  crossed  the  bridge,  the 
clear  steeples  of  the  many  churches  looked  as  if 
they  had  advanced  out  of  the  murk  that  usually 
enshrouded  them,  and  come  much  nearer.  The 
smoke  that  rose  into  the  sky  had  lost  its  dingy 
hue  and  taken  a brightness  upon  it.  The  beau- 
ties of  the  sunset  had  not  faded  from  the  long, 
light  films  of  cloud  that  lay  at  peace  in  the 
horizon.  From  a radiant  centre,  over  the  whole 
length  and  breadth  of  the  tranquil  firmament, 
gr^at  shoots  of  light  streamed  among  the  early 
stars,  like  signs  o‘f  the  blessed  later  covenant 
of  peace  and  hope  that  changed  the  crown  of 
thorns  into  a glory. 

Little  Dorr  it,  Book  II.,  Chap.  31. 

TWILIGHT— Its  scenes,  shadows,  and  as- 
sociations. 

You  should  have  seen  him  in  his  dwelling, 
about  twilight,  in  the  dead  winter-time. 

When  the  wind  was  blowing,  shrill  and 
shrewd,  with  the  going  down  of  the  blurred  sun. 
When  it  was  just  so  dark,  as  that  the  forms  of 
things  were  indistinct  and  big — but  not  wholly 
lost.  When  sitters  by  the  fire  began  to  see 
wild  faces  and  figures,  mountains  and  abysses, 
ambuscades  and  armies,  in  the  coals.  When 
people  in  the  streets  bent  down  their  heads  and 
ran  before  the  weather.  When  those  who  were 
obliged  to  meet  it,  were  stopped  at- angry  cor- 
ners, stung  by  wandering  snow-flakes  alighting 
on  the  lashes  of  their  eyes, — which  fell  too 
sparingly,  and  were  blown  away  too  quickly,  to 
leave  a trace  upon  the  frozen  ground.  When 
windows  of  private  houses  closed  up  tight  and 
warm.  When  lighted  gas  began  to  burst  forth  in 
the  busy  and  the  quiet  streets,  fast  blackening 
otherwise.  When  stray  pedestrians,  shivering 
along  the  latter,  looked  down  at  the'^glowing 
fires  in  kitchens,  and  sharpened  their  sharp  ap- 
petites by  sniffing  up  the  fragrance  of  whole 
miles  of  dinners. 

When  travellers  by  land  were  bitter  cold,  and 
looked  wearily  on  gloomy  landscapes,  rustling 
and  shuddering  in  the  blast.  When  mariners 
at  sea,  outlying  upon  icy  yards,  were  tossed  and 
swung  above  the  howling  ocean  dreadfully. 
When  light-houses,  on  rocks  and  headlands, 
shoved  solitary  and  watchful  ; and  benighted 
seabirds  breasted  on  against  their  ponderous  lan- 
terns, and  fell  dead. 

When  little  readers  of  story-books,  by  the 
fire-light,  trembled  to  think  of  Cassim  Baba  cut 
into  quarters,  hanging  in  the  Robbers’  Cave,  or 
had  some  small  misgivings  that  the  fierce  little 
old  woman,  with  the  crutch,  who  used  to  start 
out  of  the  box  in  the  merchant  Abudah’s  bed- 
room, might,  one  of  these  nights,  be  found  upon 
the  stairs,  in  the  long,  cold,  dusky  journey  up  to 
bed. 

When,  in  rustic  places,  the  last  glimmering  of 
daylight  died  away  from  the  ends  of  avenues  ; 
and  the  trees,  arching  overhead,  were  sullen 
and  black.  When,  in  parks  and  woods,  the 
high  wet  fern,  and  sodden  moss,  and  beds  of  fall- 
en leaves,  and  trunks  of  trees,  were  lost  to 
view,  in  masses  of  impenetrable  shade.  When 
mists  arose  from  dyke,  and  fen,  and  river. 
When  lights  in  old  halls  and  in  cottage  windows 


were  a cheerful  sight.  When  the  mill  stopped, 
the  wheelwright  and  the  blacksmith  shut  their 
workshops,  the  turnpike-gate  closed,  the  plough 
and  harrow  were  left  lonely  in  the  fields,  the 
laborer  and  team  went  home,  and  the  striking 
of  the  church  clock  had  a deeper  sound  than  at 
noon,  and  the  church-yard  wicket  would  be 
swung  no  more  that  night. 

When  twilight  everywhere  released  the  shad- 
ows, prisoned  up  all  day,  that  now  closed  in 
and  gathered  like  mustering  swarms  of  ghosts. 
When  they  stood  lowering  in  corners  of  rooms, 
and  frowned  out  from  behind  half-opened  doors. 
When  they  had  full  possession  of  unoccupied 
apartments.  When  they  danced  upon  the  floors, 
and  walls,  and  ceilings  of  inhabited  chambers 
while  the  fire  was  low,  and  withdrew  like  ebb- 
ing waters  when  it  sprung  into  a blaze.  When 
they  fantastically  mocked  the  shapes  of  house- 
hold objects,  making  the  nurse  an  ogress,  the 
rocking-horse  a monster,  the  wondering  child, 
half-scared  and  half-amused,  a stranger  to  itself, 
— the  very  tongs  upon  the  hearth  a straddling 
giant  with  his  arms  a-kimbo,  evidently  smelling 
the  blood  of  Englishmen,  and  wanting  to  grind 
people’s  bones  to  make  his  bread. 

When  these  shadows  brought  into  the  minds 
of  older  people  other  thoughts,  and  showed  them 
different  images.  When  they  stole  from  their 
retreats,  in  the  likenesses  of  forms  and  faces 
from  the  past,  from  the  grave,  from  the  deep, 
deep  gulf,  where  the  things  that  might  have 
been,  and  never  were,  are  always  wandering. 

When  he  sat,  as  already  mentioned,  gazing  at 
the  fire.  When,  as  it  rose  and  fell,  the  shadows 
went  and  came.  When  he  took  no  heed  of  them, 
with  his  bodily  eyes  ; but,  let  them  come  or  let 
them  go,  looked  fixedly  at  the  fire.  You  should 
have  seen  him,  then. 

When  the  sounds  that  had  arisen  with  the 
shadows,  and  come  out  of  their  lurking-places 
at  the  twilight  summons,  seemed  to  make  a 
deeper  stillness  all  about  him.  When  the  wind 
was  rumbling  in  the  chimney,  and  sometimes 
crooning,  sometimes  howling,  in  the  house. 
When  the  old  trees  outward  were  so  shaken 
and  beaten,  that  one  querulous  old  rook,  unable 
to  sleep,  protested  now  and  then,  in  a feeble, 
dozy,  high-up,  “ Caw  ! ” When,  at  intervals,  the 
window  trembled,  the  rusty  vane  upon  the  tur- 
ret-top complained,  the  clock  beneath  it  recorded 
that  another  quarter  of  an  hour  was  gone,  or  the 
fire  collapsed  and  fell  in  with  a rattle. 

Haunted  Alan , Chap.  1. 

TWILIGHT. 

The  shudder  of  the  dying  day. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  5. 

TWILIGHT— A winter. 

It  is  now  twilight.  The  fire  glows  brightly 
on  the  panelled  wall,  and  palely  on  the  win- 
dow-glass, where,  through  the  cold  reflection  of 
the  blaze,  the  colder  landscape  shudders  in 
the  wind,  and  a gray  mist  creeps  along1 — the 
only  traveller  besides  the  waste  of  clouds. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  12. 

TWILIGHT  Evening-  scenes. 

There  were  many  little  knots  and  groups  of 
persons  in  Westminster  Hall:  some  few  look- 
ing upward  at  its  noble  ceiling,  and  at  the  rays 
of  evening  light,  tinted  by  the  setting  sun, 


TYRANNY 


493 


UNDERTAKER 


which  streamed  in  aslant  through  its  small  win- 
dows, and  growing  dimmer  by  degrees,  were 
quenched  in  the  gathering  gloom  below;  some, 
noisy  passengers,  mechanics  going  home  from 
work,  and  otherwise,  who  hurried  quickly 
through,  waking  the  echoes  with  their  voices, 
and  soon  darkening  the  small  door  in  the  dis- 
tance, as  they  passed  into  the  street  beyond  ; 
some,  in  busy  conference  together  on  political 
or  private  matters,  pacing  slowly  up  and  down, 
with  eyes  that  sought  the  ground,  and  seeming, 
by  their  attitudes,  to  listen  earnestly  from  head 
to  foot.  Here,  a dozen  squabbling  urchins 
made  a very  Babel  in  the  air  ; there,  a solitary 
man,  half  clerk,  half  mendicant,  paced  up  and 
down  with  hungry  dejection  in  his  look  and 
gait : at  his  elbow  passed  an  errand-lad,  swing- 
ing his  basket  round  and  round,  and  with  his 
shrill  whistle  riving  the  very  timbers  of  the 
roof ; while  a more  observant  schoolboy,  half- 
way through,  pocketed  his  ball,  and  eyed  the 
distant  beadle  as  he  came  looming  on.  It  was 
that  time  of  evening  when,  if  you  shut  your 
eyes  and  open  them  again,  the  darkness  of  an 
hour  appears  to  have  gathered  in  a second. 
The  smooth-worn  pavement,  dusty  with  foot- 
steps, still  called  upon  the  lofty  walls  to  reit- 
erate the  shuffle  and  the  tread  of  feet  unceas- 
ingly, save  when  the  closing  of  some  heavy 
door  resounded  through  the  building  like  a 
clap  of  thunder,  and  drowned  all  other  noises 
in  its  rolling  sound. — Barnaby  Rudge,  Chap.  43. 

TYRANNY-Domestic. 

A homely  proverb  recognizes  the  existence 
of  a troublesome  class  of  persons,  who,  having 
an  inch  conceded  them,  will  take  an  ell.  Not 
to  quote  the  illustrious  examples  of  those  heroic 
scourges  of  mankind,  whose  amiable  path  in 
life  has  been  from  birth  to  death  through 
blood,  and  fire,  and  ruin,  and  who  would  seem 
to  have  existed  for  no  better  purpose  than  to 
teach  mankind  that  as  the  absence  of  pain  is 
pleasure,  so  the  earth,  purged  of  their  presence, 
may  be  deemed  a blessed  place — not  to  quote 
such  mighty  instances,  it  will  be  sufficient  to 
refer  to  old  John  Willet. 

Old  John  having  long  encroached  a good 
standard  inch,  full  measure,  on  the  liberty  of 
Joe,  and  having  snipped  off  a Flemish  ell  in 
the  matter  of  the  parole,  grew  so  despotic  and  so 
great  that  his  thirst  for  conquest  knew  no 
bounds.  The  more  young  Joe  submitted,  the 
more  absolute  old  John  became.  The  ell  soon 
faded  into  nothing.  Yards,  furlongs,  miles, 
arose  ; and  on  went  old  John  in  the  pleasantest 
manner  possible,  trimming  off  an  exuberance 
in  this  place,  shearing  away  some  liberty  of 
speech  or  action  in  that,  and  conducting  him- 
self in  his  small  way  with  as  much  high  mighti- 
ness and  majesty,  as  the  most  glorious  tyrant 
that  ever  had  his  statue  reared  in  the  public 
ways,  of  ancient  or  of  modern  times. 

Barnaby  Rudge , Chap.  30. 


U 

UNCON GENIALITY— In  marriage. 

Standing  together,  arm  in  arm,  they  had  the 
appearance  of  being  more  divided  than  if  seas 
had  rolled  between  them.  There  was  a differ- 
ence even  in  the  pride  of  the  two,  that  removed 
them  farther  from  each  other,  than  if  one  had  been 
the  proudest,  and  the  other  the  humblest  spe- 
cimen of  humanity  in  all  creation.  He,  self- 
important,  unbending,  formal,  austere.  She, 
lovely  and  graceful  in  an  uncommon  degree, 
but  totally  regardless  of  herself  and  him  and 
everything  around,  and  spurning  her  own  at- 
tractions with  her  haughty  brow  and  lip,  as  if 
they  were  a badge  or  livery  she  hated.  So  un- 
matched were  they,  and  opposed  ; so  forced  and 
linked  together  by  a chain  which  adverse  haz- 
ard and  mischance  had  forged  ; that  fancy  might 
have  imagined  the  pictures  on  the  walls  around 
them,  startled  by  the  unnatural  conjunction, 
and  observant  of  it  in  their  several  expressions. 
Grim  knights  and  warriors  looked  scowling  on 
them.  A churchman,  with  his  hand  upraised, 
denounced  the  mockery  of  such  a couple  com- 
ing to  God’s  altar.  Quiet  waters  in  landscapes, 
with  the  sun  reflected  in  their  depths,  asked, 
if  better  means  of  escape  were  not  at  hand, 
was  there  no  drowning  left?  Ruins  cried, 
“ Look  here,  and  see  what  We  are,  wedded 
to  uncongenial  Time  ! ” Animals,  opposed 
by  nature,  worried  one  another  as  a moral  to 
them.  Loves  and  Cupids  took  to  flight  afraid, 
and  Martyrdom  had  no  such  torment  in  its 
painted  history  of  suffering. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  27. 

UNDERTAKER-The. 

The  African  magician  I find  it  very  difficult 
to  exclude  from  my  Wigwam,  too.  This  crea- 
ture takes  cases  of  death  and  mourning  under 
his  supervision,  and  will  frequently  impoverish 
a whole  family  by  his  preposterous  enchant- 
ments. He  is  a great  eater  and  drinker,  and 
always  conceals  a lejoicing  stomach  under  a 
grieving  exterior.  His  charms  consist  of  an  in- 
finite quantity  of  worthless  scraps,  for  which  he 
charges  very  high.  He  impresses  on  the  poor, 
bereaved  natives,  that  the  more  of  his  followers 
they  pay  to  exhibit  such  scraps  on  their  persons 
for  an  hour  or  two  (though  they  never  saw  the 
deceased  in  their  lives,  and  are  put  in  high 
spirits  by  his  decease),  the  more  honorably  and 
piously  they  grieve  for  the  dead.  The  poor 
people  submitting  themselves  to  this  conjuror, 
an  expressive  procession  is  formed,  in  which 
bits  of  stick,  feathers  of  birds,  and  a quantity 
of  other  unmeaning  objects  besmeared  with 
black  paint,  are  carried  in  a certain  ghastly 
order  of  which  no  one  understands  the  mean- 
ing, if  it  ever  had  any,  to  the  brink  of  the  grave, 
and  are  then  brought  back  again. 

In  the  Tonga  Islands  everything  is  supposed 
to  have  a soul,  so  that,  when  a hatchet  is  irre- 
parably broken,  they  say,  “ His  immortal  part 
has  departed  ; he  is  gone  to  the  happy  hunting- 
plains.”  This  belief  leads  to  the  logical  sequence 
that,  when  a man  is  buried,  some  of  his  eating 
and  drinking  vessels,  and  some  of  his  warlike 
implements,  must  be  broken,  and  buried  with 
him.  Superstitious  and  wrong,  but  surely  a 
more  respectable  superstition  than  the  hire  of 


UNDERTAKER 


494 


UNDERTAKER 


antic  scraps  for  a show  that  has  no  meaning 
based  on  any  sincere  belief. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  26. 

UNDERTAKER-Mr.  Mould,  the. 

In  the  passage  they  encountered  Mr.  Mould, 
the  undertaker  : a little,  elderly  gentleman,  bald, 
and  in  a suit  of  black  ; with  a note-book  in  his 
hand,  a massive  gold  watch-chain  dangling  from 
his  fob,  and  a face  in  which  a queer  attempt  at 
melancholy  was  at  odds  with  a smirk  of  satis- 
faction ; so  that  he  looked  as  a man  might,  who, 
in  the  very  act  of  smacking  his  lips  over  choice 
old  wine,  tried  to  make  believe  it  was  physic. 

“Well,  Mrs.  Gamp,  and  how  are  you , Mrs. 
Gamp?”  said  this  gentleman,  in  a voice  as  soft 
as  his  step. 

“ Pretty  well,  I thank  you,  sir,”  dropping  a 
curtsey. 

“ You’ll  be  very  particular  here,  Mrs.  Gamp. 
This  is  not  a common  case,  Mrs.  Gamp.  Let 
everything  be  very  nice  and  comfortable,  Mrs. 
Gamp,  if  you  please,”  said  the  undertaker,  shak- 
ing his  head  with  a solemn  air. 

“ It  shall  be,  sir,”  she  replied,  curtseying 
again.  “ You  knows  me  of  old,  sir,  I hope.” 

“ I hope  so,  too,  Mrs.  Gamp,”  said  the  under- 
taker ; “ and  I think  so,  also.”  Mrs.  Gamp 
curtseyed  again.  “ This  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
pressive cases,  sir,”  he  continued,  addressing 
Mr.  Pecksniff,  “that  I have  seen  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  professional  experience.” 

“ Indeed,  Mr.  Mould  ! ” cried  that  gentleman. 

“ Such  affectionate  regret,  sir,  I never  saw. 
There  is  no  limitation,  there  is  positively  NO 
limitation,”  opening  his  eyes  wide,  and  stand- 
ing on  tiptoe  : “ in  point  of  expense  ! I have 
orders,  sir  ! to  put  on  my  whole  establishment 
of  mutes  ; and  mutes  come  very  dear,  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff; not  to  mention  their  drink.  To  provide 
silver-plated  handles  of  the  very  best  descrip- 
tion, ornamented  with  angels’  heads  from  the 
most  expensive  dies.  To  be  perfectly  profuse 
in  feathers.  In  short,  sir,  to  turn  out  something 
absolutely  gorgeous.” 

“ My  friend,  Mr.  Jonas,  is  an  excellent  man,” 
said  Mr.  Pecksniff. 

“ I have  seen  a good  deal  of  what  is  filial  in 
my  time,  sir,”  retorted  Mould,  “ and  what  is 
un filial  too.  It  is  ouy  lot.  We  come  into  the 
knowledge  of  those  secrets.  But  anything  so 
filial  as  this  ; anything  so  honorable  to  human 
nature  ; so  calculated  to  reconcile  all  of  us  to 
the  world  we  live  in,  never  yet  came  under  my 
observation.  It  only  proves,  sir,  what  was  so 
forcibly  observed  by  the  lamented  theatrical 
poet — buried  at  Stratford — that  there  is  good 
in  everything.” 

“It  is  very* pleasant  to  hear  you  say  so,  Mr. 
Mould,”  observed  Pecksniff. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  19. 

UNDERTAKER  Mr.  Mould  at  home. 

The  partner  of  his  life  and  daughters  twain 
were  Mr.  Mould’s  companions.  Plump  as  any 
partridge  was  each  Miss  Mould,  and  Mrs.  M. 
was  plumper  than  the  two  together.  So  round 
and  chubby  were  their  fair  proportions,  that 
they  might  have  been  the  bodies  once  belonging 
to  the  angels’  faces  in  the  shop  below,  grown 
up  \\  1 1 1 1 othei  heads  attached  1 " make  them 
mortal.  Even  their  peachy  cheeks  were  puffed 
out  and  distended,  as  though  they  ought  of  ' 


right  to  be  performing  on  celestial  trumpets. 
I he  bodiless  cherubs  in  the  shop,  who  were  de- 
picted as  constantly  blowing  those  instruments 
forever  and  ever,  without  any  lungs,  played,  it 
is  to  be  presumed,  entirely  by  ear. 

Mr.  Mould  looked  lovingly  at  Mrs.  Mould, 
who  sat  hard  by,  and  was  a helpmate  to  him  in 
his  punch  as  in  all  other  things.  Each  seraph 
daughter,  too,  enjoyed  her  share  of  his  regards, 
and  smiled  upon  him  in  return.  So  bountiful 
were  Mr.  Mould’s  possessions,  and  so  large  his 
stock  in  trade,  that  even  there,  within  his  house- 
hold sanctuary,  stood  a cumbrous  press,  whose 
mahogany  maw  was  filled  with  shrouds,  and 
winding-sheets,  and  other  furniture  of  funerals. 
But,  though  the  Misses  Mould  had  been  brought 
up,  as  one  may  say,  beneath  his  eye,  it  had  cast 
no  shadow  on  their  timid  infancy  or  blooming 
youth.  Sporting  behind  the  scenes  of  death 
and  burial  from  cradlehood,  the  Misses  Mould 
knew  better.  Hat-bands,  to  them,  were  but  so 
many  yards  of  silk  or  crape  ; the  final  robe  but 
such  a quantity  of  linen.  The  Misses  Mould 
could'  idealise  a player’s  habit,  or  a court- 
lady’s  petticoat,  or  even  an  act  of  parliament. 
But  they  were  not  to  be  taken  in  by  palls.  They 
made  them  sometimes. 

The  premises  of  Mr.  Mould  were  hard  of 
hearing  to  the  boisterous  noises  in  the  great 
main  streets,  and  nestled  in  a quiet  corner, 
where  the  City  strife  became  a drowsy  hum,  that 
sometimes  rose,  and  sometimes  fell,  and  some- 
times altogether  ceased  ; suggesting  to  a thought- 
ful mind  a stoppage  in  Cheapside.  The  light 
came  sparkling  in  among  the  scarlet  runners,  as 
if  the  churchyard  winked  at  Mr.  Mould,  and 
said,  “We  Understand  each  other';”  and  from 
the  distant  shop  a pleasant  sound  arose  of  coffin- 
making, with  a low  melodious  hammer,  rat, 
tat,  tat,  tat,  alike  promoting  slumber  and  diges- 
tion. 

“ Quite  the  buzz  of  insects,”  said  Mr.  Mould, 
closing  his  eyes  in  a perfect  luxury.  “ It  puts 
one  in  mind  of  the  sound  of  animated  nature 
in  the  agricultural  districts.  It’s  exactly  like 
the  woodpecker  tapping.” 

“ The  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  elm 
tree,”  observed  Mrs.  Mould,  adapting  the  words 
of  the  popular  melody  to  the  description  of 
wood  commonly  used  in  trade. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  25. 

UNDERTAKER— Experiences  of  an. 

As  Oliver  accompanied  his  master  in  most  ot 
his  adult  expeditions,  too,  in  order  that  he  might 
acquire  the  equanimity  of  demeanor  and  full 
command  of  nerve  which  are  so  essential  to  a 
finished  undertaker,  he  had  many  opportunities 
of  observing  the  beautiful  resignation  and  for- 
titude with  which  some  strong-minded  people 
bear  their  trials  and  losses. 

For  instance  ; when  Sowerberry  had  an  order 
for  the  burial  of  some  rich  old  lady  or  gentle- 
man, who  was  surrounded  by  a great  number  of 
nephews  and  nieces,  who  had  been  perfectly  in- 
consolable during  the  previous  illness,  and 
whose  grief  had  been  wholly  irrepressible  even 
on  the  most  public  occasions,  they  would  be  as 
happy  among  themselves  as  need  be — quite 
cheerful  and  contented  ; conversing  together 
with  as  much  freedom  andgayety,  as  if  nothing 
whatever  had  happened  to  disturb  them.  Hus- 
bands, too,  bore  the  .loss  of  their  wives  with  the 


UNDERTAKER 


495 


USURER 


most  heroic  calmness.  Wives,  again,  put  on 
weeds  for  their  husbands,  as  if,  so  far  from 
grieving  in  the  garb  of  sorrow,  they  had  made 
up  their  minds  to  l-ender  it  as  becoming  and  at- 
tractive as  possible.  It  was  observable,  too, 
that  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  were  in  passions 
of  anguish  during  the  ceremony  of  interment, 
recovered  almost  as  soon  as  they  reached  home, 
and  became  quite  composed  before  the  tea- 
drinking was  over.  All  this  was  very  pleasant 
and  improving  to  see  ; and  Oliver  beheld  it 
with  great  admiration. — Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  6. 

UNDERTAKER-Shop  of  the. 

Oliver,  being  left  to  himself  in  the  under- 
taker’s shop,  set  the  lamp  down  on  a workman’s 
bench,  and  gazed  timidly  about  him  with  a feel- 
ing of  awe  and  dread,  which  many  people  a 
good  deal  older  than  he  will  be  at  no  loss  to 
understand.  An  unfinished  coffin  on  black 
trestles,  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  shop, 
looked  so  gloomy  and  deathlike  that  a cold 
tremble  came  over  him  every  time  his  eyes 
wandered  in  the  direction  of  the  dismal  object ; 
from  which  he  almost  expected  to  see  some 
frightful  form  slowly  rear  its  head,  to  drive  him 
mad  with  terror.  Against  the  wall  were  ranged, 
in  regular  array,  a long  row  of  elm  boards  cut 
into  the  same  shape,  looking,  in  the  dim  light, 
like  high-shouldered  ghosts  with  their  hands  in 
their  breeches-pockets.  Coffin-plates,  elm  chips, 
bright-headed  nails,  and  shreds  of  black  cloth, 
lay  scattered  on  the  floor : and  the  wall  behind 
the  counter  was  ornamented  with  a lively  repre- 
sentation of  two  mutes,  in  very  stiff  neckcloths, 
on  duty  at  a large  private  door,  with  a hearse 
drawn  by  four  black  steeds,  approaching  in  the 
distance.  The  shop  was  close  and  hot ; and  the 
atmosphere  seemed  tainted  with  the  smell  of 
coffins.  The  recess  beneath  the  counter,  in 
which  his  flock  mattress  was  thrust,  looked  like 
a grave. — Oliver  Twist,  Chap.  5. 

UNITIES— Dramatic. 

“ I hope  you  have  preserved  the  unities,  sir  ? ” 
said  Mr.  Curdle. 

“The  original  piece  is  a French  one,”  said 
Nicholas.  “ There  is  abundance  of  incident, 
sprightly  dialogue,  strongly-marked  characters-” 

“ — All  unavailing  without  a strict  obseiwance 
of  the  unities,  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Curdle.  “ The 
unities  of  the  drama,  before  everything.” 

“ Might  I ask  you,”  said  Nicholas,  hesitating 
between  the  respect  he  ought  to  assume,  and 
his  love  of  the  whimsical,  “ might  I ask  you 
what  the  unities  are  ? ” 

Mr.  Curdle  coughed  and  considered.  “ The 
unities,  sir,”  he  said,  “ are  a completeness — a 
kind  of  a universal  dovetailedness  with  regard 
to  place  and  time — a sort  of  a general  oneness,  if 
I may  be  allowed  to  use  so  strong  an  expression. 
I take  those  to  be  the  dramatic  unities,  so  far  as 
I have  been  enabled  to  bestow  attention  upon 
them,  and  I have  read  much  upon  the  subject, 
and  thought  much.  I find,  running  through  the 
performances  of  this  child,”  said  Mr.  Curdle, 
turning  to  the  phenomenon,  “a  unity  of  feeling, 
a breadth,  a light  and  shade,  a warmth  of  color- 
ing, a tone,  a harmony,  a glow,  an  artistical  de- 
velopment of  original  conceptions,  which  I 
look  for  in  vain  among  older  performers.  I 
don’t  know  whether  I make  myself  under- 
stood ? ” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  24. 


UNIVERSITIES— American. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  much  of  the  intellect- 
ual refinement  and  superiority  of  Boston  is  re- 
ferable to  the  quiet  influence  of  the  University 
of  Cambridge,  which  is  within  three  or  four 
miles  of  the  city.  The  resident  professors  at 
that  University  are  gentlemen  of  learning  and 
varied  attainments  ; and  are,  without  one  excep- 
tion that  I can  call  to  mind,  men  who  would 
shed  a grace  upon,  and  do  honor  to,  any  society 
in  the  civilized  world.  Many  of  the  resident 
gentry  in  Boston  and  its  neighborhood,  and  I 
think  I am  not  mistaken  in  adding,  a large  ma- 
jority of  those  who  are  attached  to  the  liberal 
professions  there,  have  been  educated  at  this 
same  school.  Whatever  the  defects  of  American 
universities  may  be,  they  disseminate  no  pre- 
judices ; rear  no  bigots  ; dig  up  the  buried  ashes 
of  no  old  superstitions  ; never  interpose  between 
the  people  and  their  improvement  ; exclude  no 
man  because  of  his  religious  opinions  ; above  all, 
in  their  whole  course  of  study  and  instruction, 
recognize  a world,  and  a broad  one,  too,  lying 
beyond  the  college  walls. 

It  was  a source  of  inexpressible  pleasure  to 
me  to  observe  the  almost  imperceptible,  but  not 
less  certain,  effect,  wrought  by  this  institution 
among  the  small  community  of  Boston  : and  to 
note  at  every  turn  the  humanizing  tastes  and  de- 
sires it  has  engendered  ; the  affectionate  friend- 
ships to  which  it  has  given  rise  ; the  amount  of 
vanity  and  prejudice  it  has  dispelled.  The 
golden  calf  they  worship  at  Boston  is  a pigmy 
compared  with  the  giant  effigies  set  up  in  other 
parts  of  that  vast  counting-house  which  lies  be- 
yond the  Atlantic  ; and  the  almighty  dollar 
sinks  into  something  comparatively  insignificant, 
amidst  a whole  Pantheon  of  better  gods. 

American  Notes,  Chap.  3. 

UPS  AND  DOWNS-The  philosophy  of 
Plornish. 

Mr.  Plornish  amiably  growled,  in  his  philo- 
sophical but  not  lucid  manner,  that  there  was 
ups,  you  see,  and  there  was  downs.  It  was  in  wain 
to  ask  why  ups,  why  downs  ; there  they  was, 
you  know.  He  had  heerd  it  given  for  a truth 
that  accordin’  as  the  world  went  round,  which 
round  it  did  rewolve  undoubted,  even  the  best 
of  gentlemen  must  take  his  turn  of  standing 
with  his  ed  upside  down  and  all  his  air  a flying 
the  wrong  way  into  what  you  might  call  Space. 
Wery  well  then.  What  Mr.  Plornish  said  was, 
wery  well  then.  That  gentleman’s  ed  would 
come  up’ards  when  his  turn  come,  that  gentle- 
man’s air  would  be  a pleasure  to  look  upon  be- 
ing all  smooth  again,  and  wery  well  then. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  27. 

USURER— Newman  Nog-g-s’  opinion  of 
Ralph  Nickleby. 

“ I don’t  believe  he  ever  had  an  appetite,”  said 
Newman,  “ except  for  pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence,  and  with  them  he’s  as  greedy  as  a wolf. 
I should  like  to  have  him  compelled  to  swallow 
one  of  every  English  coin.  The  penny  would  be 
an  awkward  morsel — but  the  crown — ha  ! ha  ! ” 

His  good  humor  being  in  some  degree  restored 
by  the  vision  of  Ralph  Nickleby  swallowing, 
perforce,  a five-shilling  piece,  Newman  slowly 
brought  forth  from  his  desk  one  of  those  port- 
able bottles,  currently  known  as  pocket-pistols, 
and  shaking  the  same  close  to  his  ear  so  as  to 


USURER 


498 


VALENTINE 


produce  a rippling  sound  very  cool  and  pleas- 
ant to  listen  to,  suffered  his  features  to  relax, 
and  took  a gurgling  drink,  which  relaxed  them 
still  more. — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  47. 

U SURER— Ralph  Nickleby,  the. 

He  appeared  to  have  a very  extraordinary 
and  miscellaneous  connection,  and  very  odd 
calls  he  made  ; some  at  great  rich  houses,  and 
some  at  small  poor  houses,  but  all  upon  one 
subject,  money.  His  face  was  a talisman  to  the 
porters  and  servants  of  his  more  dashing  clients, 
and  procured  him  ready  admission,  though  he 
trudged  on  foot,  and  others,  who  were  denied, 
rattled  to  the  door  in  carriages.  Here,  he  was 
all  softness  and  cringing  civility;  his  step  so 
light,  that  it  scarcely  produced  a sound  upon 
the  thick  carpets  ; his  voice  so  soft  that  it  was 
not,  audible  beyond  the  person  to  whom  it  was 
addressed.  But  in  the  poorer  habitations  Ralph 
was  another  man  ; his  boots  creaked  on  the  pas- 
sage-floor as  he  walked  boldly  in  ; his  voice  was 
harsh  and  loud  as  he  demanded  the  money  that 
was  overdue  ; his  threats  were  coarse  and  angry. 
With  another  class  of  customers,  Ralph  was 
again  another  man.  These  were  attorneys  of 
more  than  doubtful  reputation,  who  helped  him 
to  new  business,  or  raised  fresh  profits  upon  old. 
With  them  Ralph  was  familiar  and  jocose,  hu- 
morous upon  the  topics  of  the  day,  and  es- 
pecially pleasant  upon  bankruptcies  and  pecu- 
niary difficulties  that  made  good  for  trade.  In 
short,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  have  recog- 
nized the  same  man  under  these  various  aspects, 
but  for  the  bulky  leather  case,  full  of  bills  and 
notes,  *which  he  drew  from  his  pocket  at  every 
house,  and  the  constant  repetition  of  the  same 
complaint  (varied  only  in  tone  and  style  of  de- 
livery), that  the  world  thought  him  rich, 
and  that  perhaps  he  might  be  if  he  had  his 
own  ; but  that  there  was  no,  getting  money  in 
when  it  was  once  out,  either  principal  or 
interest,  and  it  was  a hard  matter  to  live  ; 
even  to  live  from  day  to  day. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  44. 


V 

VAGABOND  — “ Not  of  the  mean  sort.” 

“ Thank  you.  You  wouldn’t  object  to  say, 
perhaps,  that  although  an  undoubted  vagabond, 
I am  a vagabond  of  the  harum  scarum  order, 
and  not.  of  the  mean  sort.” 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  63. 

VALENTINE  Sam  Weller’s. 

“Veil,  Sammy,”  said  the  father. 

“Veil,  my  I’rooshan  Blue,”  responded  the 
son,  laying  down  his  pen.  “ What’s  the  last 
bulletin  about  mother-in-law?” 

“ Mrs.  Vcller  passed  a very  good  night,  but 
is  uncommon  perwerse  and  unpleasant  this 
mornin’.  Signed  upon  oath,  S.  Vcller,  Esquire, 
Senior.  That’s  the  last  vun  as  was  issued, 
Sammy,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  untying  his  shawl. 
“ No  better  yet  ? ” inquired  Sam. 

“ All  the  symptoms  nggerawated,”  replied  Mr. 


Weller,  shaking  his  head.  “ But  wot's  that 
you’re  a doin’  of  ? Pursuit.of  knowledge  under 
difficulties,  Sammy.” 

“ I’ve  done  now,”  said  Sam,  with  slight  em- 
barrassment ; “ I’ve  been  a wrilin’.” 

“So  I see,”  replied  Mr.  Weller.  “Not  to 
any  young  ’ooman,  1 hope,  Sammy?” 

“ Why,  it's  no  use  a sayin’  it  ain’t,”  replied 
Sam  ; “ it’s  a walentine.” 

“ A what ! ” exclaimed  Mr.  Weller,  apparent- 
ly horror-stricken  by  the  word. 

“ A walentine,”  replied  Sam. 

“Samivel,  Samivel,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  in  re- 
proachful accents,  “ I did’nt  think  you’d  ha’ 
done  it.  Al  ter  the  warnin’  you’ve  had  o’  your 
father’s  wicious  propensities  ; arter  all  I’ve  said 
to  you  upon  this  here  wery  subject ; arter  acti- 
wally  seein’  and  bein’  in  the  company  o’  your 
own  mother-in  law,  vich  I should  ha’  thought 
was  a moral  lesson  as  no  man  could  never  ha’ 
forgotten  to  his  dyin’  day!  I didn’t  think  you’d 
ha’  done  it,  Sammy,  I didn’t  think  you’d  ha’ 
done  it  ! ” These  reflections  were  too  much  for 
the  good  old  man.  He  raised  Sam’s  tumbler  to 
his  lips  and  drank  off  its  contents. 

“ Wot’s  the  matter  now?  ” said  Sam. 

“ Nev’r  mind,  Sammy,”  replied  Mr.  Weller, 
“ it’ll  be  a wery  agonizin’  trial  to  me  at  my 
time  of  life,  but  I’m  pretty  tough,  that’s  vun  con- 
solation, as  the  wery  old  turkey  remarked  wen 
the  farmer  said  he  wos  afeerd  he  should  be 
obliged  to  kill  him  for  the  London  market.” 

“ Wot’ll  be  a trial?”  inquired  Sam. 

“ To  see  you  married,  Sammy,  to  see  you  a 
dilluded  wictim,  and  thinkin’  in  your  innocence 
that  it’s  all  wery  capital,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 
“ It’s  a dreadful  trial  to  a father’s  feelin’s  that 
’ere,  Sammy.” 

“ Nonsense,”  said  Sam.  “ I ain’t  a goin’  to 
get  married,  don’t  you  fret  yourself  about  that. 
T know  you’re  a judge  of  these  things  ; order 
in  your  pipe,  and  I’ll  read  you  the  letter. 
There  ! ” 

■55-  sj:  * * 

Sam  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink  to  be  ready 
for  any  corrections,  and  began  with  a very  the- 
atrical air. 

“ ‘ Lovely ’ ” 

“ Stop,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  ringing  the  bell. 
“ A double  glass  o’  the  inwariable,  my  dear.” 

“ Very  well,  sir,”  replied  the  girl  ; who  with 
great  quickness  appeared,  vanished,  returned, 
and  disappeared. 

“ They  seem  to  know  your  ways  here,”  ob- 
served Sam. 

“Yes,”  replied  his  father,  “I’ve  been  here 
before,  in  my  time.  Go  on,  Sammy.” 

“ ‘ Lovely  creetur,’  ” repeated  Sam. 

“ ’Tain’t  in  poetry,  is  it  ? ” interposed  his 
father. 

“ No,  no,”  replied  Sam. 

“Wery  glad  to  hear  it,”  said  Mr.  Wellei. 
“ Poetry’s  unnat’ral ; no  man  ever  talked  po- 
etry ’cept  a beadle  on  boxin’  day,  or  Warren’s 
blackin’,  or  Rowland’s  oil,  or  some  o’  them  low 
fellows  ; never  you  let  yourself  down  to  talk 
poetry,  my  boy.  Begin  agin,  Sammy.” 

Mr.  Weller  resumed  his  pipe  with  a critical 
solemnity,  and  Sam  once  more  commenced,  and 
read  as  follows : 

“ ' Lovely  creetur  i feel  myself  a dammed — ’ ” 

“ 'That  ain’t  proper,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  taking 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 


VALENTINE 


497 


V ATJXH ALL  GARDENS 


1 “ No  ; it  ain’t  ‘ dammed.’  ” observed  Sam, 

holding  the  letter  up  to  the  light,  “ it’s  * shamed,’ 
there’s  a blot  there— ‘ I feel  myself  asham- 
ed.’” 

“ Wery  good,”  said  Mr.  Weller.  “ Go  on.” 

“ ‘Feel  myself  ashamed,  and  completely  cir — ’ 

I forget  what  this  here  word  is,”  said  Sam, 
scratching  his  head  with  the  pen,  in  vain  at- 
tempts to  remember. 

“ Why  don’t  you  look  at  it,  then?”  inquired 
Mr.  Weller. 

“ So  I am  a lookin’  at  it,”  replied  Sam,  “but 
ithere’s  another  blot.  Here’s  a ‘ c,’  and  a ‘ i,’ 
and  a ‘ d.’  ” 

“ Circumwented,  p’haps,”  suggested  Mr.  Wel- 
jler. 

“ No,  it  ain’t  that,”  said  Sam,  “ circumscrib- 
ed ; that’s  it.” 

“ That  ain’t  as  good  a word  as  circumwented, 
Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  gravely. 

“Think  not?”  said  Sam. 

“ Nothin’  like  it,”  replied  his  father. 

“But  don’t  you  think  it  means  more?”  in- 
quired Sam. 

“ Veil,  p’raps  it  is  a more  tenderer  word,” 
said  Mr.  Weller,  after  a few  moments’  reflection. 
“ Go  on,  Sammy.” 

“ ‘ Feel  myself  ashamed  and  completely  cir- 
cumscribed in  a dressin’  of  you,  for  you  are  a 
nice  gal  and  nothin’  but  it.’  ” 

“ That’s  a wery  pretty  sentiment,”  said  the 
elder  Mr.  Weller,  removing  his  pipe  to  make 
way  for  the  remark. 

“Yes,  I think  it  is  rayther  good,”  observed 
Sam,  highly  flattered. 

“ Wot  I like  in  that  ’ere  style  of  writin’,” 
said  the  elder  Mr.  Weller,  “ is,  that  there  ain’t 
no  callin’  names  in  it, — no  Wenuses,  nor  no- 
1 thin’  o’  that  kind.  Wot’s  the  good  o’  callin’  a 
young  ’ooman  a Wenus  or  a angel,  Sammy?” 

“ Ah  ! what,  indeed  ? ” replied  Sam. 

“You  might  jist  as  well  call  her  a griffin,  or  a 
unicorn,  or  a king’s  arms  at  once,  which  is 
wery  well  known  to  be  a col-lection  o’  fabulous 
animals,”  added  Mr.  Weller, 
i “ Just  as  well,”  replied  Sam. 

“Drive  on,  Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller. 

Sam  complied  with  the  request,  and  pro- 
I ceeded  as  follows  : — his  father  continuing  to 
| smoke,  with  a mixed  expression  of  wisdom 
and  complacency,  which  was  particularly  edify- 
I ing. 

I “ ‘ Afore  I see  you,  I thought  all  women  was 
! alike.’  ” 

\ “So  they  are,”  observed  the  elder  Mr.  Wel- 
j ler,  parenthetically. 

“ ‘ But  now,’  ” continued  Sam,  “ ‘ now  I find 
I what  a reg’lar  soft  headed,  ink-red’lous  turnip  I 
j must  ha’  been  : for  there  ain’t  nobody  like  you, 
| though  / like  you  better  than  nothin’  at  all.’  I 
! thought  it  best  to  make  that  rayther  strong,” 

] said  Sam,  looking  up. 

| Mr.  Weller  nodded  approvingly,  and  Sam  re- 
] sumed. 

“ ‘ So  I take  the  privilidge  of  the  day,  Mary, 
i!  my  dear — as  the  genTm’n  in  difficulties  did, 
lj  ven  he  valked  out  of  a Sunday, — to  tell  you 
| that  the  first  and  only  time  I see  you,  your  like- 
I ness  was  took  on  my  hart  in  much  quicker  time 
i}  and  brighter  colors  than  ever  a likeness  was 
| took  by  the  profeel  macheen  (vvich  p’raps  you 
j may  have  heerd  on  Mary  my  dear)  altho  it 
| does  finish  a portrait  and  put  the  frame  and 


glass  on  complete,  with  a hook  at  the  end 
to  hang  it  up  by,  and  all  in  two  minutes  and  a 
quarter.’  ” 

“ I am  afeerd  that  werges  on  the  poetical, 
Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  dubiously. 

“ No  it  don’t,”  replied  Sam,  reading  on  very 
quickly,  to  avoid  contesting  the  point : 

“ ‘ Except  of  me  Mary  my  dear  as  your  wal- 
entine  and  think  over  what  I’ve  said.  My  dear 
Mary,  I will  now  conclude.’  That’s  all,”  said 
Sam. 

“ That’s  rather  a sudden  pull  up,  ain’t  it, 
Sammy?”  inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

“ Not  a bit  on  it,”  said  Sam  ; “ she’ll  vish 
there  wos  more,  and  that’s  the  great  art  o’  letter 
writin’.” — Pickwick , Chap.  33. 

VALET— Bag-stock’s  Native. 

“ Where  is  my  scoundrel  ? ” said  the  Major, 
looking  wrathfully  round  the  room. 

The  Native,  who  had  no  particular  name,  but 
answered  to  any  vituperative  epithet,  presented 
himself  instantly  at  the  door  and  ventured  to 
come  no  nearer. 

“You  villain!”  said  the  choleric  Major, 
“ where’s  the  breakfast  ? ” 

The  dark  sei'vant  disappeared  in  search  of  it, 
and  was  quickly  heard  reascending  the  stairs  in 
such  a tremulous  state,  that  the  plates  and  dishes 
on  the  tray  he  carried,  trembling  sympathetical- 
ly as  he  came,  rattled  again,  all  the  way  up. 

Dombey  6°  Son , Chap.  20. 


The  unfortunate  Native,  expressing  no  opin- 
ion, suffered  dreadfully ; not  merely  in  his 
moral  feelings,  which  were  i-egularly  fusilladed 
by  the  Major  every  hour  in  the  day,  and  riddled 
through  and  through,  but  in  his  sensitiveness  to 
bodily  knocks  and  bumps,  which  was  kept  con- 
tinually on  the  stretch.  For  six  entire  weeks 
after  the  bankruptcy,  this  miserable  foi-eigner 
lived  in  a rainy  season  of  boot-jacks  and 
brushes. — Dombey  dr’  Son,  Chap.  58. 

V AUXH ALL  GARDENS. 

There  was  a time  when  if  a man  ventured  to 
wonder  how  Vauxhall  Gardens  would  look  by 
day,  he  was  hailed  with  a shout  of  derision  at 
the  absurdity  of  the  idea.  Vauxhall  by  day- 
light ! A porter-pot  without  poi-ter,  the  House 
of  Commons  without  the  Speaker,  a gas-lamp 
without  the  gas — pooh,  nonsense  ! the  thing  was 
not  to  be  thought  of.  It  was  rumored,  too,  in 
those  times,  that  Vauxhall  Gardens,  by  day,  were 
the  scene  of  secret  and  hidden  experiments  ; 
that  there,  carvers  were  exercised  in  the  mystic 
art  of  cutting  a moderate-sized  ham  into  slices 
thin  enough  to  pave  the  whole  of  the  grounds  ; 
that  beneath  the  shade  of  the  tall  trees,  studious 
men  were  constantly  engaged  in  chemical  ex- 
periments, with  the  view  of  discovering  how 
much  water  a bowl  of  negus  could  possibly 
bear  ; and  that,  in  some  retired  nooks,  appro- 
priated to  the  study  of  ornithology,  other  sage 
and  learned  men  were,  by  a process  known 
only  to  themselves,  incessantly  employed  in  re- 
ducing fowls  to  a mere  combination  of  skin  and 
bones. 

Vague  rumors  of  this  kind,  together  with 
many  others  of  a similar  nature,  cast  over  Vaux- 
hall Gardens  an  air  of  deep  mystery;  and  as 
there  is  a great  deal  in  the  mysterious,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  to  a good  many  people,  at  all 


VEGETABLES 


498 


VENICE 


events,  the  pleasure  they  afforded  was  not  a lit- 
tle enhanced  by  this  very  circumstance. 

Of  this  class  of  people  we  confess  to  having 
made  one.  We  loved  to  wander  among  these 
illuminated  groves,  thinking  of  the  patient  and 
laborious  researches  which  had  been  carried  on 
there  during  the  day,  and  witnessing  their  re- 
sults in  the  suppers  which  were  served  up  be- 
neath the  light  of  lamps,  and  to  the  sound  of 
music,  at  night.  The  temples  and  saloons  and 
cosmoramas  and  fountains  glittered  and  spark- 
led before  our  eyes ; the  beauty  of  the  lady 
singers  and  the  elegant  deportment  of  the  gen- 
tlemen, captivated  our  hearts ; a few  hundred 
thousand  of  additional  lamps  dazzled  our  senses  ; 
a bowl  or  two  of  reeking  punch  bewildered  our 
brains  ; and  we  were  happy. — Scenes,  Chap.  14. 

VEGETABLES— The  language  of  love. 

“You  know,  there  is  no  language  of  vegeta- 
bles, which  converts  a cucumber  into  a formal 
declaration  of  attachment.” 

“My  dear,”  replied  Mrs.  Nickleby,  tossing 
her  head  and  looking  at  the  ashes  in  the  grate, 

“ he  has  done  and  said  all  sorts  of  things.” 

“ Is  there  no  mistake  on  your  part  ? ” asked 
Nicholas. 

“Mistake!”  cried  Mrs.  Nickleby.  “Lord, 
Nicholas,  my  dear,  do  you  suppose  I don’t  know 
when  a man’s  in  earnest  ? ” 

“ Well,  well !”  muttered  Nicholas. 

“Every  time  I go  to  the  window,”  said  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  “ he  kisses  one  hand,  and  lays  the 
other  upon  his  heart — of  course  it’s  very  loolish 
of  him  to  do  so,  and  I dare  say  you’ll  say  its  very 
wrong,  but  he  does  it  very  respectfully — very 
respectfully  indeed — and  very  tenderly,  extreme- 
ly tenderly.  So  far,  he  deserves  the  greatest 
credit ; there  can  be  no  doubt  about  that.  Then, 
there  are  the  presents  which  come  pouring  over 
the  wall  every  day,  and  very  fine  they  certainly 
are,  very  fine  ; we  had  one  of  the  cucumbers  at 
dinner  yesterday,  and  think  of  pickling  the  rest 
for  next  winter.  And  last  evening,”  added  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  with  increased  confusion,  “he  called 
gently  over  the  wall,  as  I was  walking  in  the 
garden  and  proposed  marriage,  and  an  elope- 
ment. His  voice  is  as  clear  as  a bell  or  a musi- 
cal glass — very  like  a musical  glass  indeed — but 
of  course  I didn’t  listen  to  it.  Then,  the  ques- 
tion is,  Nicholas  my  dear,  what  am  I to  do?” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  37. 

VERB— Mark  Tapley  as  a. 

“ Mark  ! ” said  Tom  Pinch,  energetically : “ if 
you  don’t  sit  down  this  minute,  I’ll  swear  at 
you  ! ” 

“Well,  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Tapley,  “sooner 
than  you  should  do  that,  I’ll  corn-ply.  It’s  a 
considerable  invasion  of  a man’s  jollity  to  be 
made  so  partikler  welcome,  but  a Werb  is  a 
word  as  signifies  to  be,  to  do,  or. to  suffer  (which 
is  all  the  grammar,  and  enough  too,  as  ever  I 
wos  taught) ; and  if  there’s  a Werb  alive.  I’m  it. 
for  I'm  always  a bein’,  sometimes  a doin’,  and 
continually  a sufferin’.” 

“ Not  jolly,  yet?”  asked  Tom,  with  a smile. 

“ Why,  I was  rather  so,  over  the  water,  sir,” 
returned  Mr.  Tapley  ; “and  not  entirely  with- 
out credit.  But  Human  Natur'  is  in  a conspir- 
acy again’  me  ; I can’t  get  on.  I shall  have  to 
leave  it  in  my  will,  sir,  to  be  wrote  upon  my  tomb: 
4 He  was  a man  as  might  have  come  out  strong 


if  he  could  have  got  a chance.  But  it  was  denied 
him.’  ” — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  48. 

VENICE— A dream  of. 

I thought  I entered  the  Cathedral,  and  went 
in  and  out  among  its  many  arches : traversing 
its  whole  extent.  A grand  and  dreamy  striu 
ture,  of  immense  proportions  ; golden  with  old 
mosaics  ; redolent  of  perfumes  ; dim  with  the 
smoke  of  incense  ; costly  in  treasures  of  precious 
stones  and  metals,  glittering  through  iron  bars; 
holy  with  the  bodies  of  deceased  saints  ; rain- 
bow-hued  with  windows  of  stained  glass  ; dark 
with  carved  woods  and  colored  marbles  ; ob- 
scure in  its  vast  heights  and  lengthened  distan- 
ces ; shining  with  silver  lamps  and  winking 
lights  ; unreal,  fantastic,  solemn,  inconceivable 
throughout.  I thought  I entered  the  old  palace  ; 
pacing  silent  galleries  and  council-chambers, 
where  the  old  rulers  of  this  mistress  of  the 
waters  looked  sternly  out,  in  pictures,  from  the 
walls,  and  where  her  high-prowed  galleys,  still 
victorious  on  canvas,  fought  and  conquered  as 
of  old.  I thought  I wandered  through  its  halls 
of  state  and  triumph — bare  and  empty  now  ! — 
and  musing  on  its  pride  and  might,  extinct — for 
that  was  past — all  past — heard  a voice  say, 
“ Some  tokens  of  its  ancient  rule,  and  some 
consoling  reasons  for  its  downfall,  may  be  traced 
here  yet  ! ” 

* * -5fr  * * 

Sometimes  alighting  at  the  doors  of  churches 
and  vast  palaces,  I wandered  on,  from  room  to 
room,  from  aisle  to  aisle,  through  labyrinths  of 
rich  altars,  ancient  monuments,  decayed  apart- 
ments, where  the  furniture,  half  awful,  half  gro- 
tesque, was  mouldering  away.  Pictures  were 
there,  replete  with  such  enduring  beauty  and 
expression  ; with  such  passion,  truth,  and  power  ; 
that  they  seemed  so  many  young  and  fresh  reali- 
ties among  a host  of  spectres.  I thought  these, 
often  intermingled  with  the  old  days  of  the  city  : 
with  its  beauties,  tyrants,  captains,  patriots, 
merchants,  courtiers,  priests  : nay,  with  its  very 
stones,  and  bricks,  and  public  places  ; all  of 
which  lived  again,  about  me,  on  the  walls. 
Then,  coming  down  some  marble  staircase, 
where  the  water  lapped  and  oozed  against  the 
lower  steps,  I passed  into  my  boat  again,  and 
went  on  in  my  dream. 

Floating  down  narrow  lanes,  where  carpen- 
ters, at  work  with  plane  and  chisel  in  their 
shops,  tossed  the  light  shaving  straight  upon 
the  water,  where  it  lay  like  weed,  or  ebbed 
away  before  me  in  a tangled  heap.  Past  open 
doors,  decayed  and  rotten  from  long  steeping  in 
the  wet,  through  which  some  scanty  patch  of 
vine  shone  green  and  bright,  making  unusual 
shadows  on  the  pavement  with  its  trembling 
leaves.  Past  quays  and  terraces,  where  women, 
gracefully  veiled,  were  passing  and  repassing, 
and  where  idlers  were  reclining  in  the  sunshine, 
on  flag-stones  and  on  flights  of  steps.  Past 
bridges,  where  there  were  idlers  too  : loitering 
and  looking  over.  Below  stone  balconies,  erected 
at  a giddy  height,  before  the  loftiest  windows  of 
the  loftiest  houses.  Past  plots  of  garden,  thea- 
tres, shrines,  prodigious  piles  of  architecture- 
Gothic— Saracenic— fanciful  with  all  the  fancies 
of  all  times  and  countries.  Past  buildings  that 
were  high,  and  low,  and  black,  and  wdiite,  and 
straight,  and  crooked  ; mean  and  grand,  crazy 
and  strong.  Twining  among  a tangled  lot  of 


VERONA 


499 


VISIONS 


boats  and  barges,  and  shooting  out  at  last  into 
a Grand  Canal  ! There,  in  the  errant  fancy  of 
my  dream,  I saw  old  Shylock  passing  to  and  fro 
upon  a bridge,  all  built  upon  with  shops,  and 
humming  with  the  tongues  of  men  : a form  I 
seemed  to  know  for  Desdemona’s,  leaned  down 
through  a latticed  blind  to  pluck  a flower.  And, 
in  the  dream,  I thought  that  Shakespeare’s  spirit 
was  abroad  upon  the  water  somewhere,  stealing 
through  the  city. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

VERONA. 

Pleasant  Verona ! With  its  beautiful  old  pal- 
aces, and  charming  country  in  the  distance,  seen 
from  terrace  walks,  and  stately,  balustraded  gal- 
leries. With  its  Roman  gates,  still  spanning  the 
fair  street,  and  casting,  on  the  sunlight  of  to-day, 
the  shade  of  fifteen  hundred  years  ago.  With 
its  marble-fitted  churches,  lofty  towers,  rich ' 
architecture,  and  quaint  old  quiet  thoroughfares, 
where  shouts  of  Montagues  and  Capulets  once 
resounded, 

And  made  Verona’s  ancient  citizens 
< ast  by  their  yrave,  beseeming  ornaments, 

To  wield  old  partizans. 

With  its  fast-rushing  river,  picturesque  old 
bridge,  great  castle,  waving  cypresses,  and  pros- 
pect so  delightful,  and  so  cheerful ! Pleasant 
Verona  ! — Pictures  from  Italy. 

VEXATION— A cheap  commodity. 

“ I had  a visit  from  Young  John  to  day,  Chiv- 
ery.  And  very  smart  he  looked,  I assure  you.” 

So  Mr.  Chivery  had  heard.  Mr.  Chiverymust 
confess,  however,  that  his  wish  was  that  the  boy 
didn’t  lay  out  so  much  money  upon  it.  For  what 
did  if  bring  him  in?  It  only  brought  him  in 
Wexation.  And  he  could  get  that  anywhere, 
for  nothing. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  19. 

VICTUALS— Quarrelling-  with  one’s. 

“ Mobbs’s  mother-in-law,”  said  Squeers,  “ took 
to  her  bed  on  hearing  that  he  wouldn’t  eat  fat, 
and  has  been  very  ill  ever  since.  She  wishes  to 
know,  by  an  early  post,  where  he  expects  to  go 
to,  if  he  quarrels  with  his  vittles  ; and  with  what 
feelings  he  could  turn  up  his  nose  at  the  cow’s 
liver  broth,  after  his  good  master  had  asked  a 
blessing  on  it.” — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  8. 

VICE— Virtue  in  excess. 

“ It  would  do  us  no  harm  to  remember  often- 
er  than  we  do,  that  vices  are  sometimes  only 
virtues  carried  to  excess  ! ” 

Dornbey  & Son,  Chap.  58. 

VICES— Kindred. 

That  heart  where  self  has  found  no  place  and 
raised  no  throne,  is  slow  to  recognize  its  ugly 
presence  when  it  looks  upon  it.  As  one  pos- 
sessed of  an  evil  spirit,  was  held  in  old  time  to 
be  alone  conscious  of  the  lurking  demon  in  the 
breasts  of  other  men,  so  kindred  vices  know 
each  other  in  their  hiding-places  every  day, 
when  Virtue  is  incredulous  and  blind. 

Martui  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  14. 

VILLAGE-The  poor. 

The  village  had  its  one  poor  street,  with  its 
poor  brewery,  poor  tannery,  poor  tavern,  poor 
stable-yards  for  relays  of  post-horses,  poor  foun- 
tain, all  usual  poor  appointments.  It  had  its 


poor  people  too.  All  its  people  were  poor,  and 
many  of  them  were  sitting  at  their  doors,  shred- 
ding spare  onions  and  the  like  for  supper,  while 
many  were  at  the  fountain,  washing  leaves,  and 
grasses,  and  any  such  small  yieldings  of  the 
earth  that  could  be  eaten.  Expressive  signs  of 
what  made  them  poor,  were  not  wanting  ; the 
tax  for  the  state,  the  tax  for  the  church,  the  tax 
for  the  lord,  tax  local  and  tax  general,  were  to 
be  paid  here  and  to  be  paid  there,  according  to 
solemn  inscription  in  the  little  village,  until  the 
wonder  was,  that  there  was  any  village  left  un- 
swallowed. 

Few  children  were  to  be  seen,  and  no  dogs. 
As  to  the  men  and  women,  their  choice  on  earth 
was  stated  in  the  prospect — Life  on  the  lowest 
terms  that  could  sustain  it,  down  in  the  little  vil 
lage  under  the  mill  ; or  captivity  and  Death  in. 
the  dominant  prison  on  the  crag. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Book  II.,  Chap.  8. 

VINES— Of  Piacenza. 

In  Genoa,  and  thereabouts,  they  train  the 
vines  on  trellis-work,  supported  on  square  clum- 
sy pillars,  which,  in  themselves,  are  anything 
but  picturesque.  But  here,  they  twine  them 
around  trees,  and  let  them  trail  among  the 
hedges  ; and  the  vineyards  are  full  of  trees,  reg- 
ularly planted  for  this  purpose,  each  with  its 
own  vine  twining  and  clustering  about  it.  Their 
leaves  are  now  of  the  brightest  gold  and  deep- 
est red  ; and  never  was  anything  so  enchant- 
ingly  graceful  and  full  of  beauty.  Through 
miles  of  these  delightful  forms  and  colors,  the 
road  winds  its  way.  The  wild  festoons,  the  ele- 
gant wreaths,  and  crowns,  and  garlands  of  all 
shapes  ; the  fairy  nets  flung  over  great  trees, 
and  making  them  prisoners  in  sport ; the  tum- 
bled heaps  and  mounds  of  exquisite  shapes  upon 
the  ground  ; how  rich  and  beautiful  they  are  ! 
And  every  now  and  then,  a long,  long  line  of 
trees  will  be  all  bound  and  garlanded  together ; 
as  if  they  had  taken  hold  of  one  another,  and 
were  coming  dancing  down  the  field  ! 

Pictures  from  Italy. 

VIRTUES  AND  VICES-Of  weak  men. 

It  is  the  unhappy  lot  of  thoroughly  weak 
men,  that  their  very  sympathies,  affections,  con- 
fidences— all  the  qualities  which  in  better-con- 
stituted minds  are  virtues — dwindle  into  foibles, 
or  turn  into  downright  vices. 

Barnaby  Pudge,  Chap.  36. 

VISIONS— Psychological  experiences  of. 

I have  always  noticed  a prevalent  want  of 
courage,  even  among  persons  of  superior  intelli- 
gence and  culture,  as  to  imparting  their  own 
psychological  experiences  when  those  have  been 
of  a strange  sort.  Almost  all  men  are  afraid 
that  what  they  could  relate  in  such  wise  would 
find  no  parallel  or  response  in  a listener’s  internal 
life,  and  might  be  suspected  or  laughed  at.  A 
truthful  traveller,  who  should  have  seen  some 
extraordinary  creature  in  the  likeness  of  a sea- 
serpent,  would  have  no  fear  of  mentioning  it  ; 
but  the  same  traveller,  having  had  some  singu- 
lar presentiment,  impulse,  vagary  of  thought, 
vision  (so-called),  dream,  or  other  remarkable 
mental  impression,  would  hesitate  considerably 
before  he  would  own  to  it.  To  this  reticence  I 
attribute  much  of  the  obscurity  in  which  such 
I subjects  are  involved.  We  do  not  habitually 


VISITOR 


600 


VOICE 


communicate  our  experiences  of  these  subjective 
things  as  we  do  our  experiences  of  objective 
creation.  The  consequence  is,  that  the  general 
st'ock  of  experience  in  this  regard  appears  ex- 
ceptional, and  really  is  so,  in  respect  of  being 
miserably  imperfect. 

Two  Ghost  Stories , Chap.  I. 

VISITOR— A constant  (Toots). 

Nothing  seemed  to  do  Mr.  Toots  so  much 
good  as  incessantly  leaving  cards  at  Mr.  Dom- 
bey’s  door.  No  tax-gatherer  in  the  British  do- 
minions— that  wide-spread  territory  on  which 
the  sun  never  sets,  and  where  the  tax-gatherer 
never  goes  to  bed — was  more  regular  and  per- 
severing in  his  calls  than  Mr.  Toots. 

Dojnbey  6°  Son,  Chap.  11. 

* * * Called  regularly  every  other 

day,  and  left  a perfect  pack  of  cards  at  the  hall- 
door  ; so  many,  indeed,  that  the  ceremony  was 
quite  a deal  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  a 
hand  at  whist  on  the  part  of  the  servant. 

Dombey  6°  Son , Chap.  28. 

VOICE— Its  expressions. 

“ No,  I will  not."  This  was  said  with  a most 
determined  air,  and  in  a voice  which  might  have 
been  taken  for  an  imitation  of  anything  ; it  was 
quite  as  much  like  a Guinea-pig  as  a bassoon. 

Tales , Chap.  7. 


“ As  pleasant  a singer,  Mr.  Chuzzlewit,  as  ever 
you  heerd,  with  a voice  like  a Jew’s-harp  in  the 
bass-notes,  that  it  took  six  men  to  hold  at  sech 
times,  foaming  frightful.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  46. 

A loud,  well-sustained,  and  continuous  roar — 
something  between  a mad  bull  and  a speaking- 
trumpet. — Oliver  Twist , Chap.  13. 

“ I called  in  consequence  of  an  advertise- 
ment,” said  the  stranger,  in  a voice  as  if  she  had 
been  playing  a set  of  Pan’s  pipes  for  a fortnight 
without  leaving  off. — Tales , Chap.  1. 

“No,”  returned  Dumps,  diving  first  into  one 
pocket  and  then  into  the  other,  and  speaking  in 
a voice  like  Desdemona  with  the  pillow  over  her 
mouth. — Tales , Chap.  II. 

VOICE— Little  Dorrit’ s blessing1. 

Little  Dorrit  turned  at  the  door  to  say  “ God 
bless  you  ! ” She  said  it  very  softly,  but  per- 
haps she  may  have  been  as  audible  above — who 
knows? — as  a whole  cathedral  choir. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  14. 

VOICE  - A faint. 

The  faintness  of  the  voice  was  pitiable  and 
dreadful.  It  was  not  the  faintness  of  physical 
weakness,  though  confinement  and  hard  fare 
no  doubt  had  their  part  in  it.  Its  deplorable 
peculiarity  was,  that  it  was  the  faintness  of 
solitude  and  disuse.  It  was  like  the  last  feeble 
echo  of  a sound  made  long  and  long  ago.  So 
entirely  had  it  lost  the  life  and  resonance  of  the 
human  voice,  that  it  affected  the  senses  like  a 
once  beautiful  color,  faded  away  into  a poor 
weak  stain.  So  sunken  and  suppressed  it  was, 
that  it  was  like  a voice  underground.  So  ex- 
pressive it  was  of  a hopeless  and  lost -creature, 


that  a famished  traveller,  wearied  out  by  lonely 
wandering  in  a wilderness,  would  have  remem- 
bered home  and  friends  in  such  a tone  before 
lying  down  to  die. — Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Chap.  6. 

VOICE  A disagreeable. 

If  an  iron  door  could  be  supposed  to  quarrel 
with  its  hinges,  and  to  make  a firm  resolution 
to  open  with  slow  obstinacy,  and  grind  them  to 
powder  in  the  process,  it  would  emit  a pleas- 
anter sound  in  so  doing,  than  did  these  words 
in  the  rough  and  bitter  voice  in  which  they  were 
uttered  by  Ralph.  Even  Mr.  Mantalini  felt 
their  influence,  and  turning  affrighted  round, 
exclaimed.  “ What  a demd  horrid  croaking  !” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  10. 

VOICE  And  eyes,  of  Mrs.  Pardiggle. 

“ Mrs.  Jellyby,”  pursued  the  lady,  always 
speaking  in  the  same  demonstrative,  loud,  hard 
tone,  so  that  her  voice  impressed  my  fancy  as  if  it 
had  a sort  of  spectacles  on  too — and  I may  take 
the  opportunity  of  remarking  that  her  spectacles 
were  made  the  less  engaging  by  her  eyes  being 
what  Ada  called  “ choking  eyes,”  meaning  very 
prominent. — Bleak  House , Chap.  8. 

VOICE — A bass. 

After  a great  deal  of  preparatory  crowing  and 
humming,  the  captain  began  the  duet  from  the 
opera  of  “ Paul  and  Virginia.”  in  that  grunting 
tone  in  which  a man  gets  down,  Heaven  knows 
where,  without  the  remotest  chance  of  ever  get- 
ting up  again.  This,  in  private  circles,  is  fre- 
quently designated  “ a bass  voice.” 

Tales,  Chap.  7 

VOICE— A buttoned  up. 

Mr.  Vholes,  after  glancing  at  the  official  cat, 
who  is  patiently  watching  a mouse’s  hole,  fixes 
his  charmed  gaze  again  on  his  young  client,  and 
proceeds  in  his  buttoned-up  half-audible  voice, 
as  if  there  were  an  unclean  spirit  in  him  that 
will  neither  come  out  nor  speak  out. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  39. 

VOICE— Not  of  Toby. 

When  he  had  found  his  voice — which  it  took 
him  some  time  to  do,  for  it  was  a long  way  off, 
and  hidden  under  a load  of  meat — he  said,  in  a 
whisper. — Chimes,  id  Quarter. 

He  couldn’t  finish  her  name.  The  final  letter 
swelled  in  his  throat,  to  the  size  of  the  whole 
alphabet. — Chimes,  id  Quarter. 

VOICE— Sam  Weller’s  signals. 

As  soon  as  she  came  nearly  below  the  tree, 
Sam  began,  by  way  of  gently  indicating  his 
presence,  to  make  sundry  diabolical  noises  simi- 
lar to  those  which  would  probaBly  be  natural  to 
a person  of  middle  age  who  had  been  afflicted 
with  a combination  of  inflammatory  sore  throat, 
croup,  and  hooping-cough,  from  his  earliest  in- 
fancy.— Pickwick,  Chap.  39. 

VOICE— Like  a hurricane. 

The  interview  with  Mr.  Boythorn  was  a long 
one — and  a stormy  one  too,  I should  think  ; for 
although  his  room  was  at  some  distance,  I heard 
his  loud  voice  rising  every  now  and  then  like  a 
high  wind,  and  evidently  blowing  perfect  broad- 
sides of  denunciation. — Bleak  House , Chap.  9. 


VOICE 


501 


WAITERS 


VOICE. 

Her  pleasant  voice — O what  a voice  it  was,  for 
making  household  music  at  the  fireside  of  an 
honest  man  ! — Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  3. 

VOICE— A muffled. 

“ Well,  sir,”  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps  in  a 
round,  deep,  sonorous  voice,  muffled  for  the  oc- 
casion, like  the  knocker ; “ do  you  find  that 
your  dear  lady  is  at  all  roused  by  your  visit?” 

Dombey  dr9  Son,  Chap.  1. 

VOICE— A sharp. 

Pitched  her  voice  for  the  upper  windows  in  of- 
fering these  remarks,  and  cracked  off  each  clause 
sharply  by  itself  as  if  from  a rifle  possessing  an 
infinity  of  barrels. — Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  23. 


But  Edith  stopped  him,  in  a voice  which,  al- 
though not  raised  in  the  least,  was  so  clear,  em- 
phatic, and  distinct,  that  it  might  have  been 
heard  in  a whirlwind. — Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  47. 

VOICE— Of  an  old  friend. 

“ His  wery  woice,”  said  the  Captain,  looking 
round  with  an  exultation  to  which  even  his  face 
could  hardly  render  justice — “his  wery  woice, 
as  chock  full  o’  science  as  ever  it  was!  Sol 
Gills,  lay  to,  my  lad,  upon  your  own  wines  and 
fig-trees,  like  a taut  ould  patriark  as  you  are, 
and  overhaul  them  there  adwentures  o’  yourn, 
in  your  own  formilior  woice.  ’Tis  the  woice,” 
said  the  Captain,  impressively,  and  announcing 
a quotation  with  his  hook,  “of  the  sluggard, 
I heerd  him  complain,  you  have  woke  me  too 
soon,  I must  slumber  again.  Scatter  his  ene- 
mies, and  make  ’em  fall ! ” 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  56. 

VOICE— Oppressed. 

Nor  did  the  Major  improve  it  at  the  Royal 
Hotel,  where  rooms  and  dinner  had  been  or- 
dered, and  where  he  so  oppressed  his  organs  of 
speech  by  eating  and  drinking,  that  when  he 
retired  to  bed  he  had  no  voice  at  all,  except  to 
cough  with,  and  could  only  make  himself  intel- 
ligible to  the  dark  servant  by  gasping  at  him. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  21. 


W. 

WAITERS— Their  traits. 

The  writer  of  these  humble  lines  being  a 
Waiter,  and  having  come  of  a family  of  Waiters, 
and  owning  at  the  present  time  five  brothers 
who  are  all  Waiters,  and  likewise  an  only  sis- 
ter who  is  a Waitress,  would  wish  to  offer  a 
few  words  respecting  his  calling  ; first,  having 
the  pleasure  of  hereby  in  a friendly  manner  of- 
fering the  Dedication  of  the  same  unto  Joseph, 
much  respected  Head  Waiter  at  the  Slamjam 
Coffee-House,  London,  E.  C.,  than  which  a in- 
dividual more  eminently  deserving  of  the  name 
of  man,  ora  more  amenable  honor  to  his  own 
head  and  heart,  whether  considered  in  the  light 
of  a Waiter,  or  regarded  as  a human  being,  do 
not  exist. 


In  case  confusion  should  arise  in  the  public 
mind  (which  it  is  open  to  confusion  on  many 
subjects)  respecting  what  is  meant  or  implied 
by  the  term  Waiter,  the  present  humble  lines 
would  wish  to  offer  an  explanation.  It  may 
not  be  generally  known  that  the  person  as  goes 
out  to  wait  is  not  a Waiter.  It  may  not  be  gen- 
erally known  that  the  hand  as  is  called  in  ex- 
tra, at  the  Freemasons’  Tavern,  or  the  London, 
or  the  Albion,  or  otherwise,  is  not  a Waiter. 
Such  hands  may  be  took  on  for  Public  Din- 
ners by  the  bushel  (and  you  may  know  them 
by  their  breathing  with  difficulty  when  in  at- 
tendance, and  taking  away  the  bottle  ere  yet  it 
is  half  out) ; but  such  are  not  Waiters.  For  you 
cannot  lay  down  the  tailoring,  or  the  shoemak- 
ing, or  the  brokering,  or  the  green-grocering, 
or  the  pictorial-periodicalling,  or  the  second- 
hand wardrobe,  or  the  small  fancy  businesses, — 
you  cannot  lay  down  those  lines  of  life  at  your 
will  and  pleasure  by  the  half-day  or  evening, 
and  take  up  Waitering.  You  may  suppose  you 
can,  but  you  cannot  ; or  you  may  go  so  far  as  to 
say  you  do,  but  you  do  not.  Nor  yet  can  you 
lay  down  the  gentleman’s-service  when  stimula- 
ted by  prolonged  incompatibility  on  the  part  of. 
Cooks  (and  here  it  may  be  remarked  that  Cook- 
ing and  incompatibility  will  be  mostly  found 
united),  and  take  up  Waitering.  It  has  been 
ascertained  that  what  a gentleman  will  sit  meek 
under,  at  home,  he  will  not  bear  out  of  doors, 
at  the  Slamjam  or  any  similar  establishment. 
Then,  what  is  the  inference  to  be  drawn  re- 
specting true  Waitering?  You  must  be  bred  to 
it.  You  must  be  born  to  it. 

Would  you  know  how  born  to  it,  Fair  Read- 
er,— if  of  the  adorable  female  sex  ? Then  learn 
from  the  biographical  experience  of  one  that 
is  a Waiter  in  the  sixty-first  year  of  his  age. 

You  were  conveyed, — ere  yet  your  dawning 
powers  were  otherwise  developed  than  to  harbor 
vacancy  in  your  inside, — you  were  conveyed,  by 
surreptitious  means,  into  a pantry  adjoining  the 
Admiral  Nelson,  Civic  and  General  Dining- 
Rooms,  there  to  receive  by  stealth  that  healthful 
sustenance  which  is  the  pride  and  boast  of  the 
British  female  constitution.  Your  mother  was 
married  to  your  father  (himself  a distant  Waiter) 
in  the  profoundest  secrecy  ; for  a Waitress  known 
to  be  married  would  ruin  the  best  of  businesses, 
— it  is  the  same  as  on  the  stage.  Hence  your 
being  smuggled  into  the  pantry,  and  that — to  add 
to  the  infliction — by  an  unwilling  grandmother. 
Under  the  combined  influence  of  the  smells  of 
roast  and  boiled,  and  soup,  and  gas,  and  malt 
liquors,  you  partook  of  your  earliest  nourish- 
ment ; your  unwilling  grandmother  sitting  pre- 
pared to  catch  you  when  your  mother  was  called 
and  dropped  you;  your  grandmother’s  shawl  ever 
ready  to  stifle  your  natural  complainings  : your 
innocent  mind  surrounded  by  uncongenial  cruets, 
dirty  plates,  dish-covers,  and  cold  gravy  ; your 
mother  calling  down  the  pipe  for  veals  and  porks, 
instead  of  soothing  you  with  nursery  rhymes. 
Under  these  untoward  circumstances  you  were 
early  weaned.  Your  unwilling  grandmother,  ever 
growing  more  unwilling  as  your  food  assimilated 
less,  then  contracted  habits  of  shaking  you  till 
your  system  curdled,  and  your  food  would  not 
assimilate  at  all.  At  length  she  was  no  longer 
spared,  and  could  have  been  thankfully  spared 
much  sooner.  When  your  brothers  began  to  ap- 
pear in  succession,  your  mother  retired,  left  oft 


WAITERS 


602 


WAITERS 


her  smart  dressing  (she  had  previously  been  a 
smart  dresser),  and  her  dark  ringlets  (which  had 
previously  been  flowing),  and  haunted  your 
father  late  of  nights,  lying  in  wait  for  him, 
through  all  weathers,  up  the  shabby  court  which 
led  to  the  back  door  of  the  Royal  Old  Dust-Bin 
(said  to  have  been  so  named  by  George  the 
Fourth),  where  your  father  was  Head.  But  the 
Dust-Bin  was  going  down  then,  and  your  father 
took  but  little, — excepting  from  a liquid  point 
of  view.  Your  mother’s  object  in  those  visits 
was  of  a housekeeping  character,  and  you  was 
set  on  to  whistle  your  father  out.  Sometimes  he 
came  out,  but  generally  not.  Come  or  not  come, 
however,  all  that  part  of  his  existence  which  was 
unconnected  with  open  Waitering  was  kept  a 
close  secret,  and  was  acknowledged  by  your 
mother  to  be  a close  secret,  and  you  and  your 
mother  flitted  about  the  court,  close  secrets  both 
of  you,  and  would  scarcely  have  confessed  under 
torture  that  you  knew  your  father,  or  that  your 
father  had  any  name  than  Dick  (which  wasn’t 
his  name,  though  he  was  never  known  by  any 
other),  or  that  he  had  kith  or  kin,  or  chick  or 
child.  Perhaps  the  attraction  of  this  mystery, 
combined  with  your  father’s  having  a damp  com- 
partment to  himself,  behind  a leaky  cistern,  at 
the  Dust-Bin,— a sort  of  a cellar  compartment, 
with  a sink  in  it,  and  a smell,  and  a plate-rack, 
and  a bottle-rack,  and  three  windows  that  didn’t 
match  each  other  or  anything  else,  and  no  day- 
light,— caused  your  young  mind  to  feel  convinced 
that  you  must  grow  up  to  be  a Waiter  too  ; but 
you  did  feel  convinced  of  it,  and  so  did  all  your 
brothers,  down  to  your  sister.  Every  one  of  you 
felt  convinced  that  you  was  born  to  the  Waiter- 
ing. At  this  stage  of  your  career,  what  was  your 
feelings  one  day  when  your  father  came  home  to 
your  mother  in  open  broad  daylight, — of  itself 
an  act  of  Madness  on  the  part  of  a Waiter, — 
and  took  to  his  bed  (leastwise,  your  mother  and 
family’s  bed),  with  the  statement  that  his  eyes 
were  devilled  kidneys ! Physicians  being  in 
vain,  your  father  expired,  after  repeating  at  in- 
tervals for  a day  and  a night,  when  gleams  of 
reason  and  old  business  fitfully  illuminated  his 
being,  “ Two  and  two  is  five.  And  three  is  six- 
pence.” Interred  in  the  parochial  department 
of  the  neighboring  churchyard,  and  accompa- 
nied to  the  grave  by  as  many  Waiters  of  long 
standing  as  could  spare  the  morning  time  from 
their  soiled  glasses  (namely,  one),  your  bereaved 
form  was  attired  in  a white  neckankecher,  and 
you  was  took  on  from  motives  of  benevolence 
at  The  George  and  Gridiron,  theatrical  and  sup- 
per. Here,  supporting  nature  on  what  you  found 
in  the  plates  (which  was  as  it  happened,  and  but 
too  often  thoughtlessly  immersed  in  mustard), 
and  on  what  you  found  in  the  glasses  (which 
rarely  went  beyond  driblets  and  lemon),  by 
night  you  dropped  asleep  standing,  till  you  was 
cuffed  awake,  and  by  day  was  set  to  polishing 
every  individual  article  in  the  coffee-room.  Your 
couch  being  saw-dust ; your  counterpane  being 
ashes  of  cigars.  Here,  frequently  hiding  a heavy 
heart  under  the  smart  tie  of  your  white  neck- 
ankecher (or  correctly  speaking  lower  down  and 
more  to  the  left),  you  picked  up  the  rudiments 
of  knowledge  from  an  extra,  by  the  name  of 
Bishops,  and  by  calling  plate-washer  ; and  gra- 
dually elevating  your  mind  with  chalk  on  the 
back  of  the  corner-box  partition,  until  such  time 
ns  you  used  the  inkstand  when  it  was  out  of 


hand,  attained  to  manhood  and  to  be  the  Waiter 
that  you  find  yourself. 

***** 

A Head  Waiter  must  be  either  Head  or  Tail. 
He  must  be  at  one  extremity  or  the  other  of  the 
social  scale.  He  cannot  be  at  the  waist  of  it,  or 
anywhere  else  but  the  extremities.  It  is  lor  him 
to  decide  which  of  the  extremities. 

Somebody's  Luggage , Chap.  7. 

WAITERS -Their  habits. 

It  is  a most  astonishing  fact  that  the  waiter  is 
very  cold  to  you.  Account  for  it  how  you  may, 
smooth  it  over  how  you  will,  you  cannot  deny 
that  he  is  cold  to  you.  He  is  not  glad  to  see 
you,  he  does  not  want  you,  he  would  much 
rather  you  hadn’t  come.  He  opposes  to  your 
flushed  condition  an  immovable  composure. 
As  if  this  were  not  enough,  another  waiter, 
born,  as  it  would  seem,  expressly  to  look  at  you 
in  this  passage  of  your  life,  stands  at  a little  dis- 
tance, with  his  napkin  under  his  arm  and  his 
hands  folded,  looking  at  you  with  all  his  might. 
You  impress  on  your  waiter  that  you  have  ten 
minutes  for  dinner,  and  he  proposes  that  you 
shall  begin  with  a bit  of  fish  which  will  be  ready 
in  twenty.  That  proposal  declined,  he  suggests 
— as  a neat  originality — “ a weal  or  mutton  cut- 
let.” You  close  with  either  cutlet,  any  cutlet, 
anything.  He  goes  leisurely  behind  a door,  and 
calls  down  some  unseen  shaft.  A ventriloquial 
dialogue  ensues,  tending  finally  to  the  effect 
that  weal  only  is  available  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment.  You  anxiously  call  out,  “Veal,  then  !” 
Your  waiter,  having  settled  that  point,  returns 
to  array  your  tablecloth  with  a table  napkin 
folded  cocked-hat  wise  (slowly,  for  something  out 
of  window  engages  his  eye),  a white  wine-glass, 
a green  wine-glass,  a blue  finger-glass,  a tum- 
bler, and  a powerful  field  battery  of  fourteen 
castors  with  nothing  in  them,  or,  at  all  events, 
— which  is  enough  for  your  purpose, — with 
nothing  in  them  that  will  come  out.  All  this 
time  the  other  waiter  looks  at  you, — with  an  air 
of  mental  comparison  and  curiosity  now,  as  if 
it  had  occurred  to  him  that  you  are  rather  like 
his  brother.  Half  your  time  gone,  and  nothing 
come  but  the  jug  of  ale  and  the  bread,  you  im- 
plore your  waiter  to  “see  after  that  cutlet,  waiter ; 
pray  do  !”  He  cannot  go  at  once,  for  he  is  car- 
rying in  seventeen  pounds  of  American  cheese 
for  you  to  finish  with,  and  a small  landed  estate 
of  celery  and  water-cresses.  The  other  waiter 
changes  his  leg,  and  takes  a new  view  of  you, 
doubtfully  now,  as  if  he  had  rejected  the  resem- 
blance to.  his  brother,  and  had  begun  to  think 
you  more  like  his  aunt  or  his  grandmother. 
Again  you  beseech  your  waiter  with  pathetic  in- 
dignation, to  “see  after  that  cutlet !”  He  steps 
out  to  see  after  it,  and  by-and-bye,  when  you  are 
going  away  without  it,  comes  back  with  it.  Even 
then  he  will  not  take  the  sham  silver  cover  off 
without  a pause  for  a flourish,  and  a look  at  the 
musty  cutlet,  as  if  he  were  surprised  to  see  it, — ■ 
which  cannot  possibly  be  the  case,  he  must  have 
seen  it  so  often  before.  A sort  of  fur  has  been 
produced  upon  its  surface  by  the  cook’s  art, 
and,  in  a sham  silver  vessel  staggering  on  two 
feet  instead  of  three,  is  a cutaneous  kind  of 
sauce,  of  brown  pimples  and  pickled  cucumber. 
You  order  the  bill,  but  your  waiter  cannot  bring 
your  bill  yet,  because  he  is  bringing,  instead, 
three  flinty-hearted  potatoes  and  two  grim  heads 


WAITER 


503 


WAITING 


of  broccoli,  like  the  occasional  ornaments  on 
area  railings,  badly  boiled.  You  know  that  you 
will  never  come  to  this  pass,  any  more  than  to 
the  cheese  and  celery,  and  you  imperatively  de- 
mand your  bill  ; but  it  takes  time  to  get,  even 
when  gone  for,  because  your  waiter  has  to  com- 
municate with  a lady  who  lives  behind  a sash- 
window  in  a corner,  and  who  appears  to  have 
to  refer  to  several  Ledgers  before  she  can  make 
it  out — as  if  you  had  been  staying  there  a year. 
You  become  distracted  to  get  away,  and  the 
other  waiter,  once  more  changing  his  leg,  still 
looks  at  you, — but  suspiciously,  now,  as  if  you 
had  begun  to  remind  him  of  the  party  who  took 
the  great-coats  last  winter.  Your  bill  at  last 
brought  and  paid,  at  the  rate  of  sixpence  a 
mouthful,  your  waiter  reproachfully  reminds 
you  that  “ attendance  is  not  charged  for  a single 
meal,”  and  you  have  to  search  in  all  your  pock- 
ets for  sixpence  more.  He  has  a worse  opinion 
of  you  than  ever,  when  you  have  given  it  to  him, 
and  lets  you  out  into  the  street  with  the  air  of 
one  saying  to  himself,  as  you  cannot  doubt  he 

is,  “I  hope  we  shall  never  see  you  here  again  !” 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  6. 

WAITER— His  misfortunes. 

“ If  I didn’t  support  a aged  pairint,  and  a 
lovely  sister,” — here  the  waiter  was  greatly  agi- 
tated— “ I wouldn’t  take  a farthing.  If  I had  a 
good  place,  and  was  treated  well  here,  I should 
beg  acceptance  of  a trifle,  instead  of  taking  of 

it.  But  I live  on  broken  wittles — and  I sleep 
on  the  coals  ” — here  the  waiter  burst  into  tears. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  27. 

WAITER— The  wrong's  of  a. 

“Well!”  cried  Mr.  Bailey,  “Wot  if  I am? 
There’s  something  gamey  in  it,  young  ladies,  an’t 
there  ? I’d  sooner  be  hit  with  a cannon-ball 
than  a rolling-pin,  and  she’s  always  a catching  up 
something  of  that  sort,  and  throwing  it  at  me, 
wen  the  gentlemen’s  appetites  is  good.  Wot,” 
said  Mr.  Bailey,  stung  by  the  recollection  of  his 
wrongs,  “ wot  if  they  do  con-sume  the  per- 
vishuns.  It  an’t  my  fault,  is  it  ? ” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  11. 

WAITER— A dignified. 

The  Chief  Butler,  the  Avenging  Spirit  of  this 
great  man’s  life,  relaxed  nothing  of  his  severity. 
He  looked  on  at  these  dinners  when  the  bosom 
was  not  there,  as  he  looked  on  at  other  dinners 
when  the  bosom  was  there  ; and  his  eye  was  a 
basilisk  to  Mr.  Merdle.  He  was  a hard  man, 
and  would  never  abate  an  ounce  of  plate  or  a 
bottle  of  wine.  He  would  not  allow  a dinner 
to  be  given,  unless  it  was  up  to  his  mark.  He 
set  forth  the  table  for  his  own  dignity.  If  the 
guests  chose  to  partake  of  what  was  served,  he 
saw  no  objection  : but  it  was  served  for  the  main- 
tenance of  his  rank.  As  he  stood  by  the  side- 
board he  seemed  to  announce,  “ I have  accept- 
ed office  to  look  at  this  which  is  now  before  me, 
and  to  look  at  nothing  less  than  this.”  If  he 
missed  the  presiding  bosom,  it  was  as  a part  of  his 
own  state  of  which  he  was,  from  unavoidable 
circumstances,  temporarily  deprived.  Just  as 
he  might  have  missed  a centrepiece,  or  a choice 
wine-cooler,  which  had  been  sent  to  the  Bank- 
er’s.— Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  12. 

W AITER— The  Chief  Butler. 

Only  one  thing  sat  otherwise  than  auriferous- 


ly, and  at  the  same  time  lightly,  on  Mr.  Dorrit’s 
mind.  It  was  the  Chief  Butler.  That  stupen- 
dous character  looked  at  him  in  the  course  of 
his  official  looking  at  the  dinners,  in  a manner 
that  Mr.  Dorrit  considered  questionable.  He 
looked  at  him,  as  he  passed  through  the  hall  and 
up  the  staircase,  going  to  dinner,  with  a glazed 
fixedness  that  Mr.  Dorrit  did  not  like.  Seated 
at  table  in  the  act  of  drinking,  Mr.  Dorrit  still 
saw  him  through  his  wine-glass,  regarding  him 
with  a cold  and  ghostly  eye.  It  misgave  him 
that  the  Chief  Butler  must  have  known  a Col- 
legian, and  must  have  seen  him  in  the  College — • 
perhaps  had  been  presented  to  him.  He  looked 
as  closely  at  the  Chief  Butler  as  such  a man 
could  be  looked  at,  and  yet  he  did  not  recall 
that  he  had  ever  seen  him  elsewhere.  Ultimate- 
ly he  was  inclined  to  think  that  there  was  no 
reverence  in  the  man,  no  sentiment  in  the  great 
creature.  But  he  was  not  relieved  by  that  ; 
for,  let  him  think  what  he  would,  the  Chief  But- 
ler had  him  in  his  supercilious  eye,  even  when 
that  eye  was  on  the  plate  and  other  table-garni- 
ture ; and  he  never  let  him  out  of  it.  To  hint 
to  him  that  this  confinement  in  his  eye  was  dis- 
agreeable, or  to  ask  him  what  he  meant,  was  an 
act  too  daring  to  venture  upon  ; his  severity 
with  his  employers  and  their  visitors  being  ter- 
rific, and  he  never  permitting  himself  to  be  ap- 
proached with  the  slightest  liberty. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  16. 

W AITER— The  model. 

Rounding  his  mouth  and  both  his  eyes,  as  he 
stepped  backward  from  the  table,  the  waiter 
shifted  his  napkin  from  his  right  arm  to  his  left, 
dropped  into  a comfortable  attitude,  and  stood 
surveying  the  guest  while  he  ate  and  drank,  as 
from  an  observatory  or  watch-tower.  Accord- 
ing to  the  immemorial  usage  of  waiters  in  all 
ages. — Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  4. 

WAITERS— Their  characteristics. 

“ Soda  water,  sir?  Yes,  sir.”  With  his  mind 
apparently  relieved  from  an  overwhelming 
weight,  by  having  at  last  got  an  order  for  some- 
thing, the  waiter  imperceptibly  melted  away. 
Waiters  never  walk  or  run.  They  have  a pe- 
culiar and  mysterious  power  of  skimming  out  of 
rooms,  which  other  mortals  possess  not. 

Pickwick , Chap.  30. 

W AITIN G— The  misery  of. 

There  are  few  things  more  worrying  than 
sitting  up  for  somebody,  especially  if  that  some- 
body be  at  a party.  You  cannot  help  thinking 
how  quickly  the  time  passes  with  them,  which 
drags  so  heavily  with  you  ; and  the  more  you  think 
of  this,  the  more  your  hopes  of  their  speedy  arrival 
decline.  Clocks  tick  so  loud,  too,  when  you  are 
sitting  up  alone,  and  you  seem  as  if  you  had  an 
under  garment  of  cobwebs  on.  First,  some- 
thing tickles  your  right  knee,  and  then  the 
same  sensation  irritates  your  left.  You  have 
no  sooner  changed  your  position,  than  it  comes 
again  in  the  arms : when  you  have  fidgeted 
your  limbs  into  all  sorts  of  odd  shapes,  you 
have  a sudden  l'elapse  in  the  nose,  which  you 
rub  as  if  to  rub  it  off — as  there  is  no  doubt  you 
would,  if  you  could.  Eyes,  too,  are  mere  per- 
sonal inconveniences,  and  the  wick  of  one 
candle  gets  an  inch  and  a half  long,  while  you 
are  snuffing  the  other.  These,  and  various 


WALKING 


504 


WALK 


other  little  nervous  annoyances,  render  sitting 
up  for  a length  of  time  after  everybody  else 
has  gone  to  bed,  anything  but  a cheerful  amuse- 
ment.— Pickwick , Chap.  36. 

WALKING-Better  than  riding-. 

Better  ! A rare,  strong,  hearty,  healthy  walk 
— four  statute  miles  an  hour — preferable  to 
that  rumbling,  tumbling,  jolting,  shaking,  scrap- 
ing, creaking,  villanous  old  gig?  Why,  the 
two  things  will  not  admit  of  comparison.  It  is 
an  insult  to  the  walk,  to  set  them  side  by  side. 
Where  is  an  instance  of  a gig  having  ever  circu- 
lated a man’s  blood,  unless  when,  putting  him 
in  danger  of  his  neck,  it  awakened  in  his  veins 
and  in  his  ears,  and  all  along  his  spine,  a ting- 
ling heat,  much  more  peculiar  than  agreeable  ? 
When  did  a gig  ever  sharpen  anybody’s  wits 
and  energies,  unless  it  was  when  the  horse  bolt- 
ed, and,  crashing  madly  down  a steep  hill  with 
a stone  wall  at  the  bottom,  his  desperate  cir- 
cumstances suggested  to  the  only  gentleman 
left  inside,  some  novel  and  unheard-of  mode 
of  dropping  out  behind  ? Better  than  the  gig  ! 

The  air  was  cold,  Tom  ; so  it  was,  there  was 
no  denying  it ; but  would  it  have  been  more 
genial  in  the  gig?  The  blacksmith’s  fire 
burned  very  bright,  and  leaped  up  high,  as 
though  it  wanted  men  to  warm  ; but  would  it 
have  been  less  tempting,  looked  at  fi-om  the 
clammy  cushions  of  a gig?  The  wind  blew 
keenly,  nipping  the  features  of  the  hardy  wight 
who  fought  his  way  along  ; blinding  him  with 
his  own  hair  if  he  had  enough  of  it,  and  wintry 
dust  if  he  hadn’t  ; stopping  his  breath  as  though 
he  had  been  soused  in  a cold  bath  ; tearing 
aside  his  wrappings-up,  and  whistling  in  the 
very  marrow  of  his  bones  ; but  it  would  have 
done  all  this  a hundred  times  more  fiercely  to 
a man  in  a gig,  wouldn’t  it  ? A fig  for  gigs  ! 

Better  than  the  gig  ! When  were  travellers 
by  wheels  and  hoofs  seen  with  such  red-hot 
cheeks  as  those  ? when  were  they  so  good-hu- 
moredly and  merrily  bloused  ? when  did  their 
laughter  ring  upon  the  air,  as  they  turned  them 
round,  what  time  the  stronger  gusts  came 
sweeping  up  ; and,  facing  round  again  as  they 
passed  by,  dashed  on,  in  such  a glow  of  ruddy 
health  as  nothing  could  keep  pace  with,  but 
the  high  spirits  it  engendered  ? Better  than 
the  gig  ! Why,  here  is  a man  in  a gig  coming 
the  same  way  now.  Look  at  him  as  he  passes 
his  whip  into  his  left  hand,  chafes  his  numbed 
right  fingers  on  his  granite  leg,  and  beats  those 
marble  toes  of  his  upon  the  foot-board.  Ha, 
ha,  ha  ! Who  would  exchange  this  rapid  hur- 
ry of  the  blood  for  yonder  stagnant  misery, 
though  its  pace  were  twenty  miles  for  one? 

Better  than  the  gig ! No  man  in  a gig  could 
have  such  interest  in  the  milestones.  No  man  in 
a gig  could  see,  or  feel,  or  think,  like  merry  users 
of  their  legs.  IIow,  as  the  wind  sweeps  on,  upon 
these  breezy  downs,  it  tracks  its  flight  in  dark- 
ening ripples  on  the  grass,  and  smoothest  shadows 
on  the  hills!  Look  round  and  round  upon  this 
bare  bleak  plain,  and  see,  even  here,  upon  a win- 
ter’s day,  how  beautiful  the  shadows  are  ! Alas  ! 
it  is  the  nature  of  their  kind  to  be  so.  The 
loveliest  things  in  life,  Tom,  are  but  shadows  ; 
and  they  come  and  go,  and  change  and  fade 
away,  as  rapidly  as  these  ! 

Another  mile,  and  then  begins  a fall  of  .snow, 
making  the  crow,  who  skims  away  so  close  above  I 


the  ground  to  shirk  the  wind,  a blot  of  ink  upon 
the  landscape.  But  though  it  drives  and  drifts 
against  them  as  they  walk,  stiffening  on  their 
skirts,  and  freezing  in  the  lashes  of  their  eyes, 
they  wouldn’t  have  it  fall  more  sparingly,  no, 
not  so  much  as  by  a single  flake,  although  they 
had  to  go  a score  of  miles.  And,  lo  ! the  towers 
of  the  Old  Cathedral  rise  before  them,  even 
now  ! and  by-and-bye  they  come  into  the  shel- 
tered streets,  made  strangely  silent  by  their  white 
carpet  ; and  so  to  the  Inn  for  which  they  are 
bound  ; where  they  present  such  flushed  and 
burning  faces  to  the  cold  waiter,  and  are  so 
brimful  of  vigor,  that  he  almost  feels  assaulted 
by  their  presence  ; and  having  nothing  to  op- 
pose to  the  attack  (being  fresh,  or  rather  stale, 
from  the  blazing  fire  in  the  coffee-room),  is  quite 
put  out  of  his  pale  countenance. 

A famous  Inn  ! the  hall  a very  grove  of  dead 
game,  and  dangling  joints  of  mutton  ; and  in 
one  corner  an  illustrious  larder,  with  glass  doors 
developing  cold  fowls,  and  noble  joints,  and  tarts, 
wherein  the  raspberry  jam  coyly  withdrew  itself, 
as  such  a precious  creature  should, behind  a lattice 
work  of  pastry. — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  12. 

WALK— An  egotistic. 

The  Doctor’s  walk  was  stately,  and  calculated 
to  impress  the  juvenile  mind  with  solemn  feel- 
ings. It  was  a sort  of  march  ; but  when  the 
Doctor  put  out  his  right  foot,  he  gravely  turned 
upon  his  axis,  with  a semicircular  sweep  towards 
the  left ; and  when  he  put  out  his  left  foot,  he 
turned  in  the  same  manner  towards  the  right. 
So  that  he  seemed,  at  every  stride  he  took,  to 
look  about  him,  as  though  he  were  saying,  “Can 
anybody  have  the  goodness  to  indicate  any 
subject,  in  any  direction,  on  which  I am  unin- 
formed ? I rather  think  not.” 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  12. 

The  Major,  more  blue-faced  and  staring — 
more  over-ripe,  as  it  were,  than  ever — and  giv- 
ing vent,  every  now  and  then,  to  one  of  the 
horse’s  coughs,  not  so  much  of  necessity  as  in 
a spontaneous  explosion  of  importance,  walked 
arm-in-arm  with  Mr.  Dombey  up  the  sunny  side 
of  the  way,  with  his  cheeks  swelling  over  his 
tight  stock,  his  legs  majestically  wide  apart,  and 
his  great  head  wagging  from  side  to  side,  as  if  he 
were  remonstrating  within  himself  for  being  such 
a captivating  object. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  21. 

WALK-A  fast. 

“ Walk  fast,  Wal’r,  my  lad,”  returned  the 
Captain,  mending  his  pace;  “and  walk  the 
same  all  the  days  of  your  life.  Overhaul  the 
catechism  for  that  advice,  and  keep  it ! ” 

Dombey  dr5  Son , Chap.  9. 

WALK-A  dignified. 

“ What’s  the  matter,  what’s  the  matter?  ” said 
the  gentleman  for  whom  the  door  was  opened  ; 
coming  out  of  the  house  at  that  kind  of  light- 
heavy  pace — that  peculiar  compromise  between 
a walk  and  a jog-trot — with  which  a gentleman 
upon  the  smooth  down-hill  of  life,  wearing 
creaking  boots,  a watch-chain,  and  clean  linen, 
may  come  out  of  his  house  ; not  only  without 
any  abatement  of  his  dignity,  but  with  an  ex- 
pression of  having  important  and  wealthy  en- 
gagements elsewhere.  “ What’s  the  matter?  ” 
Christmas  Chimes,  1st  Quarter 


WASHINGTON 


505 


WATER-PIPES 


WASHINGTON. 

Take  the  worst  parts  of  the  City  Road  and 
Pentonville,  or  the  straggling  outskirts  of  Paris, 
where  the  houses  are  smallest,  preserving  all 
their  oddities,  but  especially  the  small  shops  and 
dwellings,  occupied  in  Pentonville  (but  not  in 
Washington)  by  furniture  brokers,  keepers  of 
poor  eating-houses,  and  fanciers  of  birds.  Burn 
the  whole  down  ; build  it  up  again  in  wood  and 
plaster  : widen  it  a little  ; throw  in  part  of  St. 
John’s  Wood  ; put  green  blinds  outside  all 
the  private  houses,  with  a red  curtain  and  a 
while  one  in  every  window  ; plough  up  all  the 
roads  ; plant  a great  deal  of  coarse  turf  in  every 
place  where  it  ought  not  to  be  ; erect  three 
handsome  buildings  in  stone  and  marble  any- 
where, but  the  more  entirely  out  of  everybody’s 
way  the  better ; call  one  the  Post  Office,  one 
the  Patent  Office,  and  one  the  Treasury  ; make 
it  scorching  hot  in  the  morning,  and  freezing 
cold  in  the  afternoon,  with  an  occasional  tornado 
of  wind  and  dust ; leave  a brick-field  without 
the  bricks,  in  all  central  places  where  a street 
may  naturally  be  expected  ; and  that’s  Washing- 
ton. 

* * * * * 

I walk  to  the  front  window,  and  look  across 
the  road  upon  a long,  straggling  row  of  houses, 
one-story  high,  terminating  nearly  opposite, 
but  a little  to  the  left,  in  a melancholy  piece  of 
waste  ground,  with  frowzy  grass,  which  looks 
like  a small  piece  of  country  that  has  taken  to 
drinking,  and  has  quite  lost  itself.  Standing 
anyhow  and  all  wrong,  upon  this  open  space, 
like  something  meteoric  that  has  fallen  down 
from  the  moon,  is  an  odd,  lop-sided,  one-eyed 
kind  of  wooden  building,  that  looks  like  a 
church,  with  a flag-staff  as  long  as  itself  stick- 
ing out  of  a steeple  something  larger  than  a tea- 
chest. 

* * * * ❖ 

It  is  sometimes  called  the  City  of  Magnifi- 
cent Distances,  but  it  might  with  greater  pro- 
priety be  termed  the  City  of  Magnificent  Inten- 
tions ; for  it  is  only  on  taking  a bird’s-eye  view  of 
it  from  the  top  of  the  Capitol,  that  one  can  at 
all  comprehend  the  vast  designs  of  its  pro- 
jector, an  aspiring  Frenchman.  Spacious  ave- 
nues, that  begin  in  nothing  and  lead  nowhere  ; 
streets,  mile  long,  that  only  want  houses,  roads, 
and  inhabitants  ; public  buildings  that  need  but 
a public  to  be  complete  ; and  ornaments  of  great 
thoroughfares  which  only  lack  great  thorough- 
fares to  ornament, — are  its  leading  features. 
One  might  fancy  the  season  over,  and  most  of 
the  houses  gone  out  of  town  forever  with  their 
masters.  To  the  admirers  of  cities  it  is  a Bar- 
mecide Feast ; a pleasant  field  for  the  imagina- 
tion to  rove  in  ; a monument  raised  to  a deceased 
project,  with  not  even  a legible  inscription  to 
record  its  departed  greatness. 

American  Notes , Chap.  8. 

WASHINGTON  IRVING-At  the  White 
House. 

That  these  visitors,  too,  whatever  their  sta- 
tion, were  not  without  some  refinement  of  taste 
and  appreciation  of  intellectual  gifts,  and  grati- 
tude to  those  men  who  by  the  peaceful  exercise 
of  great  abilities  shed  new  charms  and  associa- 
tions upon  the  homes  of  their  countrymen,  and 
elevate  their  character  in  other  lands,  was  most 
earnestly  testified  by  their  reception  of  Wash- 


ington Irving,  my  dear-friend,  who  had  recently 
been  appointed  Minister  at  the  court  of  Spain, 
and  who  was  among  them  that  night,  in  his  new 
character,  for  the  first  and  last  time  before  go- 
ing abroad.  I sincerely  believe  that,  in  all  the 
madness  of  American  politics,  few  public  men 
would  have  been  so  earnestly,  devotedly,  and 
affectionately  caressed  as  this  most  charming 
writer  ; and  I have  seldom  respected  a public 
assembly  more  than  I did  this  eager  throng, 
when  I saw  them  turning  with  one  mind  from 
noisy  orators  and  officers  of  state,  and  flocking 
with  a generous  and  honest  impulse  round  the 
man  of  quiet  pursuits  ; proud  in  his  promotion, 
as  reflecting  back  upon  their  country,  and  grate- 
ful to  him  with  their  whole  hearts  for  the  store 
of  graceful  fancies  he  had  poured  out  among 
them.  Long  may  he  dispense  such  treasures 
with  unsparing  hand  ; and  long  may  they  re- 
member him  as  worthily ! 

American  Notes , Chap.  8. 

WATCH-A  model. 

The  Captain  immediately  drew  Walter  into  a 
corner,  and  with  a great  effort,  that  made  his 
face  very  red,  pulled  up  the  silver  watch,  which 
was  so  big,  and  so  tight  in  his  pocket,  that  it 
came  out  like  a bung. 

“ Wal’r,”  said  the  Captain,  handing  it  over, 
and  shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  “ a part- 
ing  gift,  my  lad.  Put  it  back  half  an  hour  every 
morning,  and  about  another  quarter  towards 
the  arternoon,  and  it’s  a watch  that’ll  do  you 
credit.” — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  20. 

WATCH-Of  Sol  Gills. 

He  wore  a very  precise  shirt-frill,  and  carried 
a pair  of  first-rate  spectacles  on  his  forehead, 
and  a tremendous  chronometer  in  his  fob,  rather 
than  doubt  which  precious  possession,  he  would 
have  believed  in  a conspiracy  against  it  on  the 
part  of  all  the  clocks  and  watches  in  the  City, 
and  even  of  the  very  sun  itself. 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  4. 


If  Uncle  Sol  had  been  going  to  be  hanged 
by  his  own  time,  he  never  would  have  allowed 
that  the  chronometer  was  too  fast  by  the  least 
fraction  of  a second. — Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  19. 

WATCH— Of  Captain  Cuttle. 

“ You’ve  done  her  some  good,  my  lad,  I be- 
lieve,” said  the  Captain,  under  his  breath,  and 
throwing  an  approving  glance  upon  his  watch. 
“ Put  you  back  half  an  hour  every  morning,  and 
about  another  quarter  towards  the  arternoon, 
and  you’re  a watch  as  can  be  ekalled  by  few 
and  excelled  by  none.” 

Dombey  dr5  Son,  Chap.  48. 

WATCH— Like  an  anchor. 

There  was  nothing  about  him  in  the  way  of 
decoration  but  a watch,  which  was  lowered  into 
the  depths  of  its  proper  pocket  by  an  old  black 
ribbon,  and  had  a tarnished  copper  key  moored 
above  it,  to  show  where  it  was  sunk. 

Little  Doi~rit,  Book  /.,  Chap.  3. 

WATER-PIPES. 

All  the  water-pipes  in  the  neighborhood 
seemed  to  have  Macbeth’s  Amen  sticking  in 
their  throats,  and  to  be  trying  to  get  it  out. 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Chap.  14. 


WATER 


606 


WEALTH 


WATER. 

Close  about  the  quays  and  churches;  palaces 
and  prisons:  sucking  at  their  walls,  and  well- 
ing up  into  the  secret  places  of  the  town — crept 
the  water  always.  Noiseless  and  watchful: 
coiled  round  and  round  it,  in  its  many  folds, 
like  an  old  serpent:  waiting  for  the  time,  I 
thought,  when  people  should  look  down  into  its 
depths  for  any  stone  of  the  old  city  that  had 
claimed  to  be  its  mistress. — Pictures  from  Italy. 

WATERING-PLACE  - Mr.  Pickwick  at 
Bath. 

As  Mr.  Pickwick  contemplated  a stay  of  at 
least  two  months  in  Bath,  he  deemed  it  advisa- 
ble to  take  private  lodgings  for  himself  and 
friends  for  that  period  ; and  as  a favorable  op- 
portunity offered  for  their  securing,  on  moder- 
ate terms,  the  upper  portion  of  a house  in  the 
Royal  Crescent,  which  was  larger  than  they  re- 
quired, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dowler  offered  to  relieve 
them  of  a bed-room  and  sitting-room.  This 
proposition  was  at  once  accepted,  and  in  three 
days’  time  they  were  all  located  in  their  new 
abode,  when  Mr.  Pickwick  began  to  drink  the 
waters  with  the  utmost  assiduity.  Mr.  Pick- 
wick took  them  systematically.  He  drank  a 
quarter  of  a pint  before  breakfast,  and  then 
walked  up  a hill  ; and  another  quarter  of  a pint 
after  breakfast,  and  then  walked  down  a hill ; 
and  after  every  fresh  quarter  of  a pint,  Mr.  Pick- 
wick declared,  in  the  most  solemn  and  emphatic 
terms,  that  he  felt  a great  deal  better  ; whereat 
his  friends  were  very  much  delighted,  though 
they  had  not  been  previously  aware  that  there 
was  -anything  the  matter  with  him. 

The  great  pump-room  is  a spacious  saloon, 
ornamented  with  Corinthian  pillars,  and  a mu- 
sic-gallery, and  a Tompion  clock,  and  a statue 
of  Nash,  and  a golden  inscription,  to  which  all 
the  water-drinkers  should  attend,  for  it  appeals 
to  them  in  the  cause  of  a deserving  charity. 
There  is  a large  bar  with  a marble  vase,  out  of 
which  the  pumper  gets  the  water  ; and  there  are 
a number  of  yellow-looking  tumblers,  out  of 
which  the  company  get  it : and  it  is  a most  edi- 
fying and  satisfactory  sight  to  behold  the  perse- 
verance and  gravity  with  which  they  swallow  it. 
There  are  baths  near  at  hand,  in  which  a part 
of  the  company  wash  themselves ; and  a band 
plays  afterwards,  to  congratulate  the  remainder 
on  their  having  done  so.  There  is  another 
pump-room,  into  which  infirm  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen are  wheeled,  in  such  an  astonishing 
variety  of  chairs  and  chaises,  that  any  adven- 
turous individual  who  goes  in  with' the  regular 
number  of  toes,  is  in  imminent  danger  of  com- 
ing out  without  them  ; and  there  is  a third,  into 
which  the  quiet  people  go,  for  it  is  less  noisy 
than  either.  There  is  an  immensity  of  prom- 
enading, on  crutches  and  off,  with  sticks  and 
without,  and  a great  deal  of  conversation,  and 
liveliness,  and  pleasantry. — Pickwick , Chap.  36. 

WAX-WORK  Mrs.  Jarley’s. 

When  she  had  brought  all  these  testimonials 
of  her  important  position  in  society  to  bear  upon 
her  young  companion,  Mrs.  Jarley  rolled  them 
up,  and  having  put  them  carefully  away,  sat 
down  again,  and  looked  at  the  child  in  tri- 
umph. 

“ Never  go  into  the  company  of  a filthy 
Funch  any  more,”  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  “after  this.”  I 


“ I never  saw  any  wax  work,  ma’am,”  said 
Nell.  “ Is  it  funnier  than  Punch?" 

“ Funnier  !”  said  Mrs.  Jarley  in  a shrill  voice. 
“ It  is  not  funny  at  all.” 

“ Oh  ! ” said  Nell,  with  all  possible  humility. 

“ It  isn’t  funny  at  all,”  repeated  Mrs.  Jarley. 
“ It’s  calm  and — what’s  that  word  again — criti- 
cal ? — no — classical,  that’s  it — it’s  calm  and  clas- 
sical. No  low  beatings  and  knockings  about, 
no  joltings  and  squeakings  like  your  precious 
Punches,  but  always  the  same,  with  a constantly 
unchanging  air  of  coldness  and  gentility  ; and 
so  like  life,  that  if  wax-work  only  spoke  and 
walked  about,  you’d  hardly  know  the  difference. 
I won’t  go  so  far  as  to  say,  that,  as  it  is,  I’ve 
seen  wax-work  quite  like  life,  but  I’ve  certainly 
seen  some  life  that  was  exactly  like  wax-work.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  27. 

These  audiences  were  of  a very  superior  de- 
scription, including  a great  many  young  ladies* 
boarding-schools,  whose  favor  Mrs.  Jarley  had 
been  at  great  pains  to  conciliate,  by  altering  the 
face  and  costume  of  Mr.  Grimaldi  as  clown  to 
represent  Mr.  Lindley  Murray  as  he  appeared 
when  engaged  in  the  composition  of  his  English 
Grammar,  and  turning  a murderess  of  great  re- 
nown into  Mi’s.  Hannah  More — both  of  which 
likenesses  were  admitted  by  Miss  Monflathers, 
who  was  at  the  head  of  the  head  Boarding  and 
Day  Establishment  in  the  town,  and  who  con- 
descended to  take  a Private  View  with  eight 
chosen  young  ladies,  to  be  quite  startling  from 
their  extreme  correctness.  Mr.  Pitt,  in  a night- 
cap and  bedgown,  and  without  his  boots,  repre- 
sented the  poet  Cowper  with  perfect  exactness  ; 
and  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  in  a dark  wig,  white 
shirt-collar,  and  male  attire,  was  such  a complete 
image  of  Lord  Byron  that  the  young  ladies  quite 
screamed  when  they  saw  it.  Miss  Monflathers, 
however,  rebuked  this  enthusiasm,  and  look  oc- 
casion to  reprove  Mrs.  Jarley  for  not  keeping 
her  collection  more  select : observing  that  His 
Lordship  had  held  certain  opinions  quite  incom- 
patible with  wax- work  honors,  and  adding  some- 
thing about  a Dean  and  Chapter,  which  Mrs. 
Jarley  did  not  understand. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  29. 

WEAKNESS  -Human. 

Throughout  life,  our  worst  weaknesses  and 
meannesses  are  usually  committed  for  the  sake 
of  the  people  whom  we  most  despise. 

Great  Expectations.  Chap.  27. 

WE  ALTH-Igmorant  men  of. 

Mr.  Malderton  was  a man  whose  whole  scope 
of  ideas  was  limited  to  Lloyd’s,  the  Exchange, 
the  India  House,  and  the  Bank.  A few  success- 
ful speculations  had  raised  him  from  a situation 
of  obscurity  and  comparative  poverty,  to  a state 
of  affluence.  As  frequently  happens  in  such 
cases,  the  ideas  of  himself  and  his  family  be- 
came elevated  to  an  extraordinary  pitch  as  their 
means  increased  ; they  affected  fashion,  taste, 
and  many  other  fooleries,  in  imitation  of  their 
betters,  and  had  a very  decided  and  becoming 
horror  of  anything  which  could,  by  possibility, 
be  considered  low.  He  was  hospitable  from 
ostentation,  illiberal  from  ignorance,  and  preju- 
diced from  conceit.  Egotism  and  the  love  of 
display  induced  him  to  keep  an  excellent  table; 
convenience,  and  a love  of  good  things  of  this 


WEALTH 


507 


WEATHER 


life,  ensured  him  plenty  of  guests.  He  liked 
to  have  clever  men,  or  what  he  considered  such, 
at  his  table,  because  it  was  a great  thing  to  talk 
about ; but  he  never  could  endure  what  he 
called  “ sharp  fellows.”  Probably,  he  cherished 
this  feeling  out  of  compliment  to  his  two  sons, 
who  gave  their  respected  parent  no  uneasiness  in 
that  particular.  The  family  were  ambitious  of 
forming  acquaintances  and  connections  in  some 
sphere  of  society  superior  to  that  in  which  they 
themselves  moved  ; and  one  of  the  necessary  con- 
sequences of  this  desire,  added  to  their  utter  ig- 
norance of  the  world  beyond  their  own  small 
circle,  was,  that  any  one  who  could  lay  claim  to 
an  acquaintance  with  people  of  rank  and  title, 
had  a sure  passport  to  the  table  at  Oak  Lodge, 
Camberwell. — Tales , Chap.  5. 

WEALTH— The  conceit,  intolerance,  and 

ignorance  of  Podsnap. 

Mr.  Podsnap  could  tolerate  taste  in  a mush- 
room man  who  stood  in  need  of  that  sort  of 
thing,  but  was  far  above  it  himself.  Hideous 
solidity  was  the  characteristic  of  the  Podsnap 
plate.  Everything  was  made  to  look  as  heavy 
as  it  could,  and  to  take  up  as  much  room  as 
possible.  Everything  said  boastfully,  “ Here 
you  have  as  much  of  me  in  my  ugliness  as  if  I 
were  only  lead  ; but  I am  so  many  ounces  of 
precious  metal,  worth  so  much  an  ounce : — 
wouldn’t  you  like  to  melt  me  down  ? ” A cor- 
pulent, straddling  epergne,  blotched  all  over  as 
if  it  had  broken  out  in  an  eruption  rather  than 
been  ornamented,  delivered  this  address  from 
an  unsightly  silver  platform  in  the  centre  of  the 
table.  Four  silver  wine-coolers,  each  furnished 
with  four  staring  heads,  each  head  obtrusively 
carrying  a big  silver  ring  in  each  of  its  ears, 
conveyed  the  sentiment  up  and  down  the  table, 
and  handed  it  on  to  the  pot-bellied  silver  salt- 
cellars. All  the  big  silver  spoons  and  forks 
widened  the  mouths  of  the  company  expressly 
for  the  purpose  of  thrusting  the  sentiment 
down  their  throats  with  every  morsel  they  ate. 

The  majority  of  the  guests  were  like  the 
plate,  and  included  several  heavy  articles  weigh- 
ing ever  so  much.  But  there  was  a foreign  gen- 
tleman among  them,  whom  Mr.  Podsnap  had 
invited  after  much  debate  with  himself- — be- 
lieving the  whole  European  continent  to  be  in 
mortal  alliance  against  the  young  person — and 
there  was  a droll  disposition,  not  only  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Podsnap,  but  of  everybody  else,  to 
treat  him  as  if  he  were  a child  who  was  hard 
of  hearing. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  11. 

WEALTH— The  world’s  tribute  to. 

Tradesmen’s  books  hunger,  and  Tradesmen’s 
mouths  water,  for  the  gold  dust  of  the  Golden 
Dustman.  As  Mrs.  Boffin  and  Miss  Wilfer 
drive  out,  or  as  Mr.  Boffin  walks  out  at  his  jog- 
trot pace,  the  fishmonger  pulls  off  his  hat  with 
an  air  of  reverence  founded  on  conviction. 
His  men  cleanse  their  fingers  on  their  woollen 
aprons  before  presuming  to  touch  their  fore- 
heads to  Mr.  Boffin  or  Lady.  The  gaping 
salmon  and  the  golden  mullet  lying  on  the  slab 
seem  to  turn  up  their  eyes  sideways,  as  they 
would  turn  up  their  hands,  if  they  had  any,  in 
worshipping  admiration.  The  butcher,  though  a 
portly  and  a prosperous  man,  doesn’t  know  what 
to  do  with  himself,  so  anxious  is  he  to  express 


humility  when  discovered  by  the  passing  Bof- 
fins taking  the  air  in  a mutton  grove.  Presents 
are  made  to  the  Boffin  servants,  and  bland 
strangers  with  business-cards,  meeting  said  ser- 
vants in  the  street,  offer  hypothetical  corruption. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  17. 

WEALTH— The  rich  man. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  one  of  those  close-shaved, 
close  cut,  moneyed  gentlemen  who  are  glossy 
and  crisp  like  new  bank-notes,  and  who  seem 
to  be  artificially  braced  and  tightened  as  by  the 
stimulating  action  of  golden  shower-baths. 

Dombey  Cr  Son,  Chap.  2.  . 

WEALTH-Without  station. 

The  minion  of  fortune  and  the  worm  of  the 
hour,  or  in  less  cutting  language,  Nicodemus 
Boffin,  Esquire,  the  Golden  Dustman,  had  be- 
come as  much  at  home  in  his  eminently  aristo- 
cratic family  mansion  as  he  was  likely  ever  to 
be.  He  could  not  but  feel  that,  like  an  eminent- 
ly aristocratic  family  cheese,  it  was  much  too 
large  for  his  wants,  and  bred  an  infinite  amount 
of  parasites  ; but  he  was  content  to  regard 
this  drawback  on  his  property  as  a sort  of  per- 
petual Legacy  Duty. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  II.,  Chap.  8. 

WEATHER— Stormy— The  Maypole. 

One  wintry  evening,  early  in  the  year  of 
our  Lord  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
eighty,  a keen  north  wind  arose  as  it  grew  dark, 
and  night  came  on  with  black  and  dismal 
looks.  A bitter  storm  of  sleet,  sharp,  dense, 
and  icy-cold,  swept  the  wet  streets,  and  rattled 
on  the  trembling  windows.  Sign  boards,  sha- 
ken past  endurance  in  their  creaking  frames,  fell 
crashing  on  the  pavement  ; old  tottering  chim- 
neys reeled  and  staggered  in  the  blast  ; and 
many  a steeple  rocked  again  that  night,  as 
though  the  earth  were  troubled. 

It  was  not  a time  for  those  who  could  by  any 
means  get  light  and  warmth,  to  brave  the  fury 
of  the  weather.  In  coffee-houses  of  the  better 
sort,  guests  crowded  round  the  fire,  forgot  to  be 
political,  and  told  each  other  with  a secret  glad- 
ness that  the  blast  grew  fiercer  every  minute. 
Each  humble  tavern  by  the  water-side  had  its 
group  of  uncouth  figures  round  the  hearth  ; 
who  talked  of  vessels  foundering  at  sea,  and  all 
hands  lost,  related  many  a dismal  tale  of  ship- 
wreck and  drowned  men,  and  hoped  that  some 
they  knew  were  safe,  and  shook  their  heads  in 
doubt.  In  private  dwellings,  children  clustered 
near  the  blaze  ; listening  with  timid  pleasure  to 
tales  of  ghosts  and  goblins  and  tall  figures  clad 
in  white  standing  by  bedsides,  and  people  who 
had  gone  to  sleep  in  old  churches  and  being 
overlooked  had  found  themselves  alone  there  at 
the  dead  hour  of  the  night : until  they  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  of  the  dark  rooms  up-stairs  ; 
yet  loved  to  hear  the  wind  moan,  too,  and  hoped 
it  would  continue  bravely.  From  time  to  time 
these  happy  in-door  people  stopped  to  listen,  or 
one  held  up  his  finger  and  cried  “Hark!”  and 
then,  above  the  rumbling  in  the  chimney,  and  the 
fast  pattering  on  the  glass,  was  heard  a wailing, 
rushing  sound,  which  shook  the  walls  as  though 
a giant’s  hand  were  on  them;  then  a hoarse 
roar  as  if  the  sea  had  risen  ; then  such  a whirl 
and  tumult  that  the  air  seemed  mad  ; and 
then,  with  a lengthened  howl,  the  waves  of 


WEATHER 


508 


WEATHER 


wind  swept  on,  and  left  a moment’s  interval  of 
rest. 

Cheerily,  though  there  were  none  abroad  to 
see  it,  shone  the  Maypole  light  that  evening. 
Blessings  on  the  red — deep,  ruby,  glowing  red 
— old  curtain  of  the  window  ; blending  into 
one  rich  stream  of  brightness,  fire  and  candle, 
meat,  drink,  and  company,  and  gleaming  like 
a jovial  eye  upon  the  bleak  waste  out  of  doors  ! 
Within,  what  carpet  like  its  crunching  sand, 
what  music  merry  as  its  crackling  logs,  what 
perfume  like  its  kitchen’s  dainty  breath,  what 
weather  genial  as  its  hearty  warmth  ! Blessings 
on  the  old  house,  how  sturdily  it  stood  ! How 
did  the  vexed  wind  chafe  and  roar  about  its 
stalwart  roof ; how  did  it  pant  and  strive  with 
its  wide  chimneys,  which  still  poured  forth  from 
their  hospitable  throats  great  clouds  of  smoke, 
and  puffed  defiance  in  its  face  ; how,  above  all, 
did  it  drive  and  rattle  at  the  casement,  emulous 
to  extinguish  that  cheerful  glow,  which  would 
not  be  put  down  and  seemed  the  brighter  for 
the  conflict. 

The  profusion,  too,  the  rich  and  lavish  bounty, 
of  that  goodly  tavern  ! It  was  not  enough  that 
one  fire  roared  and  sparkled  on  its  spacious 
hearth  ; in  the  tiles  which  paved  and  compassed 
it,  five  hundred  flickering  fires  burnt  brightly 
also.  It  was  not  enough  that  one  red  curtain 
shut  the  wild  night  out,  and  shed  its  cheerful 
influence  on  the  room.  In  every  saucepan  lid, 
and  candlestick,  and  vessel  of  copper,  brass,  or 
tin  that  hung  upon  the  walls,  were  countless 
ruddy  hangings,  flashing  and  gleaming  with 
every  motion  of  the  blaze,  and  offering,  let  the 
eye  wander  where  it  might,  interminable  vistas 
of  the  same  rich  color.  The  old  oak  wainscot- 
ing, the  beams,  the  chairs,  the  seats,  reflected  it 
in  a deep,  dull  glimmer.  There  were  fires  and 
red  curtains  in  the  very  eyes  of  the  drinkers,  in 
their  buttons,  in  their  liquor,  in  the  pipes  they 
smoked. — Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  33. 

WEATHER-The  snow. 

There  is  no  improvement  in  the  weather. 
From  the  portico,  from  the  eaves,  from  the  para- 
pet, from  every  ledge  and  post  and  pillar,  drips 
the  thawed  snow.  It  has  crept,  as  if  for  shelter, 
into  the  lintels  of  the  great  door — under  it,  into 
the  corners  of  the  windows,  into  every  chink 
and  crevice  of  retreat,  and  there  wastes  and  dies. 
It  is  falling  still  ; upon  the  roof,  upon  the  sky- 
light ; even  through  the  skylight,  and  drip,  drip, 
drip,  with  the  regularity  of  the  Ghost’s  Walk, 
on  the  stone  floor  below. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  58. 

WEATHER  -Wintry. 

A thaw,  by  all  that  is  miserable  ! The  frost  is 
completely  broken  up.  You  look  down  the 
long  perspective  of  Oxford  Street,  the  gas-lights 
mournfully  reflected  on  the  wet  pavement,  and 
can  discern  no  speck  in  the  road  to  encourage 
the  belief  that  there  is  a cab  or  a coach  to  be 
had — the  very  coachmen  have  gone  home  in 
despair.  The  cold  sleet  is  drizzling  down  with 
that  gentle  regularity  which  betokens  a dura- 
tion of  four-and-twenty  hours  at  least  ; the 
damp  hangs  upon  the  house-tops,  and  lamp- 
posts,  and  clings  to  you  like  an  invisible  cloak. 
The  water  is  “coming  in”  in  every  area,  the 
pipes  have  burst,  the  water-butts  are  running 
over,  the  kennels  seem  to  be  doing  matches 


against  time,  pump-handles  descend  of  theif 
own  accord,  horses  in  market-carts  fall  down, 
and  there’s  no  one  to  help  them  up  again,  police- 
men look  as  if  they  had  been  carefully  sprinkled 
with  powdered  glass  ; here  and  there  a milk- 
woman trudges  slowly  along,  with  a bit  of  list 
round  each  foot  to  keep  her  from  slipping  ; boys 
who  “ don’t  sleep  in  the  house,”  and  are  not  al- 
lowed much  sleep  out  of  it,  can’t  wake  their 
masters  by  thundering  at  the  shop-door,  and 
cry  with  the  cold — the  compound  of  ice,  snow, 
and  water  on  the  pavement  is  a couple  of  inches 
thick — nobody  ventures  to  walk  fast  to  keep 
himself  warm,  and  nobody  could  succeed  in 
keeping  himself  warm  if  he  did. 

Scenes , Chap.  15. 

WEATHER  Frosty. 

You  couldn’t  see  very  far  in  the  fog,  of  course  ; 
but  you  could  see  a great  deal  ! It’s  astonish- 
ing how  much  you  may  see,  in  a thicker  fog 
than  that,  if  you  will  only  take  the  trouble  to 
look  for  it.  Why,  even  to  sit  watching  for  the 
Fairy-rings  in  the  fields,  and  for  the  patches  of 
hoar-frost  still  lingering  in  the  shade,  near 
hedges  and  by  trees,  was  a pleasant  occupation, 
to  make  no  mention  of  the  unexpected  shapes 
in  which  the  trees  themselves  came  starting  out 
of  the  mist,  and  glided  into  it  again.  The 
edges  were  tangled  and  bare,  and  waved  a mul- 
titude of  blighted  garlands  in  the  wind  ; but 
there  was  no  discouragement  in  this.  It  was 
agreeable  to  contemplate  ; for  it  made  the  fire- 
side warmer  in  possession,  and  the  summer 
greener  in  expectancy.  The  river  looked  chil- 
ly ; but  it  was  in  motion,  and  moving  at  a gr  od 
pace — which  was  a great  point.  The  canal  as 
rather  slow  and  torpid  ; that  must  be  admitted. 
Never  mind.  It  would  freeze  the  sooner  when 
the  frost  set  fairly  in,  and  then  there  would  be 
skating,  and  sliding  ; and  the  heavy  old  barges, 
frozen  up  somewhere  near  a wharf,  would  smoke 
their  rusty  iron  chimney  pipes  all  day,  and 
have  a lazy  time  of  it. 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  2. 

WEATHER— A November  fog. 

Implacable  November  weather.  As  much 
mud  in  the  streets  as  if  the  waters  had  but 
newly  x'etired  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  it 
would  not  be  wonderful  to  meet  a Megalosaurus, 
forty  feet  long  or  so,  waddling  like  an  elephan- 
tine lizard  up  Holborn  Hill.  Smoke  lowering 
down  from  chimney-pots,  making  a soft  black 
drizzle,  with  flakes  of  soot  in  it  as  big  as  full- 
grown  snow-flakes — gone  into  mourning,  one 
might  imagine,  for  the  death  of  the  sun.  Dogs, 
undistinguishable  in  mire.  Horses,  scarcely 
better  ; splashed  to  their  very  blinkers.  Foot 
passengers,  jostling  one  another’s  umbrellas  in 
a general  infection  of  ill-temper,  and  losing  their 
foothold  at  street-corners,  where  tens  of  thous- 
ands of  other  foot-passengers  have  been  slipping 
and  sliding  since  the  day  broke  (if  this  day  ever 
broke),  adding  new  deposits  to  the  crust  upon 
crust  of  mud,  sticking  at  those  points  tenaciously 
to  the  pavement,  and  accumulating  at  compound 
interest. 

Fog  everywhere.  Fog  up  the  river,  where  it 
flows  among  green  aits  and  meadows  ; fog  down 
the  river,  where  it  rolls  defiled  among  the  tiers 
of  shipping,  and  the  waterside  pollutions  of  a 
great  (and  dirty)  city.  Fog  ix.  the  Essex  marshes. 


WEATHER 


509 


WEATHER 


fog  on  the  Kentish  heights.  Fog  creeping  into 
the  cabooses  of  collier-brigs  ; fog  lying  out  on 
the  yards  and  hovering  in  the  rigging  of  great 
ships  ; fog  drooping  on  the  gunwales  of  barges 
and  small  boats.  Fog  in  the  eyes  and  throats 
of  ancient  Greenwich  pensioners,  wheezing  by 
the  firesides  of  their  wards  ; fog  in. the  stem  and 
bowl  of  the  afternoon  pipe  of  the  wrathful 
skipper,  down  in  his  close  cabin  ; fog  cruelly 
pinching  the  toes  and  fingers  of  his  shivering 
little  ’prentice  boy  on  deck.  Chance  people  on 
the  bridges  peeping  over  the  parapets  into  a 
nether  sky  of  fog,  with  fog  all  round  them,  as 
if  they  were  up  in  a balloon,  and  hanging  in  the 
misty  clouds. — Bleak  House , Chap . i. 

WEATHER— Cold. 

“ Well,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  as  that 
favored  servitor  entered  his  bedchamber  with 
his  warm  water,  on  the  morning  of  Christmas 
Day,  “ still  frosty  ? ” 

“ Water  in  the  wash-hand  basin  ’s  a mask  o’ 
ice,  sir,”  responded  Sam. 

“Severe  weather,  Sam,”  observed  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. 

“ Fine  time  for  them  as  is  well  wropped  up, 
as  the  Polar  Bear  said  to  himself,  ven  he  was 
practising  his  skating,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 

Pickwick , Chap.  30. 

WEATHER— Beautiful. 

The  sky  was  serene  and  bright,  the  air  clear, 
perfumed  with  the  fresh  scent  of  newly-fallen 
leaves,  and  grateful  to  every  sense.  The  neigh- 
boring stream  sparkled,  and  rolled  onward  with 
a (tuneful  sound  ; the  dew  glistened  on  the  green 
m<  i.nds,  like  tears  shed  by  Good  Spirits  over 
the  dead. — Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  53. 

WEATHER— Toby  Veck  in  stormy. 

Wet  weather  was  the  worst  ; the  cold,  damp, 
claunmy  wet,  that  wrapped  him  up  like  a moist 
great- coat — the  only  kind  of  great-coat  Toby 
owned,  or  could  have  added  to  his  comfort  by 
dispensing  with.  Wet  days,  when  the  rain  came 
slowly,  thnrkly,  obstinately  down  ; when  the 
street’s  throat,  like  his  own,  was  choked  with 
mist  ; when  smoking  umbrellas  passed  and  re- 
passed, spinning  round  and  round  like  so  many 
teetotums,  as  they  knocked  against  each  other 
on  the  crowded  /ootway,  throwing  off  a little 
whirlpool  of  uncomfortable  sprinklings  ; when 
gutters  brawled  and  water-spouts  were  full  and 
noisy  ; when  the  wet  from  the  projecting  stones 
and  ledges  of  the  church  fell  drip,  drip,  drin^n 
Toby,  making  the  wisp  of  straw  on  which  he 
stood  mere  mud  in  no  tune  ; those  were  the 
days  that  tried  him.  Then,  indeed,  you  might 
see  Toby  looking  anxi  _>usly  out  from  his  shelter 
in  an  angle  of  the  chi  ,ch  wall — such  a meagre 
shelter  that  in  summer-time  it  never  cast  a 
shadow  thicker  than  n good-shed  walking-stick 
upon  the  sunny  pavement — with  a disconsolate 
and  lengthened  face.  But  coming  out  a minute 
afterwards,  to  warm  himself  by  exercise,  and 
trotting  up  and  dc  ,\n  some  dozen  times,  he 
would  brighten  eve  l go  back  more 

brightly  to  his  niche. 

Cl  ristmas  Chimes , 1st  quarter. 

WEATHER-  ' snow-storm. 

It  was  still  ark  when  we  left  the  Peacock. 
For  a little  while,  pale,  uncertain  ghosts  of 


houses  and  trees  appeared  and  vanished,  and 
then  it  was  hard,  black,  frozen  day.  People 
were  lighting  their  fires ; smoke  was  mounting 
straight  up  high  into  the  rarefied  air ; and  we 
were  rattling  for  Highgate  Archway  over  the 
hardest  ground  I have  ever  heard  the  ring  of 
iron  shoes  on.  As  we  got  into  the  country, 
everything  seemed  to  have  grown  old  and  gray. 
The  roads,  the  trees,  thatched  roofs  of  cottages 
and  homesteads,  the  ricks  in  farmers’  yards. 
Out-door  work  was  abandoned,  horse-troughs 
at  roadside  inns  were  frozen  hard,  no  stragglers 
lounged  about,  doors  were  close  shut,  little  turn- 
pike houses  had  blazing  fires  inside,  and  chil- 
dren (even  turnpike  people  have  children,  and 
seem  to  like  them)  rubbed  the  frost  from  the 
little  panes  of  glass  with  their  chubby  arms,  that 
I their  bright  eyes  might  catch  a glimpse  of  the 
solitary  coach  going  by.  I don’t  know  when  the 
snow  began  to  set  in  ; but  I know  that  we  were 
changing  horses  somewhere  when  I heard  the 
guard  remark,  “ That  the  old  lady  up  in  the  sky 
was  picking  her  geese  pretty  hard  to-day.” 
Then,  indeed,  I found  the  white  down  falling 
fast  and  thick. 

The  lonely  day  wore  on,  and  I dozed  it  out, 
as  a lonely  traveller  does.  I was  warm  and 
valiant  after  eating  and  drinking — particularly 
after  dinner  ; cold  and  depressed  at  all  other 
times.  I was  always  bewildered  as  to  time 
and  place,  and  always  more  or  less  out  of  my 
senses.  The  coach  and  horses  seemed  to  exe- 
cute in  chorus  Auld  Lang  Syne,  without  a 
moment’s  intermission.  They  kept  the  time 
and  tune  with  the  greatest  regularity,  and  rose 
into  the  swell  at  the  beginning  of  the  Refrain, 
with  a precision  that  worried  me  to  death. 
While  we  changed  horses,  the  guard  and 
coachman  went  stumping  up  and  down  the  road, 
printing  off  their  shoes  in  the  snow,  and  poured 
so  much  liquid  consolation  into  themselves  with- 
out being  any  the  worse  for  it,  that  I began  to 
confound  them,  as  it  darkened  again,  with  two 
great  white  casks  standing  on  end.  Our  horses 
tumbled  down  in  solitary  places,  and  we  got 
them  up — which  was  the  pleasantest  variety  I 
had,  for  it  warmed  me.  And  it  snowed  and 
snowed,  and  still  it  snowed,  and  never  left  off 
snowing. 

* * * * 

When  we  came  in  sight  of  a town,  it  looked, 
to  my  fancy,  like  a large  drawing  on  a slate, 
with  abundance  of  slate-pencil  expended  on  the 
churches  and  houses  where  the  snow  lay  thick- 
est. When  we  came  within  a town,  and  found 
the  church-clocks  all  stopped,  the  dial-faces 
choked  with  snow,  and  the  Inn-signs  blotted 
out,  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  place  were  over- 
grown with  white  moss.  As  to  the  coach,  it 
was  a mere  snow-ball  ; similarly,  the  men  and 
boys  who  ran  along  beside  us  to  the  town’s  end, 
turning  our  clogged  wheels  and  encouraging 
our  horses,  were  men  and  boys  of  snow  ; and 
the  bleak,  wild  solitude  to  which  they  at  last 
dismissed  us  was  a snowy  Sahara.  One  would 
have  thought  this  enough  ; notwithstanding 
which,  I pledge  my  word  that  it  snowed  and 
snowed,  and  still  it  snowed,  and  never  left  off 
snowing. — The  Holly  Tree. 

WEATHER— Dismal. 

We  were  soon  equipped,  and  went  out.  It 
was  a sombre  day,  and  drops  of  chill  rain  fell 


WEATHER 


510 


WEDDING 


at  intervals.  It  was  one  of  those  colorless  days 
when  everything  looks  heavy  and  harsh.  The 
houses  frowned  at  us,  the  dust  rose  at  us,  the 
smoke  swooped  at  us,  nothing  made  any  com- 
promise about  itself,  or  wore  a softened  aspect. 
I fancied  my  beautiful  girl  quite  out  of  place  in 
the  rugged  streets  ; and  I thought  there  were 
more  funerals  passing  along  the  dismal  pave- 
ments, than  I had  ever  seen  before. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  51. 

WEATHER  -Suggestive  of  roast  pig-. 

•“Kate,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Nicldeby;  “I 
don’t  know  how  it  is,  but  a fine  warm  summer 
day  like  this,  with  the  birds  singing  in  every 
direction,  always  puts  me  in  mind  of  roast  pig, 
with  sage  and  onion  sauce,  and  made  gravy." 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  41. 

WEATHER-Rainy. 

It  was  a rainy  morning,  and  very  damp.  I 
had  seen  the  damp  lying  on  the  outside  of  my 
little  window,  as  if  some  goblin  had  been  crying 
there  all  night,  and  using  the  window  for  a 
pocket-handkerchief.  Now,  I saw  the  damp 
lying  on  the  bare  hedges  and  spare  grass,  like  a 
coarser  sort  of  spiders’  webs  ; hanging  itself 
from  twig  to  twig,  and  blade  to  blade.  On 
every  rail  and  gate,  wet  lay  clammy,  and  the 
marsh-mist  was  so  thick,  that  the  wooden  finger 
on  the  post  directing  people  to  our  village — a 
direction  which  they  never  accepted,  for  they 
never  came  there — was  invisible  to  me  until  I 
was  quite  close  under  it.  Then,  as  I looked  up 
at  it,  while  it  dripped,  it  seemed  to  my  oppressed 
conscience  like  a phantom  devoting  me  to  the 
Hulks. — Great  Expectations , Chap.  3. 

WEATHER— Foggy. 

The  fog  came  pouring  in  at  every  chink  and 
keyhole,  and  was  so  dense  without,  that  although 
the  court  was  of  the  narrowest,  the  houses  op- 
posite were  mere  phantoms.  To  see  the  dingy 
cloud  come  drooping  down,  obscuring  every- 
thing, one  might  have  thought  that  Nature 
lived  hard  by,  and  was  brewing  on  a large  scale. 

Christinas  Carol , Stave  1. 

WEATHER-Misty. 

There  was  a steaming  mist  in  all  the  hollows, 
and  it  had  roamed  in  its  forlornness  up  the  hill, 
like  an  evil  spirit,  seeking  rest  and  finding  none. 
A clammy  and  intensely  cold  mist,  it  made  its 
slow  way  through  the  air  in  ripples  that  visibly 
followed  and  overspread  one  another,  as  the 
waves  of  an  unwholesome  sea  might  do.  It 
was  dense  enough  to  shut  out  everything  from 
the  light  of  the  coach-lamps  but  these  its  own 
workings,  and  a few  yards  of  road  ; and  the 
reek  of  the  laboring  horses  steamed  into  it,  as 
if  th.ey  had  made  it  all. 

1'alc  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  1. 

WEATHER  Mournful. 

Fog  and  frost  so  hung  about  the  black  old 
gateway  of  the  house,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the 
Genius  of  the  Weather  sat  in  mournful  medita- 
tion on  the  threshold. — Christmas  Carol,  Stave  1. 

WEATHER  — And  muffins  — (Mr.  Tugby’s 
opinion). 

“What  sort  of  a night  is  it,  Anne?"  inquired 
the  former  porter  of  S»r  Joseph  Bowlcy,  stretch- 


ing out  his  legs  before  the  fire,  and  rubbing  an 
much  of  them  as  his  short  arms  could  reach  ; 
with  an  air  that  added,  “ Here  I am  if  it’s  bad, 
and  I don’t  want  to  go  out  if  it’s  good.” 

“ Blowing  and  sleeting  hard,  returned  his 
wife  ; “ and  threatening  snow.  Dark.  And  very 
cold.” 

“ I’m  glad  to  think  we  had  muffins,”  said  the 
former  porter,  in  a tone  of  one  who  had  set  his 
conscience  at  rest.  “ It’s  a sort  of  night  that’s 
meant  for  muffins.  Likewise  crumpets.  Also 
Sally  Lunns.” 

The  former  porter  mentioned  each  successive 
kind  of  eatable,  as  if  he  were  musingly  summing 
up  his  good  actions.  After  which,  he  rubbed 
his  fat  legs  as  before,  and  jerking  them  at  the 
knees  to  get  the  fire  upon  the  yet  unroasted 
parts,  laughed  as  if  somebody  had  tickled  him. 

“ You’re  in  spirits,  Tugby,  my  dear,”  observed 
his  wife. 

The  firm  was  Tugby,  late  Chickenstalker. 

“No,”  said  Tugby.  “No.  Not  particular. 
I’m  a little  elewated.  The  muffins  came  so 
pat  ! ” 

With  that  he  chuckled  until  he  was  black  in 
the  face  ; and  had  so  much  ado  to  become  any 
other  color,  that  his  fat  legs  took  the  strangest 
excursions  into  the  air.  Nor  were  they  reduced 
to  anything  like  decorum  until  Mrs.  Tugby  had 
thumped  him  violently  on  the  back,  and  shaken 
him  as  if  he  were  a great  bottle. 

“ Good  gracious,  goodness,  lord-a-mercy  bless 
and  save  the  man  !”  cried  Mrs.  Tugby,  in  great 
terror.  “ What’s  he  doing?” 

Mr.  Tugby  wiped'  his  eyes,  and  faintly  re- 
peated that  he  found  himself  a little  elewated. 

“ Then  don’t  be  so  again,  that’s  a dear  good 
soul,”  said  Mrs.  Tugby,  “if  you  don’t  want  to 
frighten  me  to  death,  with  your  struggling  and 
fighting ! ” 

Mr.  Tugby  said  he  wouldn’t ; but  his  whole/ 
existence  was  a fight,  in  which,  if  any  judgment 
might  be  founded  on  the  constantly  increasing 
shortness  of  his  breath  and  the  deepening/purpie 
of  his  face,  he  was  always  getting  the  worst  of  it. 

Chimes,  /\th  Quarter. 

WEDDING— The  regrets  of  a. 

A wedding  is  a licensed  subject  to  joke  upon, 
but  there  really  is  no  great  joke  in  the  matter 
after  all  ; — we  speak  merely  of  the  ceremony, 
and  beg  it  to  be  distinctly  understood  that  we 
indulge  in  no  hidden  sarcasm  upon  a married 
life.  Mixed  up  with  the  plea-sure  and  joy  of  the 
occasion,  are  the  many  regrets  at  quitting  home, 
the  tears  of  parting  between  parent  and  child, 
the  consciousness  of  leaving  the  dearest  and 
kindest  friends  of  the  happiest  portion  of  human 
life,  to  encounter  its  cares  and  troubles  with 
others  still  untried  and  little  known:  natural 
feelings  which  we  would  not  render  this  chapter 
mournful  by  describing,  and  which  we  should 
be  still  more  unwilling  to  be  supposed  to  ridi- 
cule.— Pickwick,  Chap.  28. 

WEDDING,  CHRISTENING,  AND  FU- 
NERAL—Pleasant  Riderhood’s  views 
of  a. 

Show  Pleasant  Riderhood  a Wedding  in  the 
street,  and  she  only  saw  two  people  taking  out 
a regular  license  to  quarrel  and  fight.  Show  her 
a Christening,  and  she  saw  a little  heathen  per- 
sonage having  a quite  superfluous  name  bestowed 


WELLER 


511 


WELLER 


upon  it,  inasmuch  as  it  would  be  commonly  ad- 
dressed by  some  abusive  epithet:  which  little 
personage  was  not  in  the  least  wanted  by  any- 
body, and  would  be  shoved  and  banged  out  of 
everybody’s  way,  until  it  should  grow  big  enough 
to  shove  and  bang.  Show  her  a Funeral,  and 
she  saw  an  unremunerative  ceremony  in  the 
nature  of  a black  masquerade,  conferring  a tem- 
porary gentility  on  the  performers,  at  an  immense 
expense,  and  representing  the  only  formal  party 
ever  given  by  the  deceased.  Show  her  a live 
father,  and  she  saw  but  a duplicate  of  her  own 
father,  who  from  her  infancy  had  been  taken 
with  fits  and  starts  of  discharging  his  duty  to 
her,  which  duty  was  always  incorporated  in  the 
form  of  a fist  or  a leathern  strap,  and  being  dis- 
charged,  hurt  her. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  //.,  Chap.  12. 

WELLER— Sam,  personal  appearance  of. 

It  was  in  the  yard  of  one  of  these  inns — of 
no  less  celebrated  a one  than  the  White  Hart — 
that  a man  was  busily  employed  in  brushing  the 
dirt  off  a pair  of  boots,  early  on  the  morning 
succeeding  the  events  narrated  in  the  last  chap- 
ter. He  was  habited  in  a coarse,  striped  waist- 
coat, with  black  calico  sleeves,  and  blue  glass 
buttons  ; drab  breeches  and  leggings.  A bright 
red  handkerchief  was  wound  in  a very  loose  and 
unstudied  style  round  his  neck,  and  an  old  white 
hat  was  carelessly  thrown  on  one  side  of  his 
head.  There  were  two  rows  of  boots  before 
him,  one  cleaned  and  the  other  dirty,  and  at 
every  addition  he  made  to  the  clean  row,  he 
paused  from  his  work,  and  contemplated  its 
results  with  evident  satisfaction. 

Pichzvich,  Chap.  io. 

WELLER— Sam,  as  “ Boots.” 

Mr.  Samuel  Weller  happened  to  be  at  that 
moment  engaged  in  burnishing  a pair  of  painted 
tops,  the  personal  property  of  a farmer  who  was 
refreshing  himself  with  a slight  lunch  of  two  or 
three  pounds  of  cold  beef  and  a pot  or  two  of 
porter,  after  the  fatigues  of  the  Borough  mar- 
ket ; and  to  him  the  thin  gentleman  straightway 
advanced. 

“ My  friend,”  said  the  thin  gentleman. 

‘‘You’re  one  o’  the  adwice  gratis  order,” 
thought  Sam,  “or  you  wouldn’t  be  so  werry 
fond  o’  me  all  at  once.”  But  he  only  said — 
“ Well,  sir.” 

“ My  friend,”  said  the  thin  gentleman,  with  a 
conciliatory  hem — “ Have  you  got  many  peo- 
ple stopping  here,  now?  Pretty  busy?  Eh?” 

Sam  stole  a look  at  the  inquirer.  He  was  a 
little,  high-dried  man,  with  a dark,  squeezed-up 
face,  and  small,  restless,  black  eyes,  that  kept 
winking  and  twinkling  on  each  side  of  his  lit- 
tle, inquisitive  nose,  as  if  they  were  playing  a 
perpetual  game  of  peep-bo  with  that  feature. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  black,  with  boots  as  shiny 
as  his  eyes,  a low  white  neckcloth,  and  a clean 
shirt  with  a frill  to  it.  A gold  watch-chain, 
and  seals,  depended  from  his  fob.  lie  carried 
his  black  kid  gloves  in  his  hands,  not  on  them  ; 
and  as  he  spoke,  thrust  his  wrists  beneath  his 
coat-tails,  with  the  air  of  a man  who  was  in 
the  habit  of  propounding  some  regular  posers. 

“ Pretty  busy,  eh?”  said  the  little  man. 

“ Oh,  werry  well,  sir,”  replied  Sam,  “ we 
shan’t  be  bankrupts,  and  we  shan’t  make  our 
fort’ns.  We  eats  our  boiled  mutton  without 


capers,  and  don’t  care  for  horse-radish  wen  ve 
can  get  beef.” 

“ Ah,”  said  the  little  man,  “ you’re  a wag, 
ain’t  you  ? ” 

“ My  eldest  brother  was  troubled  with  that 
complaint,”  said  Sam  ; “ it  may  be  catching — I 
used  to  sleep  with  him.” 

“ This  is  a curious  old  house  of  yours,”  said 
the  little  man,  looking  round  him. 

“ If  you’d  sent  word  you  was  a coming,  we’d 
ha’  had  it  repaired,  ” replied  the  imperturbable 
Sam. 

* * # * * 

“ We  want  to  know,”  said  the  little  man,  sol- 
emnly ; “ and  we  ask  the  question  of  you,  in 
order  that  we  may  not  awaken  apprehensions 
inside — we  want  to  know  who  you’ve  got  in  this 
house,  at  present  ? ” 

“ Who  there  is  in  the  house  !”  said  Sam,  in 
whose  mind  the  inmates  were  always  represent- 
ed by  that  particular  article  of  their  costume 
which  came  under  his  immediate  superintend- 
ence. “ There’s  a wooden  leg  in  number  six  ; 
there’s  a pair  of  Hessians  in  thirteen;  there’s 
two  pair  of  halves  in  the  commercial  ; there’s 
these  here  painted  tops  in  the  snuggery  inside 
the  bar ; and  five  more  tops  in  the  coffee- 
room.” 

“ Nothing  more  ?”  said  the  little  man. 

“ Stop  a bit,”  replied  Sam,  suddenly  recol- 
lecting himself.  “ Yes  ; there’s  a pair  of  Wel- 
lington’s a good  deal  worn,  and  a pair  o’  lady’s 
shoes,  in  number  five.” 

* * * ' * * 

A loud  ringing  of  one  of  the  bells  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  appearance  of  a smart  chamber- 
maid in  the  upper  sleeping  gallery,  who,  after 
tapping  at  one  of  the  doors,  and  receiving  a 
request  from  within,  called  over  the  balus- 
trades— 

“ Sam  ! ” 

“ Hallo,”  replied  the  man  with  the  white  hat. 

“ Number  twenty-two  wants  his  boots.” 

“ Ask  number  twenty-two  whether  he’ll  have 
’em  now,  or  wait  till  he  gets  ’em,”  was  the  re- 
ply. 

“ Come,  don’t  be  a fool,  Sam,”  said  the  girl, 
coaxingly,  “ the  gentleman  wants  his  boots  di- 
rectly.” 

“ Well,  you  are  a nice  young  ’ooman  for  a 
musical  party,  you  are,”  said  the  boot-cleaner. 
“ Look  at  these  here  boots  — eleven  pair  o’ 
boots  ; and  one  shoe  as  b’longs  to  number  six, 
with  the  wooden  leg.  The  eleven  boots  is  to  be 
called  at  half-past  eight,  and  the  shoe  at  nine. 
Who’s  number  twenty-two,  that’s  to  put  all  the 
others  out?  No,  no  ; reg’lar  rotation,  as  Jack 
Ketch  said,  when  he  tied  the  men  up.  Sorry 
to  keep  you  a waitin’,  sir,  but  I’ll  attend  to  you 
directly.” 

Saying  which,  the  man  in  the  white  hat  set  to 
work  upon  a top-boot  with  increased  assiduity. 

There  was  another  loud  ring  ; and  the  bus- 
tling old  landlady  of  the  White  Hart  made  her 
appearance  in  the  opposite  gallery. 

“ Sam,”  cried  the  landlady  ; “ where  is  that 
lazy,  idle — why,  Sam — oh,  there  you  are  ; why 
don’t  you  answer  ? ” 

“ Wouldn’t  be  gen-teel  to  answer,  till  you’d 
done  talking,”  replied  Sam,  gruffly. 

“ Here,  clean  them  shoes  for  number  seven- 
teen directly,  and  take  ’em  to  private  sitting- 
room  number  five,  first  floor.” 


WELLER 


612 


WELLER 


The  landlady  flung  a pair  of  lady’s  shoes  into 
the  yard,  and  bustled  away. 

“ Number  five,”  said  Sam,  as  he  picked  up 
the  shoes,  and  taking  a piece  of  chalk  from  his 
pocket,  made  a memorandum  of  their  destina- 
tion on  the  soles — “ Lady’s  shoes  and  private 
sittin’-room  ! I suppose  she  didn’t  come  in  the 
wagin.” 

“ She  came  in  early  this  morning,”  cried  the 
girl,  who  was  still  leaning  over  the  railing  of  the 
gallery,  “with  a gentleman  in  a hackney-coach, 
and  it’s  him  as  wants  his  boots,  and  you’d  bet- 
ter do  ’em,  that’s  all  about  it.” 

“ Vy  didn’t  you  say  so  before,”  said  Sam,  with 
great  indignation,  singling  out  the  boots  in 
question  from  the  heap  before  him.  “ For  all  I 
know’d  he  vas  one  of  the  regular  three- 
pennies.  Private  room  ! and  a lady  too  ! If 
he’s  anything  of  a gen’l’m’n,  he’s  vorth  a shil- 
lin’ a day,  let  alone  the  arrands.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  io. 

WELLER— Sam,  engaged  by  Pickwick. 

A sunbeam  of  placid  benevolence  played  on 
Mr.  Pickwick’s  features  as  he  said,  “ I have  half 
made  up  my  mind  to  engage  you  myself.” 

“ Have  you,  though  ? ” said  Sam.  “ Take  the 
bill  down.  I’m  let  to  a single  gentleman,  and 
the  terms  is  agreed  upon.” 

“You  accept  the  situation?”  inquired  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“ Cert’nly,”  replied  Sam.  “ If  the  clothes  fits 
me  half  as  well  as  the  place,  they’ll  do.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  12. 

WELLER— Sam,  recognizes  “the  old  ’un.” 

The  room  was  one  of  a very  homely  descrip- 
tion, and  was  apparently  under  the  especial  pa- 
tronage of  stage  coachmen  ; for  several  gentle- 
men, who  had  all  the  appearance  of  belonging 
to  that  learned  profession,  were  drinking  and 
smoking  in  the  different  boxes.  Among  the 
number  was  one  stout,  red-faced,  elderly  man 
in  particular,  seated  in  an  opposite  box,  who  at- 
tracted Mr.  Pickwick’s  attention.  The  stout 
man  was  smoking  with  great  vehemence,  but 
between  every  half-dozen  puffs,  he  took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  looked  first  at  Mr.  Weller 
and  then  at  Mr.  Pickwick.  Then,  he  would 
bury  in  a quart  pot  as  much  of  his  countenance 
as  the  dimensions  of  the  quart  pot  admitted  of 
its  receiving,  and  take  another  look  at  Sam  and 
Mr.  Pickwick.  Then  he  would  take  another 
half-dozen  puffs  with  an  air  of  profound  medi- 
tation and  look  at  them  again.  At  last  the 
stout  man,  putting  up  his  legs  on  the  seat,  and 
leaning  his  back  against  the  wall,  began  to  puff 
at  his  pipe  without  leaving  off  at  all,  and  to 
stare  through  the  smoke  at  the  new  comers,  as 
if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  see  the  most  he 
could  of  them. 

At  first  the  evolutions  of  the  stout  man  had 
escaped  Mr.  Weller’s  observation,  but  by  degrees, 
as  he  saw  Mr.  Pickwick’s  eyes  every  now  and 
then  turning  towards  him,  he  began  to  gaze  in 
the  same  direction,  at  the  same  time  shading 
his  eyes  with  his  hand,  as  if  he  partially  recog- 
nized the  object  before  him,  and  wished  to  make 
quite  sure  of  its  identity.  His  doubts  were 
speedily  dispelled,  however:  for  the  stout  man, 
having  blown  a thick  cloud  from  his  pipe,  a 
hoarse  voice,  like  some  strange  effort  of  ven- 
triloquism, emerged  from  beneath  the  capa- 


cious shawls  which  muffled  his  throat  and 
chest,  and  slowly  uttered  these  sounds, — “ Wy, 
Sammy  ! ” 

“Who’s  that,  Sam?”  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Why,  I wouldn’t  ha’  believed  it,  sir,”  replied 
Mr.  Weller  with  astonished  eyes.  “ It's  the  old 
’un.” 

“Old  one,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  “What  old 

one  ? ” 

“ My  father,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller.  “ IIow 
are  you,  my  ancient?”  With  which  beautiful 
ebullition  of  filial  affection,  Mr.  Weller  made 
room  on  the  seat  beside  him  for  the  stout  man, 
who  advanced,  pipe  in  mouth  and  pot  in  hand, 
to  greet  him. — Pickwick , Chap.  20. 

WELLER— And  the  new  birth  of  Mrs.  W. 

“ How’s  mother-in-law  this  mornin’?” 

“Queer,  Sammy,  queer,”  replied  the  elder 
Mr.  Weller,  with  impressive  gravity.  “She’s 
been  gettin’  rayther  in  the  Methodistical  order 
lately,  Sammy  ; and  she  is  uncommon  pious, 
to  be  sure.  She’s  too  good  a creetur  for  me, 
Sammy.  I feel  I don’t  deserve  her.” 

“ Ah,”  said  Mr.  Samuel,  “ that’s  wery  self-de- 
nyin’  o’  you.” 

“ Wery,”  replied  his  parent,  with  a sigh. 
“ She’s  got  hold  o’  some  inwention  for  grown-up 
people  being  born  again,  Sammy  ; the  new  birth, 
I thinks  they  calls  it.  I should  weiy  much  like 
to  see  that  system  in  haction,  Sammy.  I should 
wery  much  like  to  see  your  mother-in-law  born 
again.  Wouldn’t  I put  her  out  to  nurse  !” 

Pickwick , Chap.  22. 

WELLER— Sam,  bis  observations. 

“ I never  could  a-bear  that  Job,”  said  Mary. 

“ No  more  you  never  ought  to,  my  dear,’’  re- 
plied Mr.  Weller. 

“ Why  not  ? ” inquired  Mary. 

“Cos  ugliness  and  svindlin’  never  ought  to 
be  formiliar  vith  elegance  and  wirtew,”  replied 
Mr.  Weller.  “ Ought  they,  Mr.  Muzzle  ? ” 

“ Not  by  no  means,”  replied  that  gentleman. 

Here  Mary  laughed,  and  said  the  cook  had 
made  her,  and  the  cook  laughed,  and  said  she 
hadn’t. 

“I  han’t  got  a glass,”  said  Mary. 

“ Drink  with  me,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Weller. 
“ Put  your  lips  to  this  here  tumbler,  and  then 
I can  kiss  you  by  deputy  ? ” 

“ For  shame,  Mr.  Weller!”  said  Mary. 

“ Wot’s  a shame,  my  dear  ? ” 

“ Talkin’  in  that  way.” 

“ Nonsense  ; it  ain’t  no  harm.  It’s  natur  ; 
ain’t  it,  cook?” 

$ * & * * 

Mr.  Trotter  suffered  himself  to  be  forced  into 
a chair  by  the  fireside.  Pie  cast  his  small  eyes, 
first  on  Mr.  Weller,  and  then  on  Mr.  Muzzle,  but 
said  nothing. 

“Well,  now,”  said  Sam,  “afore  these  here 
ladies,  1 should  jest  like  to  ask  you,  as  a sort  of 
curiosity,  wether  you  don’t  con-sider  yourself 
as  nice  and  well-behaved  a young  gen’l’m’n  as 
ever  used  a pink  check  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  the  number  four  collection  ? ” 

Pickwick,  Chap.  25. 

WELLER  Sam,  as  a dutiful  son. 

“ I am  very  glad  to  see  that  you  have  so  high 
a sense  of  your  duties  as  a son,  Sam,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick. 


WELLER 


513 


WELLER 


“ I always  had,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 

“ That’s  a very  gratifying  reflection,  Sam,”  said 
Mr.  Pickwick  approvingly. 

“ Wery,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller  ; “if  ever  I 
wanted  anythin’  o’  my  father,  I always  asked 
for  it  in  a wery  ’spectful  and  obligin’  manner. 
If  he  didn’t  give  it  me,  I took  it,  for  fear  I 
should  be  led  to  do  anythin’  wrong,  through  not 
havin’  it.  I saved  him  a world  o’  trouble  in  this 
vay,  sir.” 

“ That’s  not  precisely  what  I meant,  Sam,” 
said  Mr.  Pickwick,  shaking  his  head,  with  a 
slight  smile. 

“ All  good  feelin’,  sir — the  wery  best  inten- 
tions, as  the  genTm’n  said  ven  he  run  away 
from  his  wife  ’cos  she  seemed  unhappy  with 
him,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. — Pickwick , Chap.  27. 

WELLER— Sam,  on  the  marriage  of  his 
father. 

“ Two  coves  in  vhite  aprons  touches  their  hats 
wen  you  walk  in — ‘ License,  sir,  license  ? ’ 
Queer  sort,  them,  and  their  mas’rs  too,  sir — Old 
Bailey  Proctors — and  no  mistake.” 

“ What  do  they  do  ?”  inquired  the  gentleman. 

“ Do  ! You,  sir ! That  ain’t  the  wost  on 
it,  neither.  They  puts  things  into  old  gen’l’ni’n’s 
heads  as  they  never  dreamed  of.  My  father, 
sir,  wos  a coachman.  A widower  he  wos,  and 
fat  enough  for  anything — uncommon  fat,  to  be 
sure.  His  missus  dies,  and  leaves  him  four 
hundred  pound.  Down  he  goes  to  the  Com- 
mons, to  see  the  lawyer  and  draw  the  blunt — 
wery  smart — top  boots  on — nosegay  in  his  but- 
ton-hole— broad-brimmed  tile — green  shawl — 
quite  the  gen’lm’n.  Goes  through  the  archvay, 
thinking  how  he  should  inwest  the  money — up 
comes  the  touter,  touches  his  hat — ‘ License, 
sir,  license  ? ’ — ‘ What’s  that  ? ’ says  my  father. 
‘ License,  sir,’  says  he. — ‘What  license?’  says 
my  father. — ‘ Marriage  license,’  says  the  touter. — 
1 Dash  my  veskit,’  says  my  father,  * I never 
thought  o’  that.’ — * I think  you  wants  one,  sir,’ 
says  the  touter.  My  father  pulls  up,  and  thinks 
a bit — ‘ No,’  says  he.  ‘ damme,  I’m  too  old, 
b’sides  I’m  a many  sizes  too  large,’  says  he. — 
‘ Not  a bit  on  it,  sir,’  says  the  touter. — ‘ Think 
not  ? ’ says  my  father. — ‘ I’m  sure  not,’  says  he  ; 
‘ we  married  a genTm’n  twice  your  size,  last 
Monday.’ — ‘ Did  you,  though  ? ’ said  my  father. 
— ‘ To  be  sure  we  did,’  says  the  touter,  ‘you’re 
a babby  to  him — this  way,  sir — this  way  ! ’ — and 
sure  enough  my  father  walks  arter  him,  like  a 
tame  monkey  behind  a horgan,  into  a little 
back  office,  vere  a feller  sat  among  dirty  papers 
and  tin  boxes,  making  believe  he  was  busy. 
‘ Pray  take  a seat,  vile  I makes  out  the  affidavit, 
sir,’  says  the  lawyer. — ‘ Thankee,  sir,’  says  my  fa- 
ther, and  down  he  sat,  and  stared  with  all  his 
eyes,  and  his  mouth  vide  open,  at  the  names  on 
the  boxes.  ‘ What’s  your  name,  sir?’  says  the 
lawyer. — ‘ Tony  Weller,’  says  my  father. — ‘ Par- 
ish ? ’ says  the  lawyer. — ‘ Belle  Savage,’  says  my 
father  ; for  he  stopped  there  wen  he  drove  up, 
and  he  know’d  nothing  about  parishes,  he  didn’t. 
— ‘ And  what’s  the  lady’s  name?’  says  the  law- 
yer. My  father  was  struck  all  of  a heap. 
‘Blessed  if  I know,’  says  he. — ‘Not  know!’ 
says  the  lawyer. — ‘ No  more  nor  you  do,’  says 
my  father  : ‘ can’t  I put  that  in  afterwards?’ — 
‘Impossible!’  says  the  lawyer. — ' 1 Wei y well," 
says  my  father,  after  he'd  thought  a moment, 
* put  down  Mrs.  Clarke.’ — ‘ What  Clarke  ? ’ says 


the  lawyer,  dippin  his  pen  in  the  ink. — ‘ Susan 
Clarke,  Markis  o’  Granby,  Dorking,’  says  my 
father ; ‘ she’ll  have  me,  if  I ask,  I des-say — I 
never  said  nothing  to  her,  but  she’ll  have  me,  I 
know.’  The  license  was  made  out,  and  she  did 
have  him,  and  what’s  more  she’s  got  him  now  ; 
and  / never  had  any  of  the  four  hundred  pound, 
worse  luck.  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  Sam, 
when  he  had  concluded,  “ but  wen  I gets  on 
this  here  grievance,  I runs  on  like  a new  bar- 
row  vith  the  wheel  greased.”  Having  said 
which,  and  having  paused  for  an  instant  to  see 
whether  he  was  wanted  for  anything  more,  Sam 
left  the  room. — Pickwick , Chap.  10. 

WELLER— Sam,  and  Job  Trotter. 

Early  on  the  ensuing  morning,  Mr.  Weller 
was  dispelling  all  the  feverish  remains  of  the 
previous  evening’s  conviviality,  through  the  in- 
strumentality of  a halfpenny  shower-bath  (hav- 
ing induced  a young  gentleman  attached  to  the 
stable  department,  by  the  offer  of  that  coin,  to 
pump  over  his  head  and  face,  until  he  was  per- 
fectly restored),  when  he  was  attracted  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a young  fellow  in  mulberry-colored 
livery,  who  was  sitting  on  a bench  in  the  yard, 
reading  what  appeared  to  be  a hymn-book,  with 
an  air  of  deep  abstraction,  but  who  occasionally 
stole  a glance  at  the  individual  under  the  pump, 
as  if  he  took  some  interest  in  his  proceedings, 
nevertheless. 

“You’re  a rum  ’un  to  look  at,  you  are!” 
thought  Mr.  Weller,  the  first  time  his  eyes  en- 
countered the  glance  of  the  stranger  in  the  mul- 
berry suit : who  had  a large,  sallow,  ugly  face, 
very  sunken  eyes,  and  a gigantic  head,  from 
which  depended  a quantity  of  lank  black  hair. 
“ You’re  a rum  ’un  ! ” thought  Mr.  Weller  ; and 
thinking  this,  he  went  on  washing  himself,  and 
thought  no  more  about  him. 

Still  the  man  kept  glancing  from  bis  hymn- 
book  to  Sam,  and  from  Sam  to  his  hymn-book, 
as  if  he  wanted  to  open  a conversation.  So  at 
last,  Sam,  by  way  of  giving  him  an.  opportunity, 
said  with  a familiar  nod— 

“ How  are  you,  governor?  ” 

“ I am  happy  to  say,  I am  pretty  well,  sir,” 
said  the  man,  speaking  with  great  deliberation, 
and  closing  the  book.  “ I hope  you  are  the 
same,  sir?  ” 

“ Why,  if  I felt  less  like  a walking  brandy- 
bottle,  I shouldn’t  be  quite  so.  staggery  this 
mornin’,”  replied  Sam.  •“  Ape'  you  stoppin’  in 
this  house,  old  ’un  ? ” 

The  mulberry  man  replied  hi  the  affirmative. 
• “ How  was  it  you  worn  a one  of  us,  last 

night  ? ” inquired  Sam,  scrubbing  his  face  with 
the  towel.  “You  seem  one  of  the  jolly  sort 
— looks  as  conwivial  as  a live  trout  in  a 
lime  basket,”  added  Mr.  Weller,  in  an  under 
tone. 

* * * # 

“Give  us  your  hand,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  ad- 
vancing; “I  should  like  to  know  you.  I like 
your  appearance,  old  fellow.” 

“ Well,  that  is  very  strange,”  said  the  mul- 
berry man,  with  great  simplicity  of  manner.  “ I 
like  yours  so  much,  that  I wanted  to  speak  to 
you,  from  the  very  first  moment  I saw  you  under 
the  pump.” 

‘ Did  you  though!  ” 

“ Upon  my  word.  Now,  isn’t  that  curious?  ” 

“Wery  sing’ler,”  said  Sam,  inwardly  con- 


WELLER 


614 


WELLER 


gratulating  himself  upon  the  softness  of  the 
stranger.  “ What’s  your  name,  my  patriarch?  ” 

“ Job.” 

“And  a wery  good  name  it  is — only  one  I 
know  that  ain’t  got  a nickname  to  it.  What’s 
the  other  name  ? ” 

“Trotter,”  said  the  stranger.  “What  is 
yours  ! ” 

Sam  bore  in  mind  his  master’s  caution,  and 
replied — 

“My  name’s  Walker;  my  master’s  name’s 
Wilkins.  Will  you  take  a drop  o'  somethin’ 
this  mornin’,  Mr.  Trotter?” — Pickwick , Chap.  16. 

WELLER— Sam,  and  Job  Trotter  (Tears). 

“ You  must  ha’  been  wery  nicely  brought 
up,”  said  Sam. 

“Oh,  very,  Mr.  Weller,  very,”  replied  Job. 
At  the  recollection  of  the  purity  of  his  youthful 
days,  Mr.  Trotter  pulled  forth  the  pink  hand- 
kerchief, and  wept  copiously. 

“ You  must  ha’  been  an  uncommon  nice  boy 
to  go  to  school  vith,”  said  Sam. 

“ I was,  sir,”  replied  Job,  heaving  a deep 
sigh.  “ I was  the  idol  of  the  place.” 

“ Ah,”  said  Sam,  “I  don’t  wonder  at  it. 
What  a comfort  you  must  ha’  been  to  your 
blessed  mother.” 

At  these  words,  Mr.  Job  Trotter  inserted  an 
end  of  the  pink  handkerchief  into  the  corner  of 
each  eye,  one  after  the  other,  and  began  to  weep 
copiously. 

“ Wot’s  the  matter  vith  the  man  ? ” said  Sam, 
indignantly.  “Chelsea  water-works  is  nothin’ 
to  you.  What  are  you  melting  vith  now  ? The 
consciousness  o’  willainy  ? ” — Pickwick , Chap.  23. 

WELLER— Sam,  as  a philosopher. 

“ Delightful  prospect,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ Beats  the  chimley-pots,  sir,”  replied  Mr. 
Weller,  touching  his  hat. 

“ I suppose  you  have  hardly  seen  anything 
but  chimney-pots  and  bricks  and  mortar  all  your 
life,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  smiling. 

“ I worn’t  always  a boots,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Wel- 
ler, with  a shake  of  the  head.  “ I wos  a wag- 
giner’s  boy,  once.” 

“ When  was  that  ? ” inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

44  When  I wos  first  pitched  neck  and  crop 
into  the  world,  to  play  at  leap-frog  with  its 
troubles,”  replied  Sam.  “ I wos  a carrier’s  boy 
at  startin’ ; then  a wagginer’s,  then  a helper, 
then  a boots.  Now  I’m  a gen’l’m’n’s  servant. 
I shall  be  a gen’l’m’n  myself  one  of  these  days, 
perhaps,  with  a pipe  in  my  month,  and  a sum- 
mer-house in  the  back-garden.  Who  knows  ? I 
shouldn’t  be  surprised,  for  one.” 

“You  arc  quite  a philosopher,  Sam,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“ It  runs  in  the  family.  I b’lieve,  sir,”  replied 
Mr.  Weller.  “My  father’s  wery  much  in  that 
line,  now.  If  my  mother-in-law  blows  him  up, 
he  whistles.  She  flies  in  a passion,  and  breaks 
his  pipe  ; lie  steps  out,  and  gels  another.  Then 
she  screams  wery  loud,  and  falls  into  ’sterics  ; 
and  he  smokes  wery  comfortably  till  she  comes 
to  agin.  That’s  philosophy,  sir,  ain’t  it?” 

“ A very  good  substitute  for  it,' at  all  events,” 
replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  laughing.  “ It  must  have 
been  of  great  service  to  you,  in  the  course  of 
your  rambling  life,  Sam.” 

“Service,  sir,"  exclaimed  Sam.  “You  may 
say  that.  Alter  1 run  away  from  the  carrier, 


and  afore  I took  up  with  the  wngginer,  I had 
unfurnished  lodgin’s  for  a fortnight.” 

“Unfurnished  lodgings?”  said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. 

“ Yes — the  dry  arches  of  Waterloo  Bridge. 
Fine  sleeping-place — within  ten  minutes’  walk 
of  all  the  public  offices — only  if  there  is  any  ob- 
jection to  it,  it  is  that  the  sitivation’s  rayther 
too  airy.  I see  some  queer  sights  there.” 

“ Ah,  I suppose  you  did,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
with  an  air  of  considerable  interest. 

“Sights,  sir,”  resumed  Mr.  Weller,  “as  ’ud 
penetrate  your  benevolent  heart,  and  come  out 
on  the  other  side.  You  don't  see  the  reg’lar 
wagrants  there  ; trust  ’em,  they  knows  better 
than  that.  Young  beggars,  male  and  female,  as 
hasn’t  made  a rise  in  their  profession,  takes  up 
their  quarters  there  sometimes  ; but  it’s  gener- 
ally the  worn-out,  starving,  houseless  creatures 
as  rolls  themselves  in  the  dark  corners  o’  them 
lonesome  places — poor  creelurs  as  ain’t  up  to 
the  twopenny  rope.” — Pickwick , Chap.  16. 

WELLER  Sam’s  opinion  of  “ weal  pie.” 

“ Weal  pie,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  soliloquising,  as 
he  arranged  the  eatables  on  the  grass.  “Wery 
good  thing  is  weal  pie,  when  you  know  the  lady 
as  made  it,  and  is  quite  sure  it  ain’t  kittens  ; and 
al  ter  all  though,  where’s  the  odds,  when  they’re’ 
so  like  weal  that  the  wery  piemen  themselves 
don’t  know  the  difference?” 

“Don’t  they,  Sam?”  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

“Not  they,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  touching 
his  hat.  “ I lodged  in  the  same  house  vith  a 
pieman  once,  sir,  and  a wery  nice  man  he  was 
— reg’lar  clever  chap,  too — make  pies  out  o’  any- 
thing, he  could.  ‘ What  a number  o’  cats  you 
keep,  Mr.  Brooks,’ says  I,  when  I’d  got  intimate 
with  him.  4 Ah,’  says  he,  4 1 do— a good  many,’ 
says  he.  4 You  must  be  wery  fond  o’  cats,’  says 
I.  4 Other  people  is,’  says  he,  a winkin’  at  me  ; 

4 they  ain’t  in  season  till  the  winter  though,’  says 
he.  4 Not  in  season!’  says  I.  ‘No,’  says  he, 
‘fruits  is  in,  cats  is  out.’  4 Why,  what  do  you 
mean?’ says  I.  ‘Mean?’  says  he.  4 That  I’ll 
never  be  a party  to  the  combination  o’  the 
butchers,  to  keep  up  the  prices  o’  meat,’  says  he. 

4 Mr.  Weller,’  says  he,  a squeezing  my  hand  wery 
hard,  and  vispering  in  my  ear — 4 don’t  mention 
this  here  agin — but  it’s  the  seasonin’  as  does  it. 
They’re  all  made  o’  them  noble  animals,’  says 
he,  a pointin’  to  a wery  nice  little  tabby  kitten, 

‘ and  I seasons  ’em  for  beefsteak,  weal,  or  kid-  i 
ney,  ’cordin’  to  the  demand.  And  more  than 
that,’  says  he,  4 1 can  make  a weal  a beefsteak, 
or  a beefsteak  a kidney,  or  any  one  on  ’em  a 
mutton,  at  a minute’s  notice,  just  as  the  market 
changes,  and  appetites  wary  ! ’ ” 

“ He  must  have  been  a very  ingenious  young 
man  that,  Sam,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  a 
slight  shudder. 

44  Just  was,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  continu- 
ing his  occupation  of  emptying  the  basket, 

44  and  the  pies  was  beautiful.  Tongue  ; well, 
that’s  a wery  good  thing  when  it  an’t  a woman’s. 
Bread — knuckle  o’  ham,  reg’lar  picter— cold 
beef  in  slices,  wery  good.  What's  in  them 
stone  jars,  young  touch-and-go  ? ” 

Pickwick , Chap.  19. 

WELLER— Sam,  and  the  Sawbones. 

44  Wery  good,  sir,”  replied  Sam.  Ihere’s  a 
couple  o’  Sawbones  down-stairs.” 


WELLER 


515 


WELLER 


“A  couple  of  what?”  exclaimed  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, sitting  up  in  bed. 

“ A couple  o’  Sawbones,”  said  Sam. 

“What's  a Sawbones?”  inquired  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, not  quite  certain  whether  it  was  a live 
animal,  or  something  to  eat. 

“ What ! Don’t  you  know  what  a Sawbones 
is,  sir?”  inquired  Mr.  Weller.  “I  thought 
everybody  know’d  as  a Sawbones  was  a Sur- 
geon.” 

* * * * * 

“ They’re  a smokin’  cigars  by  the  kitchen 
fire,”  said  Sam. 

“ Ah  ! ” observed  Mr.  Pickwick,  rubbing  his 
hands,  “ overflowing  with  kindly  feelings  and 
animal  spirits.  Just  what  I like  to  see.” 

“ And  one  on  ’em,”  said  Sam,  not  noticing  his 
master’s  interruption,  “one  on  ’era’s  got  his  legs 
on  the  table,  and  is  a drinkin’  brandy  neat,  vile 
the  t’other  one — him  in  the  barnacles — has  got  a 
barrel  o’  oysters  atween  his  knees,  wich  lie’s  a 
openin’  like  steam,  and  as  fast  as  he  eats  ’em,  he 
takes  a aim  vith  the  shells  at  young  dropsy, 
who’s  a sit-tin’  down  fast  asleep,  in  the  chimbley 
corner.” 

“ Eccentricities  of  genius,  Sam,  ’’said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. “You  may  retire.” — Pickwick , Chap.  30. 

WELLER— Sam,  on  social  proprieties. 

“ Now,  young  man,  what  do  you  want?  ” 

“ Is  there  anybody  here  named  Sam  ? ” in- 
quired the  youth,  in  a loud  voice  of  treble 
quality. 

“ What’s  the  t’other  name  ? ” said  Sam  Weller, 
looking  round. 

“ How  should  I know  ? ” briskly  replied  the 
young  gentleman  below  the  hairy  cap. 

“ You’re  a sharp  boy,  you  are,”  said  Mr.  Wel- 
ler ; “ only  I wouldn’t  show  that  wery  fine  edge 
too  much,  if  I was  you,  in  case  anybody  took  it 
off.  What  do  you  mean  by  cornin’  to  a hot-el, 
and  asking  arter  Sam,  vith  as  much  politeness 
as  a vild  Indian  ? ” 

“ ’Cos  an  old  gen’l’m’n  told  me  to,”  replied 
the  boy. 

“ Wot  old  genTm’n  ? ” inquired  Sam,  with 
deep  disdain. 

“ Him  as  drives  a Ipswich  coach,  and  uses 
our  parlor,”  rejoined  the  boy.  “ He  told  me 
yesterday  mornin’  to  come  to  the  George  and 
Wultur  this  arternoon,  and  ask  for  Sam.” 

“ It’s  my  father,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Weller, 
turning  with  an  explanatory  air  to  the  young 
lady  in  the  bar  ; “blessed  if  I think  he  hardly 
knows  wot  my  other  name  is.  Veil,  young 
brockiley  sprout,  wot  then  ? ” 

Pickwick , Chap.  33. 

WELLER— Sam,  among  the  fashionable 
footmen. 

“ Tell  the  old  genTm’n  not  to  put  himself  in 
a perspiration.  No  hurry,  six-foot.  I’ve  had 
my  dinner.” 

“ You  dine  early,  sir,”  said  the  powclered- 
headed  footman. 

“ I find  I gets  on  better  at  supper  when  I 
does,”  replied  Sam. 

“ Have  you  been  long  in  Bath,  sir?  ” inquired 
the  powdered-headed  footman.  “ I have  not 
had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  of  you  before.” 

“ I haven’t  created  any  wery  surprisin’  sensa- 
tion here,  as  yet,”  rejoined  Sam,  “ for  me  and 
the  other  fash’nables  only  come  last  night.” 


“ Nice  place,  sir,”  said  the  powder#d-headed 
footman. 

“ Seems  so,”  observed  Sam. 

“ Pleasant  society,  sir,”  remarked  the  pow- 
dered-headed footman.  “ Very  agreeable  ser- 
vants, sir.” 

“ I should  think  they  wos,”  replied  Sam. 
“ Affable,  unaffected,  say-nothin’-to-nobody  sort 
o’  fellers.” 

“ Oh,  very  much  so,  indeed,  sir,”  said  the 
powdered-headed  footman,  taking  Sam’s  remark 
as  a high  compliment.  “ Very  much  so,  indeed. 
Do  you  do  anything  in  this  way,  sir,”  inquired 
the  tall  footman,  producing  a small  snuff-box 
with  a fox’s  head  on  the  lop  of  it. 

“ Not  without  sneezing,”  replied  Sam. 

“ Why,  it  is  difficult,  sir,  I confess,”  said  the 
tall  footman.  “ It  may  be  done  by  degrees,  sir. 
Coffee  is  the  best  practice.  I carried  coffee,  sir, 
for  a long  time.  It  looks  very  like  rappee,  sir.” 

Here,  a sharp  peal  at  the  bell  reduced  the 
powdered-headed  footman  to  the  ignominious 
necessity  of  putting  the  fox’s  head  in  his  pocket, 
and  hastening  with  a humble  countenance  to 
Mr.  Bantam’s  “ study.”  By-the-bye,  who  ever 
knew  a man  who  never  read  or  wrote  either, 
who  hadn’t  got  some  small  back  parlor 
which  he  would  call  a study  ! 

Pickwick,  Chap.  35. 

WELLER— Sam,  at  a footman’s  “ swarry.” 

“How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Weller?”  said  Mr. 
John  Smauker,  raising  his  hat  gracefully  with 
one  hand,  while  he  gently  waved  the  other  in  a 
condescending  manner.  “ How  do  you  do, 
sir  ? ” 

“ Why,  reasonably  conwalescent,”  replied 
Sam.  “ How  do  you  find  yourself,  my  dear 
feller?” 

“Only  so  so,”  said  Mr.  John  .Smauker. 

“ Ah,  you’ve  been  a workin’  too  hard,”  observ- 
ed Sam.  “ I was  fearful  you  would  ; it  won’t 
do,  you  know  ; you  must  not  give  way  to  that 
’ere  uncompromisin’  spirit  o’  your’n.” 

“It’s  not  so  much  that,  Mr.  Weller,”  replied 
Mr.  John  Smauker,  “as  bad  wine;  I’m  afraid 
I’ve  been  dissipating.” 

“Oh!  that’s  it,  is  it?”  said  Sam;  “ that’s  a 
wery  bad  complaint,  that.” 

“ And  yet  the  temptation,  you  see,  Mr.  Wel- 
ler,” observed  Mr.  John  Smauker. 

“ Ah,  to  be  sure,”  said  Sam. 

“ Plunged  into  the  very  vortex  of  society,  you 
know,  Mr.  Weller,”  said  Mr.  John  Smauker  with 
a sigh. 

“ Dreadful,  indeed  ! ” rejoined  Sam. 

“ But  it’s  always  the  way,”  said  Mr.  John 
Smauker  ; “ if  your  destiny  leads  you  into  public 
life,  and  public  station,  you  must  expect  to  be 
subjected  to  temptations  which  other  people  is 
free  from,  Mr.  Weller.” 

“ Precisely  what  my  uncle  said,  ven  he  vent 
into  the  public  line,”  remarked  Sam,  “ and  wery 
right  the  old  genTm’n  wos,  for  he  drank  hisself 
to  death  in  somethin’  less  than  a quarter.” 

Mr.  John  Smauker  looked  deeply  indignant 
at  any  parallel  being  drawn  between  himself  and 
the  deceased  gentleman  in  question  ; but  as 
Sam’s  face  was  in  the  most  immovable  state  of 
calmness,  he  thought  better  of  it,  and  looked 
affable  again. 

* * * ❖ * 

“ Perhaps  we  had  better  be  walking,”  said 


WELLER 


516 


WELLER 


Mr.  Smauker,  consulting  a copper  time-piece 
which  dwelt  at  the  bottom  of  a deep  watch- 
pocket,  and  was  raised  to  the  surface  by  means 
of  a black  string,  with  a copper  key  at  the  other 
end. 

“ P’raps  we  had,”  replied  Sam,  “ or  they’ll 
overdo  the  swarry,  and  that’ll  spile  it.” 

“ Have  you  drank  the  waters,  Mr.  Weller?” 
inquired  his  companion,  as  they  walked  towards 
High  Street. 

“ Once,”  replied  Sam. 

“ What  did  you  think  of  ’em,  sir?” 

“ I thought  they  wos  particklery  unpleasant,” 
replied  Sam. 

“ All,”  said  Mr.  John  Smauker,  “ you  disliked 
the  killibeate  taste,  perhaps.” 

41 1 don’t  know  much  about  that  ’ere,”  said 
Sam.  44 1 thought  they’d  a wery  strong  flavor 
o’  warm  flat  irons.” 

44  That  is  the  killibeate,  Mr.  Weller,”  observed 
Mr.  John  Smauker,  contemptuously. 

44  Well,  if  it  is,  it’s  a wery  inexpressive  word, 
that’s  all,”  said  Sam.  44  It  may  be,  but  I ain’t 
much  in  the  chimical  line  myself,  so  I can’t  say.” 
And  here,  to  the  great  horror  of  Mr.  John  Smau- 
ker, Sam  Weller  began  to  whistle. 

* * * * * 

“ This  way,”  said  his  new  friend,  apparently 
much  relieved  as  they  turned  down  a bye  street ; 
44  we  shall  soon  be  there.” 

44  Shall  we  ? ” said  Sam,  quite  unmoved  by 
the  announcement  of  his  close  vicinity  to  the 
select  footmen  of  Bath. 

44  Yes,”  said  Mr.  John  Smauker.  44  Don’t  be 
alarmed,  Mr.  Weller.” 

44  Oh,  no,”  said  Sam. 

44  You’ll  see  some  very  handsome  uniforms, 
Mr.  Weller,”  continued  Mr.  John  Smauker  ; 
44  and  perhaps  you’ll  find  some  of  the  gentlemen 
rather  high  at  first,  you  know,  but  they’ll  soon 
come  round.” 

44  That’s  wery  kind  on  ’em,”  replied  Sam. 

44  And  you  know,”  resumed  Mr.  John  Smauker, 
with  an  air  of  sublime  protection  ; 44  you  know, 
as  you’re  a stranger,  perhaps  they’ll  be  rather 
hard  upon  you  at  first.” 

44  They  won’t  be  wery  cruel,  though,  will 
they?”  inquired  Sam. 

44  No,  no,”  replied  Mr.  John  Smauker,  pull- 
ing forth  the  fox’s  head,  and  taking  a gentle- 
manly pinch.  44  There  are  some  funny  dogs 
among  us,  and  they  will  have  their  joke,  you 
know  ; but  you  mustn’t  mind  ’em,  you  mustn’t 
mind  ’em.” 

44  I’ll  try  and  bear  up  agin  such  a reg’lar 
knock-down  o’  talent,”  replied  Sam. 

***** 

44  Gentlemen,  my  friend  Mr.  Weller.” 

44  Sorry  to  keep  the  fire  off  you,  Weller,”  said 
Mr.  Tuckle  with  a familiar  nod.  44  Hope  you’re 
not  cold,  Weller.” 

44  Not  by  no  means,  Blazes,”  replied  Sam. 
44  It  ’ud  be  a wery  chilly  subject  as  felt  cold 
wen  you  stood  opposit.  You’d  save  coals  if 
they  put  you  behind  the  fender  in  the  waitin’ 
room  at  a public  office,  you  would.” 

As  this  retort  appeared  to  convey  rather  a 
personal  allusion  to  Mr.  Tuckle’s  crimson  livery, 
that  gentleman  looked  majestic  for  a few  seconds, 
but  gradually  edging  away  from  the  fire,  broke 
into  a forced  smile,  and  said  it  wasn’t  bad. 

“ Wery  much  obliged  for  your  good  opinion, 
sir,”  replied  Sam.  44  We  shall  get  on  by  degrees, 


I des-say.  We’ll  try  a better  one,  by-and- 

bye.” 

***** 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  speech,  everybody 
took  a sip  in  honor  of  Sam  ; and  Sam  having 
ladled  out,  and  drunk,  two  full  glasses  of  punch 
in  honor  of  himself,  returned  thanks  in  a neat 

speech. 

44  Wery  much  obliged  to  you,  old  fellers,”  said 
Sam,  ladling  away  at  the  punch  in  the  most  un- 
embarrassed manner  possible,  44  for  this  here 
compliment:  wich,  cornin’  from  sic’n  a quarter, 
is  wery  overvelmin’.  I’ve  heerd  a good  deal  on 
you  as  a body,  but  I will  say,  that  I never  thought 
you  was  sich  uncommon  nice  men  as  I find  you 
air.  I only  hope  you’ll  take  care  o’  yourselves, 
and  not  compromise  nothin’  o’  your  dignity, 
which  is  a wery  charmin’  thing  to  see,  when 
one’s  out  a walkin’,  and  has  always  made  me 
wery  happy  to  look  at,  ever  since  I was  a boy 
about  half  as  high  as  the  brass-headed  stick  o’ 
my  wery  respectable  friend,  Blazes,  there.  As 
to  the  wictim  of  oppression  in  the  suit  o’  brim- 
stone, all  I can  say  of  him,  is,  that  I hope  he’ll 
get  jist  as  good  a berth  as  he  deserves  ; in  vich 
case  it’s  wery  little  cold  swarry  as  ever  he’ll  be 
troubled  with  agin.” 

Here  Sam  sat  down  with  a pleasant  smile, 
and  his  speech  having  been  vociferously  ap- 
plauded, the  company  broke  up. 

Pickwick , Chap.  37. 

WELLER— Sam,  and  the  fat  boy. 

44  Your  master’s  a wery  pretty  notion  of  keep- 
in’  anythin’  up,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Weller  ; 44  I 
never  see  such  a sensible  sort  of  a man  as  he  is, 
or  such  a reg’lar  gen’l’m’n.” 

44  Oh,  that  he  is!”  said  the  fat  boy,  joining 
in  the  conversation  ; 44  don’t  he  breed  nice 
pork  ! ” The  fat  youth  gave  a semi-cannibalic 
leer  at  Mr.  Weller,  as  he  thought  of  the  roast 
legs  and  gravy. 

44  Oh,  you’ve  woke  up,  at  last,  have  you?’ 
said  Sam. 

The  fat  boy  nodded. 

44  I’ll  tell  you  wot  it  is,  young  boa  construct- 
er,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  impressively  ; 44  if  you 
don’t  sleep  a little  less,  and  exercise  a little 
more,  wen  you  comes  to  be  a man  you’ll  lay 
yourself  open  to  the  same  sort  of  personal  in- 
conwenience  as  was  inflicted  on  the  old  gen’l’- 
m’n  as  wore  the  pigtail.” 

44  What  did  they  do  to  him  ? ” inquired  the 
fat  boy,  in  a faltering  voice. 

44  I’m  a-goin’  to  tell  you,”  replied  Mr.  Weller ; 
44  he  was  one  o’  the  largest  patterns  as  was  ever 
turned  out — reg’lar  fat  man,  as  hadn’t  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  own  shoes  for  five-and-forty 
year.” 

44  Lor  ! ” exclaimed  Emma. 

44  No,  that  he  hadn’t,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Wel- 
ler ; “and  if  you’d  put  an  exact  model  of  his 
own  legs  on  the  dinin’  table  afore  him,  he 
wouldn’t  ha'  known  ’em.  Well,  he  always 
walks  to  his  office  with  a wery  handsome  gold 
watch-chain  hanging  out,  about  a foot  and  a 
quarter,  and  a gold  watch  in  his  fob  pocket  as 
was  worth — I’m  afraid  to  say  how  much,  but  as 
much  as  a watch  can  be — a large,  heavy,  round 
manafacter,  as  stout  for  a watch  as  he  was  for  a 
man,  and  with  a big  face  in  proportion.  4 You’d 
better  not  carry  that  ’ere  watch,’  says  the  old 
gen’l’m’n’s  friends  ; 4 you’ll  be  robbed  on  it,’  says 


WELLER 


517 


WELLER 


ihey.  ‘ Shall  I ? ’ says  he.  ‘ Yes,  you  will,’ 
says  they.  ‘ Veil,’  says  he,  ‘ I should  like  to  see 
the  thief  as  could  get  this  here  watch  out,  for 
I’m  blest  if  / ever  can,  it’s  such  a tight  fit,’  says 
he  ; ‘ and  venever  I wants  to  know  what’s 
o’clock,  I’m  obliged  to  stare  into  the  bakers’ 
shops,’  he  says.  Well,  then  he  laughs  as  hearty 
as  if  he  was  a-goin’  to  pieces,  and  out  he  walks 
agin  with  his  powdered  head  and  pigtail,  and 
rolls  down  the  Strand  vith  the  chain  hangin’ 
out  furder  than  ever,  and  the  great  round  watch 
almost  bustin’  through  his  gray  kersey  smalls. 
There  warn’t  a pickpocket  in  all  London  as 
didn’t  take  a pull  at  that  chain;  but  the  chain 
’ud  never  break,  and  the  watch  ’ud  never  come 
out,  so  they  soon  got  tired  o’  dragging  such  a 
heavy  old  genTm’n  along  the  pavement,  and 
he’d  go  home  and  laugh  till  the  pigtail  wibrated 
like  t Ire  penderlum  of  a Dutch  clock.  At  last, 
one  day  the  old  genTm’n  was  a-rollin’  along,  and 
he  sees  a pickpocket  as  he  know’d  by  sight, 
a-comin’  up,  arm  in  arm  vith  a little  boy  vith 
a wery  large  head.  ‘ Here’s  a game,’  said  the 
old  genTm’n  to  himself,  ‘ they’re  a-goin’  to  have 
another  try,  but  it  won’t  do  ! ’ So  he  begins  a- 
chucklin’  wery  hearty,  wen,  all  of  a sudden,  the 
little  boy  leaves  hold  of  the  pickpocket’s  arm, 
and  rushes  head-foremost  straight  into  the  old 
gen’l’m’n’s  stomach,  and  for  a moment  doubles 
him  right  up  vith  the  pain.  ‘Murder!’  says 
the  old  genTm’n.  ‘ All  right,  sir,’  says  the 
pickpocket,  a-wisperin’  in  his  ear.  And  wen 
he  come  straight  agin,  the  watch  and  chain  was 
gone,  and  what’s  worse  than  that,  the  old  gen’l’- 
m’n’s  digestion  was  all  wrong  ever  arterwards, 
to  the  wery  last  day  of  his  life  ; so  just  you  look 
about  you,  young  feller,  and  take  care  you  don’t 
get  too  fat.” — Pickwick , Chap . 28. 

WELLER— Sam— His  compliments. 

Sam  inquired,  with  a countenance  of  great 
anxiety,  whether  his  master’s  name  was  not 
Walker. 

“ No,  it  ain’t,”  said  the  groom. 

“ Nor  Brown,  I s’ pose?”  said  Sam. 

“ No,  it  ain’t.” 

“ Nor  Vilson  ? ” 

“ No  ; nor  that  neither,”  said  the  groom. 

“Veil,”  replied  Sam,  “then  I’m  mistaken, 
and  he  hasn’t  got  the  honor  o’  my  acquaintance, 
which  I thought  he  had.  Don’t  wait  here  out 
o’  compliment  to  me,”  said  Sam,  as  the  groom 
wheeled  in  the  barrow,  and  prepared  to  shut 
the  gate.  “ Ease  afore  ceremony,  old  boy  ; I’ll 
excuse  you.” 

“ I’ll  knock  your  head  off  for  half-a-crown,” 
said  the  surly  groom,  bolting  one  half  of  the  gate. 

“ Couldn’t  afford  to  have  it  done  on  those 
terms,”  rejoined  Sam.  “ It  ’ud  be  worth  a life’s 
board  vages  at  least,  to  you,  and  ’ud  be  cheap  at 
that.  Make  my  compliments  in-doors.  Tell 
’em  not  to  vait  dinner  for  me,  and  say  they 
needn’t  mind  puttin’  any  by,  for  it’ll  be  cold 
afore  I come  in.” — Pickwick,  Chap.  39. 

WELLE R -Sam— At  home. 

“ Mother-in-law,”  said  Sam,  politely  saluting 
the  lady,  “ wery  much  obliged  to  you  for  this 
here  wisit.  Shepherd,  how  air  you?” 

“Oh,  Samuel!”  said  Mrs.  Weller,  “this  is 
dreadful.” 

“ Not  a bit  on  it,  mum,”  replied  Sam.  “ Is  it, 
shepherd.” 


Mr.  Stiggins  raised  his  hands,  and  turned  up 
his  eyes,  till  the  whites — or  rather  the  yellows — 
were  alone  visible  ; but  made  no  reply  in  words. 

“ Is  this  here  genTm’n  troubled  with  any 
painful  complaint?”  said  Sam,  looking  to  his 
mother-in-law  for  explanation. 

“ The  good  man  is  grieved  to  see  you  here, 
Samuel,”  replied  Mrs.  Weller. 

“Oh,  that’s  it,  is  it?”  said  Sam.  “I  was 
afeerd,  from  his  manner,  that  he  might  ha’  for- 
gotten to  take  pepper  vith  that  ’ere  last  cowcum- 
ber  he  eat.  Set  down,  sir,  ve  make  no  extra 
charge  for  the  settin’  down,  as  the  king  remarked 
wen  he  blowed  up  his  minister.” 

“ Young  man,”  said  Mr.  Stiggins,  ostenta- 
tiously, “ I fear  you  are  not  softened  by  imprison- 
ment.” 

“ Beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  replied  Sam  ; “ wot 
wos  you  graciously  pleased  to  hobserve  ? ” 

“ I apprehend,  young  man,  that  your  nature 
is  no  softer  for  this  chastening,”  said  Mr.  Slig- 
gins,  in  a loud  voice. 

“ Sir,”  replied  Sam,  “ you’re  wery  kind  to  say 
so.  I hope  my  natur  is  not  a soft  vun,  sir.  Wery 
much  obliged  to  you  for  your  good  opinion,  sir.’ 

At  this  point  of  the  conversation,  a sound,  in- 
decorously approaching  to  a laugh,  was  heard 
to  proceed  from  the  chair  in  which  the  elder 
Mr.  Weller  was  seated  ; upon  which  Mrs.  Weller, 
on  a hasty  consideration  of  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  case,  considered  it  her  bounden  duty  to 
become  gradually  hysterical. 

“ Weller,”  said  Mrs.  W.  (the  old  gentleman 
was  seated  in  a corner) : “ Weller  ! Come  forth.” 

“Wery  much  obleeged  to  you,  my  dear,”  re- 
plied Mr.  Weller  ; “ but  I’m  quite  comfortable 
vere  I am.” 

Upon  this  Mrs.  Weller  burst  into  tears. 

“ Wot’s  gone  wrong,  mum  ?”  said  Sam. 

“Oh,  Samuel!”  x'eplied  Mrs.  Weller,  “your 
father  makes  me  wretched.  Will  nothing  do 
him  good  ? ” 

“ Do  you  hear  this  here  ? ” said  Sam.  “ Lady 
wants  to  know  vether  nothin’  ’ull  do  you  good.” 

“ Wery  much  indebted  to  Mrs.  Weller  for  her 
po-lite  inquiries,  Sammy,”  replied  the  old  gen- 
tleman. “ I think  a pipe  vould  benefit  me  a 
good  deal.  Could  I be  accommodated,  Sammy  ? ” 
Pickwick , Chap.  45. 

WELLER— Sam,  and  his  mother-in-law. 

The  appearance  of  the  red-nosed  man  had  in- 
duced Sam,  at  first  sight,  to  more  than  half  sus- 
pect that  he  was  the  deputy  shepherd  of  whom 
his  estimable  parent  had  spoken.  The  moment 
he  saw  him  eat,  all  doubt  on  the  subject  was  re- 
moved, and  he  perceived  at  once  that  if  he  pur- 
posed to  take  up  his  temporary  quarters  where 
he  was,  he  must  make  his  footing  good  without 
delay.  He  therefore  commenced  proceedings 
by  putting  his  arm  over  the  half  door  of  the 
bar,  coolly  unbolting  it,  and  leisurely  walking  in. 

“ Mother-in-law,”  said  Sam,  “ how  are  you  ? ” 

“Why,  I do  believe  he  is  a Weller!”  said 
Mrs.  W.,  raising  her  eyes  to  Sam’s  face,  with  no 
very  gratified  expression  of  countenance. 

“ I raytlier  think  he  is,”  said  the  imperturba- 
ble Sam  ; “ and  I hope  this  here  reverend  gen- 
Tm’n ’ll  excuse  me  saying  that  I wish  I was  the 
Weller  as  owns  you,  mother-in-law.” 

This  was  a double-barrelled  compliment.  It 
implied  that  Mrs.  Weller  was  a most  agreeable 
female,  and  also  that  Mr.  Stiggins  had  a clerical 


WELLER 


618 


WELLER 


appearance.  It  made  a visible  impression  at 
once ; and  Sam  followed  up  his  advantage  by 
kissing  his  mother-in-law. 

“Get  along  with  you!”  said  Mrs.  Weller, 
pushing  him  away. 

“ For  shame,  young  man  ! ” said  the  gentleman 
with  the  red  nose. 

“ No  offence,  sir,  no  offence,”  replied  Sam  ; 
“ you’re  wery  right,  though  ; it  ain’t  the  right 
sort  o’  thing,  wen  mothers-in-law  is  young  and 
good-looking,  is  it,  sir?” 

“ It’s  all  vanity,”  said  Mr.  Stiggins. 

“ Ah,  so  it  is,”  said  Mrs.  Weller,  setting  her 
cap  to  rights. 

Sam  thought  it  was,  too,  but  he  held  his  peace. 

Pickwick , Chap.  27. 

WELLER— Sam,  and  Rev.  Mr.  Stiggins. 

“ I’m  afeerd,  mum,”  said  Sam,  “ that  this 
here  genTm’n,  with  the  twist  in  his  countenance, 
feels  rayther  thirsty,  with  the  melancholy  spec- 
tacle afore  him.  Is  it  the  case,  mum  ? ” 

The  worthy  lady  looked  at  Mr.  Stiggins  for  a 
reply  ; that  gentleman,  with  many  rollings  of 
the  eye,  clenched  his  throat  with  his  right  hand, 
and  mimicked  the  act  of  swallowing  to  intimate 
that  he  was  athirst 

“ I am  afraid,  Samuel,  that  his  feelings  have 
made  him  so,  indeed,”  said  Mrs.  Weller  mourn- 
fully. 

“ Wot’s  your  usual  tap,  sir?”  replied  Sam. 

“ Oh,  my  dear  young  friend,”  replied  Mr.  Stig- 
gins, “ all  taps  is  vanities  ! ” 

“Too  true,  too  true,  indeed,”  said  Mrs.  Wel- 
ler, murmuring  a groan,  and  shaking  her  head 
assentingly. 

“ Well,”  said  Sam,  “ I des-say  they  may  be, 
sir  ; but  which  is  your  pertickler  wanity  ? Vich 
wanity  do  you  like  the  flavor  on  best,  sir?  ” 

“ Oh,  my  dear  young  friend,”  replied  Mr.  Stig- 
gins, “ I despise  them  all.  If,”  said  Mr.  Stig- 
gins, “ if  there  is  any  one  of  them  less  odious 
than  another,  it  is  the  liquid  called  rum.  Warm, 
my  dear  young  friend,  with  three  lumps  of  sugar 
to  the  tumbler.” 

“ Wery  sorry  to  say,  sir,”  said  Sam,  “ that 
they  don’t  allow  that  particular  wanity  to  be 
sold  in  this  here  establishment.” 

“ Oh,  the  hardness  of  heart  of  these  inveter- 
ate men !”  ejaculated  Mr.  Stiggins.  “ Oh,  the 
accursed  cruelty  of  these  inhuman  persecutors  !” 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Stiggins  again  cast  up 
his  eyes,  and  rapped  his  breast  with  his  um- 
brella ; and  it  is  but  justice  to  the  reverend  gen- 
tleman to  say,  that  his  indignation  appeared 
very  real  and  unfeigned  indeed. 

After  Mrs.  Weller  and  the  red  nosed  gentle- 
man had  commented  on  this  inhuman  usage  in 
(a  very  forcible  manner,  and  had  vented  a vari- 
ety of  pious  and  holy  execrations  against  its 
authors,  the  latter  recommended  a bottle  of  port 
wine,  wanned  with  a little  water,  spice,  and  sugar, 
as  being  grateful  to  the  stomach,  and  savor- 
ing less  of  vanity  than  many  other  compounds. 
It  was  accordingly  ordered  to  be  prepared. 
Pending  its  preparation,  the  red  nosed  man  and 
Mrs.  Weller  looked  at  the  elder  W.,  and 
groaned. 

* * * 5*  * 

“ Try  an  in’ard  application,  sir,”  said  Sam,  as 
the  red-nosed  gentleman  rubbed  his  head  with 
a rueful  visage.  “ Wot  do  you  think  o’  that  for  a 
go  o’  wanity  warm,  sir?” 


Mr.  Stiggins  made  no  verbal  answer,  but  his 
manner  was  expressive.  lie  tasted  the  contents 
of  the  glass  which  Sam  had  placed  in  his  hand  ; 
put  his  umbrella  on  the  floor,  and  tasted  it 
again,  passing  his  hand  placidly  across  his 
stomach  twice  or  thrice  ; lie  then  drank  the 
whole  at  a breath,  and  smacking  his  lips,  held 
out  the  tumbler  for  more. 

Nor  was  Mrs.  Weller  behind-hand  in  doing 
justice  to  the  composition.  The  good  lady  be- 
gan by  protesting  that  she  could’nt  touch  a drop 
— then  took  a small  drop — then  a large  drop — 
then  a great  many  drops  ; and  her  feelings  being 
of  the  nature  of  those  substances  which  are  pow 
erfully  affected  by  the  application  of  strong 
waters,  she  dropped  a tear  with  every  drop  of 
negus,  and  so  got  on,  melting  the  feelings  down, 
until  at  length  she  had  arrived  at  a very  pathetic 
and  decent  pitch  of  misery. 

The  elder  Mr.  Weller  observed  these  signs  and 
tokens  with  many  manifestations  of  disgust,  and 
when,  after  a second  jug  of  the  same,  Mr.  Stig- 
gins began  to  sigh  in  a dismal  manner,  he  plain- 
ly evinced  his  disapprobation  of  the  whole  pro- 
ceedings, by  sundry  incoherent  ramblings  of 
speech. 

***** 

“ I think  there  must  be  somethin’  wrong  in 
your  mother-in-law’s  inside,  as  veil  as  in  that  o' 
the  red-nosed  man.” 

“ Wot  do  you  mean  ? ” said  Sam. 

“ I mean  this  here,  Sammy,  replied  the  old 
gentleman,  “ that  wot  they  drink  don’t  seem  no 
nourishment  to  ’em  ; it  all  turns  to  warm  water, 
and  comes  a’  pourin’  out  o’  their  eyes.  ’Pend 
upon  it,  Sammy,  its  a constitootional  infirmity.” 

Pickiviqk , Chap  45. 

WELLER— Sam— Imprisoned  for  debt. 

“ Well,”  said  Sam,  “ you’ve  been  a-prophesyin’ 
avay,  about  wot’ll  happen  to  the  gov’nor,  if  he’s 
left  alone.  Don’t  you  see  any  vay  o’  takin’  care 
on  him  ? ” 

“ No,  I don’t,  Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  with 
a reflective  visage. 

“ No  vay  at  all?  ” inquired  Sam. 

“ No  vay,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  “ unless” — and  a 
gleam  of  intelligence  lighted  up  his  countenance 
as  he  sunk  his  voice  to  a whisper,  and  applied 
his  mouth  to  the  ear  of  his  offspring  : “ unless 
it  is  getting  him  out  in  a turn-up  bedstead, 
unbeknown  to  the  turnkeys,  Sammy,  or  dressin’ 
him  up  like  a old  ’ooman  with  a green  wail.” 

Sam  Weller  received  both  of  these  sugges- 
tions with  unexpected  contempt,  and  again  pro- 
pounded his  question. 

“ No,”  said  the  old  gentleman  ; “ if  he  von’t 
let  you  stop  there,  I see  no  vay  at  all.  It’s  no 
thoroughfare,  Sammy,  no  thoroughfare.” 

“ Well,  then,  I’ll  tell  you  wot  it  is,”  said  Sam, 
“ I’ll  trouble  you  for  the  loan  of  five-and-twenty 
pound.” 

“Wot  good  ’ull  that  do?”  inquired  Mr. 
Weller. 

“ Never  mind,”  replied  Sam.  “ P’raps  you  may 
ask  for  it,  five  minits  artervards  ; p’raps  I may 
say  I von’t  pay,  and  cut  up  rough.  You  von’t 
think  o’  arrestin’  your  own  son  for  the  money, 
and  send  him  off  to  the  Fleet,  will  you,  you 
unnat’ral  wagabonc  ? ” 

At  this  reply  of  Sam’s,  the  father  and  son  ex- 
changed a complete  code  of  telegraphic  nods 
and  gestures,  after  which,  the  elder  Mr.  Weller 


WELLER 


519 


WELLER 


sat  himself  down  on  a stone  step,  and  laughed 
till  he  wats  purple. 

“ Wot  a old  image  it  is  !”  exclaimed  Sam,  in- 
dignant at  this  loss  of  time.  “ Wot  are  you 
a-settin’  down  there  for,  con-wertin’  your  face 
into  a street-door  knocker,  wen  there’s  so  much 
to  be  done.  Where’s  the  money  ? ” 

“ In  the  boot,  Sammy,  in  the  boot,”  replied 
Mr.  Weller,  composing  his  features.  “ Hold  my 
hat,  Sammy.” 

Having  divested  himself  of  this  incumbrance, 
Mr.  Weller  gave  his  body  a sudden  Wrench  to 
one  side,  and,  by  a dextex-ous  twist,  contrived  to 
get  his  right  hand  into  a most  capacious  pocket, 
from  whence,  after  a great  deal  of  panting  and 
exertion,  he  extricated  a pocket-book  of  the 
large  octavo  size,  fastened  by  a huge  leathern 
strap.  From  this  ledger  he  drew  forth  a couple 
of  whip  lashes,  three  or  four  buckles,  a little 
sample-bag  of  corn,  and  finally  a small  roll  of 
very  dirty  bank-notes  : from  which  he  selected  the 
required  amount,  which  he  handed  over  to  Sam. 

“ And  now,  Sammy,”  said  the  old  gentleman, 
when  the  whip  lashes,  and  the  buckles,  and  the 
samples,  had  been  all  put  back,  and  the  book 
once  more  deposited  at  the  bottom  of  the  same 
pocket,  “ Now,  Sammy,  I know  a gen’l’m’n  here, 
as’ll  do  the  rest  o’  the  bizness  for  us  in  no  time 
— a limb  o’  the  law,  Sammy,  as  has  got  brains, 
like  the  fi'ogs,  dispersed  all  over  his  body,  and 
reachin’  to  the  wery  tips  of  his  fingers  ; a friend 
of  the  Lord  Chancellorship’s,  Sammy,  who’d 
only  have  to  tell  him  what  he  wanted,  and  he’d 
lock  you  up  for  life,  if  that  wos  all.” 

“ I say,”  said  Sam,  “ none  o’  that.” 

“ None  o’  wot?”  inquired  Mr.  Weller.  ' 

“ Why,  none  o’  them  unconstitootional  ways 
o’  doing  it,”  retorted  Sam.  “ The  have-his-car- 
case,  next  to  the  perpetual  motion,  is  vun  of  the 
blessedest  things  as  wos  ever  made.  I’ve  read 
that  ’ere  in  the  newspapers,  wery  of’en.” 

“ Well,  wot’s  that  got  to  do  vith  it?”  inquired 
Mr.  Weller. 

“ fust  this  here,”  said  Sam,  “ that  I’ll  patron- 
ize the  inwention,  and  go  in,  that  vav.  No  vis- 
perin’s  to  the  Chancellorship,  I don’t  like  the 
notion.  It  mayn’t  be  altogether  safe,  vith  ref- 
erence to  gettin’  out  agin.” 

Deferring  to  his  son’s  feeling  upon  this  point, 
Mr.  Weller  at  once  sought  the  erudite  Solomon 
Pell,  and  acquainted  him  with  his  desire  to  is- 
sue a writ,  instantly,  for  the  sum  of  twenty-five 
pounds,  and  costs  of  process  ; to  be  executed 
without  delay  upon  the  body  of  one  Samuel  Wel- 
ler ; the  charges  thereby  incurred,  to  be  paid  in 
advance  to  Solomon  Pell. — Pickwick , Chap.  43. 


“ Wot  a game  it  is  ! ” said  the  elder  Mr.  Wel- 
ler, with  a chuckle.  “ A reg’lar  prodigy  son  ! ” 
“ Prodigal,  prodigal  son,  sir,”  suggested  Mr. 
Pell,  mildly. 

“ Never  mind,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  with  dig- 
nity. “ I know  wot’s  o’clock,  sir.  Wen  I don’t, 
I’ll  ask  you,  sir.” 

■55*  ^ ^ 

“Yes,  gen’l’m’n,”  said  Sam,  “I’m  a — stand 
steady,  sir,  if  you  please — I’m  a pris’ner, 
gen’l’m’n.  Con-fined,  as  the  lady  said.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  44. 

WELLER— Sam  in  prison. 

He  had  hardly  composed  himself  into  the 
needful  state  of  abstraction,  when  he  thought  he 


heard  his  own  name  proclainw  a in  some  distant 
passage.  Nor  was  he  mistaken,  for  it  quickly 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  in  a few 
seconds  the  air  teemed  with  shouts  of  “ Weller.” 

“Here!”  roared  Sam,  in  a stentorian  voice. 
“Wot’s  the  matter?  Who  wants  him?  Has 
an  express  come  to  say  that  his  country-house 
is  a-fire  ? ” 

“ Somebody  wants  you  in  the  hall,”  said  a 
man  who  was  standing  by. 

“Just  mind  that  ’ere  paper  and  the  pot,  old 
feller,  will  you?”  said  Sam.  “I’m  a cornin’. 
Blessed,  if  they  was  a callin’  me  to  the  bar,  they 
couldn’t  make  more  noise  about  it  !” 

Accompanying  these  words  with  a gentle  rap 
on  the  head  of  the  young  gentleman  before 
noticed,  who,  unconscious  of  his  close  vicinity 
to  the  person  in  request,  was  screaming  “ Wel- 
ler ! ” with  all  his  might,  Sam  hastened  across 
the  ground,  and  ran  up  the  steps  into  the  hall. 
Here,  the  first  object  that  met  his  eyes  was  his 
beloved  father  sitting  on  a bottom  stair,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  shouting  out  “ Weller  ! ’’  in 
his  very  loudest  tone,  at  half-minute  intervals. 

“ Wot  are  you  a roarin’  at  ? ” said  Sam  impet- 
uously, when  the  old  gentleman  had  discharg- 
ed himself  of  another  shout ; “ makin’  yourself 
so  precious  hot  that  you  looks  like  a aggrawated 
glass-blower.  Wot’s  the  matter?” 

“ Aha  ! ” replied  the  old  gentleman,  “ I began 
to  be  afeerd  that  you’d  gone  for  a walk  round 
the  Regency  Park,  Sammy.” 

“ Come,”  said  Sam,  “ none  o’  them  taunts 
agin  the  wictims  o’  avarice,  and  come  off  that 
’ere  step.  Wot  are  you  a sittin’  down  there 
for?  I don’t  live  there.” 

“ I’ve  got  such  a game  for  you,  Sammy,”  said 
the  elder  Mr.  Weller,  rising. 

“ Stop  a minit,”  said  Sam,  “ you’re  all  vite 
behind.” 

“ That’s  right,  Sammy,  rub  it  off,”  said  Mr. 
Weller,  as  his  son  dusted  him.  “ It  might  look 
personal  here,  if  a man  walked  about  with 
whitevash  on  his  clothes,  eh,  Sammy?” 

As  Mr.  Weller  exhibited  in  this  place  une- 
quivocal symptoms  of  an  approaching  fit  of 
chuckling,  Sam  interposed  to  stop  it. 

“ Keep  quiet,  do,”  said  Sam,  “ there  never  vos 
such  a old  picter-card  born.  What  are  you 
bustin’  vith,  now  ? ” 

“Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  wiping  his  fore- 
head, “ I’m  afeerd  that  vun  o’  these  days  I shall 
laugh  myself  into  a appleplexy,  my  boy.” 

“ Veil  then,  wot  do  you  do  it  for  ? ” said  Sam. 
“ Now  ; wot  have  you  got  to  say  ? ” 

“ Who  do  you  think’s  come  here  with  me, 
Samivel?”  said  Mr.  .Weller,  drawing  back  a 
pace  or  two,  pursing  up  his  mouth,  and  extend- 
ing his  eyebrows. 

“ Pell  ? ” said  Sam. 

Mr.  Weller  shook  his  head,  and  his  red  cheeks 
expanded  with  the  laughter  that  was  endeav- 
oring to  find  a vent. 

“ Mottled  faced  man,  p’r’aps  ? ” suggested  Sam. 

Again  Mr.  Weller  shook  his  head. 

“ Who  then?  ” asked  Sam. 

“ Your  mother-in-law,”  said  Mr.  Weller  ; and 
it  was  lucky  he  did  say  it,  or  his  cheeks  must  in- 
evitably have  cracked,  from  their  most  unnatu- 
ral distension. 

“ Your  mother-in-law,  Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Wel- 
ler, “and  the  red-nosed  man,  my  boy;  and  the 
red-nosed  man.  Ho  ! ho ! ho  ! ” 


WELLER 


520 


WELLER 


With  this,  Mr.  Weller  launched  into  convul- 
sions of  laughter,  while  Sam  regarded  him  with 
a broad  grin  gradually  overspreading  his  whole 
countenance. 

“ They’ve  come  to  have  a little  serious  talk 
with  you,  Samivel,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  wiping  his 
eyes.  “ Don’t  let  out  nothin’  about  the  un- 
uat’ral  creditor,  Sammy.” — Pickwick,  Chap.  45. 

WELLER— Sam,  and  his  father. 

“ Well,”  said  Sam,  “good  bye.” 

“ Tar,  tar,  Sammy,”  replied  his  father. 

“ I’ve  only  got  to  say  this  here,”  said  Sam, 
stopping  short,  “ that  if  /was  the  properiator  o’ 
the  Markis  o’  Granby,  and  that  ’ere  Stiggins 
came  and  made  toast  in  my  bar,  I’d — ” 

“What?”  interposed  Mr.  Weller,  with  great 
anxiety.  “What?” 

“ — Pison  his  rum  and  water,”  said  Sam. 

“ No  ! ” said  Mr.  Weller,  shaking  his  son  ea- 
gerly by  the  hand,  “would  you  raly,  Sammy; 
would  you,  though  ? ” 

“ I would,”  said  Sam.  “ I wouldn’t  be  too 
hard  upon  him  at  first.  I’d  drop  him  in  the 
water-butt,  and  put  the  lid  on  ; and  if  I found 
he  was  insensible  to  kindness,  I’d  try  the  other 
persvasion.” 

The  elder  Mr.  Weller  bestowed  a look  of 
deep,  unspeakable  admiration  on  his  son  ; and, 
having  once  more  grasped  his  hand,  walked 
slowly  away,  revolving  in  his  mind  the  numer- 
ous reflections  to  which  his  advice  had  given 
rise. — Pickwick,  Chap.  27. 

WELLER— Father  and  son. 

“Werry  glad  to  see  you,  Sammy,”  said  the 
elder  Mr.  Weller,  “though  how  you’ve  managed 
to  get  over  your  mother-in-law,  is  a mystery  to 
me.  I only  vish  you’d  write  me  out  the  re- 
ceipt, that’s  all.” 

“ Hush  !”  said  Sam,  “ she’s  at  home,  old  feller.” 

“ She  ain’t  vithin  hearin’,”  replied  Mr.  Weller ; 
“ she  always  goes  and  blows  up,  down-stairs,  for 
a couple  of  hours  arter  tea  ; so  we’ll  just  give 
ourselves  a damp,  Sammy.” 

Saying  this,  Mr.  Weller  mixed  two  glasses  of 
spirits  and  water,  and  produced  a couple  of 
pipes.  The  father  and  son  sitting  down  oppo- 
site each  other  ; Sam  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  in 
the  high-backed  chair,  and  Mr.  Weller  senior 
on  the  other,  in  an  easy  ditto  : they  proceeded 
to  enjoy  themselves  with  all  due  gravity. 

“ Anybody  been  here,  Sammy?  ” asked  Mr. 
Weller  senior,  drily,  after  a long  silence. 

Sam  nodded  an  expressive  assent. 

“Red-nosed  chap?”  inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

Sam  nodded  again. 

“Amiable  man  that  ’ere,  Sammy,”  said  Mr. 
Weller,  smoking  violently. 

“ Seems  so,”  observed  Sam. 

“ Good  hand  at  accounts,”  said  Mr.  Weller. 

“ Is  he  ?”  said  Sam. 

“ Borrows  eighteenpence  on  Monday,  and 
comes  on  Tuesday  for  a shillin’  to  make  it  up 
half-a-crown  ; calls  again  on  Vensday  for  another 
half-crown  to  make  it  five  shillin’s  ; and  goes 
on  doubling,  till  he  gels  it  up  to  a five  pound 
note  in  no  time,  like  them  sums  in  the  Tithme- 
tic  book  ’bout  the  nails  in  the  horse’s  shoes, 
Sammy.” 

Sam  intimated  by  a nod  that  he  recollected 
the  problem  alluded  to  by  his  parent. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  27. 


WELLER,  Mr3.— And  Mr.  Stijygins. 

“Leave  off  rattlin’  that  ’ere  nob  o’  yourn,  if 
you  don’t  want  it  to  come  off  the  springs  alto- 
gether,” said  Sam  impatiently,  “ and  behave 
reasonable.  I vent  all  the  vay  down  to  the 
Markis  o’  Granby,  arter  you,  last  night.” 

“Did  you  see  the  Marchioness  o’  Granby, 
Sammy  ? ” inquired  Mr.  Weller,  with  a sigh. 

“ Yes,  I did,”  replied  Sam. 

“ How  was  the  dear  creetur  a lookin’?” 

“ Wery  queer,”  said  Sam.  “ I think  she’s  a 
injurin’  herself  gradivally  vith  too  much  o’  that 
ere  pine-apple  rum,  and  other  strong  medicines 
o’  the  same  natur.” 

“You  don’t  mean  that,  Sammy,”  said  the 
senior,  earnestly. 

“ I do,  indeed,”  replied  the  junior.  Mr.  Wel- 
ler seized  his  son’s  hand,  clasped  it,  and  let  it 
fall.  There  was  an  expression  on  his  counte- 
nance in  doing  so — not  of  dismay  or  apprehen- 
sion, but  partaking  more  of  the  sweet  and  gen- 
tle character  of  hope.  A gleam  of  resignation, 
and  even  of  cheerfulness,  passed  over  his  face 
too,  as  he  slowly  said,  “ I ain’t  quite  certain, 
Sammy  ; I wouldn’t  like  to  say  I wos  altogether 
positive,  in  case  of  any  subsekent  disappint- 
ment,  but  I rayther  think,  my  boy,  1 rayther" 
think,  that  the  shepherd’s  got  the  liver  com- 
plaint ! ” 

“ Does  he  look  bad  ? ” inquired  Sam. 

“ He’s  uncommon  p<de,”  replied  his  father, 
“ ’cept  about  the  nose,  which  is  redder  than  ever. 
His  appetite  is  wery  so-so,  but  he  imbibes  wun- 
derful.” 

Some  thoughts  of  the  rum  appeared  to  obtrude 
themselves  on  Mr.  Weller’s  mind,  as  he  said 
this  ; for  he  looked  gloomy  and  thoughtful  ; but 
he  very  shortly  recovered,  as  was  testified  by 
a perfect  alphabet  of  winks,  in  which  he  was 
only  wont  to  indulge  when  particularly  pleased. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  43. 

WELLER,  MR.-And  “the  Gentle  Shep- 
herd.” 

“ That’s  a pint  o’  domestic  policy,  Sammy,” 
said  Mr.  Weller.  “ This  here  Stiggins — ” 

“ Red-nosed  man  ?”  inquired  Sam. 

“ The  wery  same,”  replied  Mr.  Weller. 
“ This  here  red-nosed  man,  Sammy,  wisits  your 
mother-in-law  vith  a kindness  and  constancy  as 
I never  see  equalled.  He’s  sitch  a friend  o’  the 
family,  Sammy,  that  wen  he’s  avay  from  us,  he 
can’t  be  comfortable  unless  he  has  somethin’  to 
remember  us  by.” 

“ And  I’d  give  him  somethin’  as  ’ud  turpen  • 
tine  and  bees’-vax  his  memory  for  the  next  ten 
years  or  so,  if  I wos  you,”  interposed  Sam. 

“Stop  a minute,”  said  Mr.  Weller  ; “I  wos 
a-going  to  say,  he  alw'ays  brings  now,  a flat 
bottle  as  holds  about  a pint  and  a-half,  and 
fills  it  vith  the  pine-apple  rum  afore  he  goes 
avay.” 

“And  empties  it  afore  he  comes  back,  1 
s’pose  ? ” said  Sam. 

“ Clean  ! ” replied  Mr.  Weller  ; “ never  leaves 
nothin’  in  it  but  the  cork  and  the  smell  ; trust 
him  for  that,  Sammy.” — Pickwick , Chap.  33. 

WELLER— The  elder  drives  Mr.  Stig-g-ins. 

“ Vere  are  they  ? ” said  Sam,  reciprocating  all 
the  old  gentleman’s  grins. 

“ In  the  snuggery,”  rejoined  Mr.  Weller. 

“ Catch  the  red-nosed  man  a goin’  any  vere  but 


WELLER 


521 


WELLER 


vcre  the  liquors  is  ; not  he,  Samivel,  not  he.  Ve’d 
a wery  pleasant  ride  along  the  road  from  the 
Mark  is  this  mornin’,  Sammy,”  said  Mr.  Weller, 
when  he  felt  himself  equal  to  the  task  of  speak- 
ing in  an  articulate  manner.  “ I drove  the  old 
piebald  in  that  ’ere  little  shay-cart  as  belonged 
to  your  mother-in-law’s  first  wen  ter,  into  vich 
a harm-cheer  wos  lifted  for  the  shepherd  ; and 
I’m  blest,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  with  a look  of  deep 
scorn  ; “ I’m  blest  if  they  didn’t  bring  a portable 
flight  o’  steps  out  into  the  road  a front  o’  our 
door,  for  him  to  get  up  by.” 

“ You  don’t  mean  that?”  said  Sam. 

“ I do  mean  that,  Sammy,”  replied  his  father, 
“ and  I vish  you  could  ha’  seen  how  tight  he 
held  on  by  the  sides  wen  he  did  get  up,  as  if  he 
wos  afeerd  o’  being  precipitayted  down  full  six 
foot,  and  dashed  into  a million  o’  hatoms.  He 
tumbled  in  at  last,  however,  and  avay  ve  vent  ; 
and  I rayther  think,  I say  I rayther  think,  Sam- 
ivel, that  he  found  hisself  a little  jolted  wen  ve 
turned  the  corners.” 

“ Wot,  I s’pose  you  happened  to  drive  up  agin 
a post  or  two  ? ” said  Sam. 

“ I’m  afeered,”  replied  Mr.  Weller  in  a rapture 
of  winks,  “ I’m  afeered  I took  vun  or  two  on  ’em, 
Sammy  ; he  wos  a flyin’  out  o’  the  harm-cheer 
all  the  way.” 

Here  the  old  gentleman  shook  his  head  from 
side  to  side,  and  was  seized  with  a hoarse  inter- 
nal rumbling,  accompanied  with  a violent  swell- 
ing of  the  countenance,  and  a sudden  increase 
in  the  breadth  of  all  his  features  ; symptoms 
which  alarmed  his  son  not  a little. 

“ Don’t  be  frightened,  Sammy,  don’t  be  fright- 
ened,” said  the  old  gentleman,  when,  by  dint  of 
much  struggling,  and  various  convulsive  stamps 
upon  the  ground,  he  had  recovered  his  voice. 
“ It’s  only  a kind  o’ quiet  laugh  as  I’m  a tryin’  to 
come,  Sammy.” 

“ Well,  if  that’s  wot  it  is,”  said  Sam,  “ you’d 
better  not  try  to  come  it  agin.  You’ll  find  it 
rayther  a dangerous  inwention.” 

“ Don’t  you  like  it,  Sammy  ? ” inquired  the 
old  gentleman. 

“ Not  at  all,”  replied  Sam. 

“ Well,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  with  the  tears  still 
running  down  his  cheeks,  “ it  ’ud  ha’  been  a 
wery  great  accommodation  to  me  if  I could  ha’ 
done  it,  and  ’ud  ha’  saved  a good  many  vords 
atween  your  mother-in-law  and  me,  sometimes  ; 
but  I am  afeerd  you’re  right,  Sammy  ; it’s  too 
much  in  the  appleplexy  line — a deal  too  much, 
Samivel.” — Pickwick , Chap.  45. 

WELLER— The  elder,  on  married  life. 

“Goiiv,  Sammy?”  inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

“ Off  at  once,”  replied  Sam. 

“ I vish  you  could  muffle  that  ’ere  Stiggins, 
and  take  him  with  you,”  said  Mr.  Weller. 

“ I am  ashamed  on  you  ! ” said  Sam,  reproach- 
fully : “ what  do  you  let  him  show  his  red  nose 
in  the  Markis  o’  Granby  at  all,  for  ? ” 

Mr.  Weller  the  elder  fixed  on  his  son  an 
earnest  look,  and  replied,  “ ’Cause  I’m  a mar- 
ried man,  Samivel,  ’cause  I’m  a married  man. 
Wen  you’re  a married  man,  Samivel,  you’ll  un- 
derstand a good  many  things  as  you  don’t  under- 
stand now  ; but  vether  it’s  worth  while  goin’ 
through  so  much  to  learn  so  little,  as  the  charity- 
boy  said  veil  he  got  to  the  end  of  the  alphabet, 
is  a matter  q’  taste.  I rayther  think  it  isn’t.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  27. 


WELLER— The  elder,  at  dinner. 

We  have  said  that  Mr.  Weller  was  engaged 
in  preparing  for  his  journey  to  London — he  was 
taking  sustenance,  in  fact.  On  the  table  be- 
fore him  stood  a pot  of  ale,  a cold  round  of 
beef,  and  a very  respectable-looking  loaf,  to 
each  of  which  he  distributed  his  favors  in  turn, 
with  the  most  rigid  impartiality.  He  had  just 
cut  a mighty  slice  from  the  latter,  when  the 
footsteps  of  somebody  entering  the  room, 
caused  him  to  raise  his  head  ; and  he  beheld 
his  son. 

“ Mornin’,  Sammy  ! ” said  the  father. 

The  son  walked  up  to  the  pot  of  ale,  and 
nodding  significantly  to  his  parent,  took  a 
long  draught  by  way  of  reply. 

“ Wery  good  power  o’  suction,  Sammy,”  said 
Mr.  Weller  the  elder,  looking  into  the  pot,  when 
his  first-born  had  set  it  down  half  empty, 
“You’d  ha’  made  an  uncommon  fine  oyster, 
Sammy,  if  you’d  been  born  in  that  station  o’ 
life.” 

“Yes,  Ides-say  I should  ha’  managed  to  pick 
up  a respectable  livin’,”  replied  Sam,  applying 
himself  to  the  cold  beef  with  considerable  vigor. 

Pickwick , Chap.  23. 

WELLER— His  opinion  of  widows. 

“ I’m  wery  sorry,  Sammy,”  said  the  elder 
Mr.  Weller,  shaking  up  the  ale,  by  describing 
small  circles  with  the  pot,  preparatory  to  drink- 
ing. “ I’m  wery  sorry,  Sammy,  to  hear  from 
your  lips,  as  you  let  yourself  be  gammoned  by 
that  ’ere  mulberry  man.  I always  thought,  up 
to  three  days  ago,  that  the  names  of  Veller 
and  gammon  could  never  come  into  contract, 
Sammy,  never.” 

“ Always  exceptin’  the  case  of  a widder,  of 
course.”  said  Sam. 

“ Widders,  Sammy,”  replied  Mr.  Weller, 
slightly  changing  color,  “widders  are  ’cep- 
tions  to  ev’ry  rule.  I have  heerd  how  many 
ord’nary  women  one  widder’s  equal  to,  in  pint 
o’ cornin’  over  you.  I think  it’s  five  and-twen- 
ty,  but  I don’t  rightly  know  vether  it  an’t 
more.” 

“ Well  ; that’s  pretty  well,”  said  Sam. 

“ Besides,”  continued  Mr.  Weller,  not  noti- 
cing the  interruption,  “that’s  a wery  different 
thing.  You  know  what  the  counsel  said,  Sam- 
my, as  defended  the  gen’lem’n  as  beat  his  wife 
with  the  poker,  venever  he  got  jolly.  ' And 
arter  all,  my  Lord,’  says  he.  ‘ it’s  a amable 
weakness.’  So  I says  respectin’  widders,  Sam- 
my, and  so  you’ll  say,  ven  you  gets  as  old  as  me.” 

“ I ought  to  ha’  know’d  better,  I know,”  said 
Sam. 

“ Ought  to  ha’  know’d  better  ! ” repeated  Mr. 
Weller,  striking  the  table  with  his  fist.  “Ought 
to  ha’  know’d  better  ! why,  I know  a young 
’un  as  hasn’t  had  half  nor  quarter  your  eddica- 
tion — as  hasn’t  slept  about  the  markets,  no,  not 
six  months — who’d  ha’  scorned  to  be  let  in,  in 
such  a vay  ; scorned  it,  Sammy.”  Tn  the  ex- 
citement of  feeling  produced  by  this  agonizing 
reflection,  Mr.  Weller  rang  the  bell,  and  order 
ed  an  additional  pint  of  ale. 

Pickwick , Chap.  23. 

WELLER— The  elder,  in.  a quandary. 

“ I wanted  to  have  a little  bit  o’  conwersa- 
tion  with  you,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Weller  ; “ if  you 
could  spare  me  five  minits  or  so,  sir.” 


WELLER 


622 


WELLER 


“Certainly,”  replied  Mr.  Pickwick.  “Sam, 
give  your  father  a chair.” 

“ Thankee,  Samivel,  I’ve  got  a cheer  here,” 
said  Mr.  Weller,  bringing  one  forward  as  he 
spoke;  “uncommon  fine  day  it’s  been,  sir,” 
added  the  old  gentleman,  laying  his  hat  on  the 
floor  as  he  sat  himself  down. 

“ Remarkably  so,  indeed,”  replied  Mr.  Pick- 
wick. “ Very  seasonable.” 

“ Seasonablest  veather  I ever  see,  sir,”  re- 
joined Mr.  Weller.  Here,  the  old  gentleman 
was  seized  with  a violent  fit  of  coughing,  which 
being  terminated,  he  nodded  his  head  and 
winked  and  made  several  supplicatory  and 
threatening  gestures  to  his  son,  all  of  which 
Sam  Weller  steadily  abstained  from  seeing. 

Mr.  Pickwick,  perceiving  that  there  was  some 
embarrassment  on  the  old  gentleman’s  part, 
affected  to  be  engaged  in  cutting  the  leavps  of 
a book  that  lay  beside  him,  and  waited  patient- 
ly until  Mr.  Weller  should  arrive  at  the  object 
of  his  visit, 

“ I never  see  sich  a aggerawatin’  boy  as  you 
are,  Samivel,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  looking  in- 
dignantly at  his  son  ; “ never  in  all  my  born 
days.” 

“ What  is  he  doing,  Mr.  Weller?”  inquired 
Mr.  Pickwick. 

“ He  von’t  begin,  sir,”  rejoined  Mr.  Weller; 
“he  knows  I ain't  ekal  to  ex-pressin’  myself  ven 
there’s  anythin’  partickler  to  be  done,  and  yet 
he’ll  stand  and  see  me  a settin’  here  takin’  up 
your  walable  time,  and  makin’  a reg’lar  spec- 
tacle o’  myself,  rayther  than  help  me  out  vith  a 
syllable.  It  ain’t  filial  conduct,  Samivel,”  said 
Mr.  Weller,  wiping  his  forehead;  “wery  far 
from  it.” 

“ You  said  you’d  speak,”  replied  Sam ; “ how 
should  I know  you  wos  done  up  at  the  wery  be- 
ginnin’  ? ” 

“ You  might  ha’  seen  I warn’t  able  to  start,” 
rejoined  his  father  ; “ I’m  on  the  wrong  side  of 
the  road,  and  backin’  into  the  palin s,  and  all 
manner  of  unpleasantness,  and  yet  you  von’t 
put  out  a hand  to  help  me.  I’m  ashamed  on 
you,  Samivel.” 

“ The  fact  is,  sir,”  said  Sam,  with  a slight 
bow,  “ the  gov’ner’s  been  a drawin’  his  money.” 

“ Wery  good,  Samivel,  wery  good,”  said  Mr. 
Weller,  nodding  his  head  with  a satisfied  air. 
“ I didn’t  mean  to  speak  harsh  to  you,  Sammy. 
Wery  good.  That’s  the  vay  to  begin.  Come 
to  the  pint  at  once.  Wery  good,  indeed,  Sam- 
ivel.” 

x * * * * 

“ This  here  money,”  said  Sam,  with  a little 
hesitation,  “ lie’s  anxious  to  put  someveres,  vere 
he  knows  it’ll  be  safe,  and  I’m  wery  anxious 
too,  for  if  he  keeps  it,  he’ll  go  a lendin’  it  to 
somebody,  or  inwestin’  property  in  horses,  or 
droppin’  his  pocket-book  down  a airy,  or  makin’ 
a Egyptian  mummy  of  his-self  in  some  vay  or 
another.” 

“ Wery  good,  Samivel,”  observed  Mr.  Weller, 
in  as  complacent  a manner  as  if  Sam  had  been 
passing  the  highest  eulogiums  on  his  prudence 
and  foresight.  “ Wery  good.” 

“ For  vich  reasons,”  continued  Sam,  plucking 
nervously  at  l lie  brim  of  his  hat  ; “ for  vich  rea- 
sons, lie’s  drawd  it  out  to-day,  and  come  here 
villi  me  to  say,  least-vays  to  offer,  or  in  other 
voids  to — ” 

“ — To  say  this  here,”  said  the  elder  Mr.  Wel- 


ler, impatiently,  “ that  it  ain’t  o’  no  use  to  me. 
I’m  a-goin’  to  vork  a coach  rcg’lar,  and  ha’nt 
got  noveres  to  keep  it  in,  unless  I vos  to  pay  the 
guard  for  takin’  care  on  it,  or  to  put  it  in  vun  o’ 
the  coach  pockets,  vich  ’ud  be  a temptation  to 
the  insides.  If  you’ll  take  care  on  it  for  me,  sir, 
I shall  be  wery  much  obliged  to  you.  P’raps,” 
said  Mr.  Weller,  walking  up  to  Mr.  Pickwick 
and  whispering  in  his  ear,  “ p’raps  it’ll  go  a lit- 
tle vay  towards  the  expenses  o’  that  ’ere  conwic- 
tion.  All  I say  is,  just  you  keep  it  till  I ask  you 
for  it  again.”  With  these  words,  Mr.  Weller 
placed  the  pocket-book  in  Mr.  Pickwick’s 
hands,  caught  up  his  hat,  and  ran  out  of  the 
room  with  a celerity  scarcely  to  be  expected 
from  so  corpulent  a subject. 

“ Stop  him,  Sam  ! ” exclaimed  Mr.  Pickwick, 
earnestly.  “ Overtake  him  ; bring  him  back  in- 
stantly ! Mr.  Weller — here — come  back  ! ” 

Sam  saw  that  his  master’s  injunctions  were 
not  to  be  disobeyed  ; and  catching  his  father  by 
the  arm  as  he  was  descending  the  stairs,  dragged 
him  back  by  main  force. 

“ My  good  friend,”  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  taking 
the  old  man  by  the  hand  ; “ your  honest  confi- 
dence overpowers  me.” 

“ I don’t  see  no  occasion  for  nothin’  o’  the 
kind,  sir,”  replied  Mr.  Weller,  obstinately. 

“ I assure  you,  my  good  friend,  I have  more 
money  than  I can  ever  need  ; far  more  than  a 
man  at  my  age  can  ever  live  to  spend,”  said  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“ No  man  knows  how  much  he  can  spend, 
till  he  tries,”  observed  Mr.  Weller. 

Pickwick , Chap.  56. 

WELLER  — Personal  appearance  of  the 
elder. 

It  is  very  possible  that  at  some  earlier  period 
of  his  career,  Mr.  Weller’s  profile  might  have 
presented  a bold  and  determined  outline.  His 
face,  however,  had  expanded  under  the  influence 
of  good  living,  and  a disposition  remarkable  for 
resignation  ; and  its  bold  fleshy  curves  had  so 
far  extended  beyond  the  limits  originally  as- 
signed them,  that  unless  you  took  a full  view  of 
his  countenance  in  front,  it  was  difficult  to  dis- 
tinguish more  than  the  extreme  tip  of  a very 
rubicund  nose.  His  chin,  from  the  same  cause, 
had  acquired  the  grave  and  imposing  form  which 
is  generally  described  by  prefixing  the  word 
“ double  ” to  that  expressive  feature  ; and  his 
complexion  exhibited  that  peculiarly  mottled 
combination  of  colors  which  is  only  to  be  seen 
in  gentlemen  of  his  profession,  and  in  underdone 
roast  beef.  Round  his  neck  he  wore  a crimson 
travelling-shawl,  which  merged  into  his  chin  by 
such  imperceptible  gradations,  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  distinguish  the  folds  of  the  one  from  the 
folds  of  the  other.  Over  this,  he  mounted  a long 
waistcoat  of  a broad  pink-striped  pattern,  and 
over  that  again,  a wide-skirted  green  coat,  orna- 
mented with  large  brass  buttons,  whereof  the 
two  which  garnished  the  waist  were  so  far 
apart,  that  no  man  had  ever  beheld  them  both, 
at  the  same  time.  His  hair,  which  was  short, 
sleek,  and  black,  was  just  visible  beneath  the 
capacious  brim  of  a low-crowned  brown  hat. 
His  legs  were  encased  in  knee-cord  breeches, 
and  painted  top-boots:  and  a copper  watch- 
chain,  terminating  in  one  seal,  and  a key  of  the 
same  material,  dangled  loosely  from  his  capa- 
cious waistbtmd. — Pickwick,  Chap.  23. 


WHISKERS 


523 


WHIST 


WHISKERS-The  peachy  cheek  of  Fledge- 
by. 

Young  Fledgeby  was  none  of  these.  Young 
Fledgeby  had  a peachy  cheek,  or  a cheek  com- 
pounded of  the  peach  and  the  red  red  wall  on 
which  it  grows,  and  was  an  awkward,  sandy- 
haired,  small  eyed  youth,  exceeding  slim  (his 
enemies  would  have  said  lanky),  and  prone  to 
self-examination  in  the  articles  of  whisker  and 
moustache.  While  feeling  for  the  whisker  that 
he  anxiously  expected,  Fledgeby  underwent  re- 
markable fluctuations  of  spirits,  ranging  along 
the  whole  scale  from  confidence  to  despair. 
There  were  times  when  he  started,  as  exclaim- 
ing, “ By  Jupiter,  here  it  is  at  last!”  There 
were  other  times  when,  being  equally  depressed, 
he  would  be  seen  to  shake  his  head,  and  give  up 
hope.  To  see  him  at  those  periods,  leaning  on 
a chimney-piece,  like  as  on  an  urn  containing 
the  ashes  of  his  ambition,  with  the  cheek  that 
would  not  sprout,  upon  the  hand  on  which 
that  cheek  had  forced  conviction,  was  a distress- 
ing sight. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap . 4. 

Fledgeby  has  devoted  the  interval  to  taking 
an  observation  of  Boots’s  whiskers,  Brewer’s 
whiskers,  and  Lammle’s  whiskers,  and  consider- 
ing which  pattern  of  whisker  he  would  prefer 
to  produce  out  of  himself  by  friction,  if  the 
Genie  of  the  cheek  would  only  answer  to  his 
rubbing. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap.  16. 

WHISKERS— The  shaving1  of  Mr.  Bailey’s. 

Mr.  Bailey  stroked  his  chin,  and  a thought  ap- 
peared to  occur  to  him. 

“ Poll,”  he  said,  “ I ain’t  as  neat  as  I could 
wish  about  the  gills.  Being  here,  I may  as  well 
have  a shave,  and  get  trimmed  close.” 

The  barber  stood  aghast  ; but  Mr.  Bailey  di- 
vested himself  of  his  neck-cloth,  and  sat  down 
in  the  easy  shaving  chair,  with  all  the  dignity 
and  confidence  in  life.  There  was  no  resisting 
his  manner.  The  evidence  of  sight  and  touch 
became  as  nothing.  His  chin  was  as  smooth  as 
a new-laid  egg  or  a scraped  Dutch  cheese  ; but 
Poll  Sweedlepipe  wouldn’t  have  ventured  to 
d~nv,  on  affidavit,  that  he  had  the  beard  of  a 
Jewish  rabbi. 

“ Go  with  the  grain,  Poll,  all  around,  please,” 
said  Mr.  Bailey,  screwing  up  his  face  for  the  re- 
ception of  the  lather.  “ You  may  do  wot  you 
like  with  the  bits  of  whisker.  I don’t  care  for 
’em.” 

The  meek  little  barber  stood  gazing  at  him 
with  the  brush  and  soap-dish  in  his  hand,  stir- 
ring them  round  and  round  in  a ludicrous  uncer- 
tainty, as  if  he  were  disabled  by  some  fascination 
from  beginning.  At  last  he  made  a dash  at  Mr. 
Bailey’s  cheek.  Then  he  stopped  again,  as  if  the 
ghost  of  a beard  had  suddenly  receded  from  his 
touch  ; but  receiving  mild  encouragement  from 
Mr.  Bailey,  in  the  form  of  an  adjuration  to  “ Go 
in  and  win,”  he  lathered  him  bountifully.  Mr. 
Bailey  smiled  through  the  suds  in  his  satisfac- 
tion. 

“ Gently  over  the  stones,  Poll.  Go  a tip  toe 
over  the  pimples?  ” 

Poll  Sweedlepipe  obeyed,  and  scraped  the 
lather  off  again  with  particular  care.  Mr.  Bailey 
squinted  at  every  successive  dab,  as  it  was  de- 
posited on  a cloth  on  his  left  shoulder,  and 


seemed,  with  a microscopic  eye,  to  detect  some 
bristles  in  it  ; for  he  murmured  more  than  once, 
“ Reether  redder  than  I could  wish,  Poll.”  The 
operation  being  concluded,  Poll  fell  back  and 
stared  at  him  again,  while  Mr.  Bailey,  wiping 
his  face  on  the  jack-towel,  remarked,  “ that  arter 
late  hours  nothing  freshened  up  a man  so  much 
as  a easy  shave  ” — Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  29. 

WHISPERINGr-The  effect  of. 

Both  sit  silent,  listening  to  the  metal  voices, 
near  and  distant,  resounding  from  towers  of  va- 
rious heights,  in  tones  more  various  than  their 
situations.  When  these  at  length  cease,  all 
seems  more  mysterious  and  quiet  than  before. 
One  disagreeable  result  of  whispering  is,  that  it 
seems  to  evoke  an  atmosphere  of  silence,  haunt- 
ed by  the  ghosts  of  sound — strange  cracks  and 
tickings,  the  rustling  of  garments  that  have  no 
substance  in  them,  and  the  tread  of  dreadful 
feet,  that  would  leave  no  mark  on  the  sea  sand 
or  the  winter  snow.  So  sensitive  the  two  friends 
happen  to  be,  that  the  air  is  full  of  these  phan- 
toms ; and  the  two  look  over  their  shoulders  by 
one  consent,  to  see  that  the  door  is  shut. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  32. 

WHISPER-A  double-barrelled. 

“ I ask  your  pardons,  Governors,”  replied  the 
ghost,  in  a hoarse  double-barrelled  whisper, 
“ but  might  either  on  you  be  Lawyer  Light- 
wood  ? ” 

Our  Mutual  Friend ',  Book  I.,  Chap.  12. 

WHIST-Pickwick  at. 

Poor  Mr.  Pickwick  ! he  had  never  played 
with  three  thorough-paced  female  card-players 
before.  They  were  so  desperately  sharp,  that 
they  quite  frightened  him.  If  he  played  a 
wrong  card,  Miss  Bolo  looked  a small  armory 
of  daggers  ; if  he  stopped  to  consider  which 
was  the  right  one,  Lady  Snuphanuph  would 
throw  herself  back  in  her  chair,  and  smile  with 
a mingled  glance  of  impatience  and  pity  to 
Mrs.  Colonel  Wugsby  ; at  which  Mrs.  Colonel 
Wugsby  would  shrug  up  her  shoulders,  and 
cough,  as  much  as  to  say  she  wondered  whether 
he  ever  would  begin.  Then,  at  the  end  of 
every  hand,  Miss  Bolo  would  inquire  with  a 
dismal  countenance  and  reproachful  sigh,  why 
Mr.  Pickwick  had  not  returned  that  diamond, 
or  led  the  club,  or  roughed  the  spade,  or  finessed 
the  heart,  or  led  through  the  honor,  or  brought 
out  the  ace,  or  played  up  to  the  king,  or  some 
such  thing ; and  in  reply  to  all  these  grave 
charges,  Mr.  Pickwick  would  be  wholly  unable  to 
plead  any  justification  whatever,  having  by  this 
time  forgotten  all  about  the  game.  People  came 
and  looked  on,  too,  which  made  Mr.  Pickwick 
nervous.  Besides  all  this,  there  was  a great  deal 
of  distracting  conversation  near  the  table,  be- 
tween Angelo  Bantam  and  the  two  Miss  Matin- 
ters,  who,  being  single  and  singular,  paid  great 
court  to  the  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  in  the 
hope  of  getting  a stray  partner  now  and  then. 
All  these  things,  combined  with  the  noises  and 
interruptions  of  constant  comings  in  and  goings 
out,  made  Mr.  Pickwick  play  rather  badly  ; the 
cards  were  against  him,  also  ; and  when  they 
left  off  at  ten  minutes  past  eleven,  Miss  Bolo 
rose  from  the  table  considerably  agitated,  and 
went  straight  home,  in  a flood  of  tears,  and  a 
sedan-chair. — Pickwick , Chap.  35. 


WHIST 


624 


WIFE 


WHIST. 

The  rubber  was  conducted  with  all  that  gra- 
vity of  deportment  and  sedateness  of  demeanor 
which  befit  the  pursuit  entitled  “whist” — a 
solemn  observance,  to  which,  as  it  appears  to 
us,  the  title  of  “game ’’has  been  very  irrever- 
ently and  ignominiously  applied. 

* 5jC  * SfC  5jC 

A solemn  silence : Mr.  Pickwick  humorous, 
the  old  lady  serious,  the  fat  gentleman  captious, 
and  Mr.  Miller  timorous. — Pickwick , Chap.  6. 

WIDOW— Her  weeds  (Mrs.  Heep). 

It  was  perhaps  a part  of  Mrs.  Heep’s  humil- 
ity, that  she  still  wore  weeds.  Notwithstanding 
the  lapse  of  time  that  had  occurred  since  Mr. 
Heep’s  decease,  she  still  wore  weeds.  I think 
there  was  some  compromise  in  the  cap ; but 
otherwise  she  was  as  weedy  as  in  the  early  days 
of  her  mourning. — David  Copper  field.  Chap.  18. 

Even  her  black  dress  assumed  something  of  a 
deadly-lively  air  from  the  jaunty  style  in  which 
it  was  worn  ; and,  eked  out  as  its  lingering  at- 
tractions were,  by  a prudent  disposal,  here  and 
there,  of  certain  juvenile  ornaments  of  little  or 
no  value,  her  mourning  garments  assumed 
quite  a new  character.  From  being  the  out- 
ward tokens  of  respect  and  sorrow  for  the  dead, 
they  became  converted  into  signals  of  very 
slaughterous  and  killing  designs  upon  the  liv- 
ing.— Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  41. 

WIDOWS— Opinion  of  Mr.  Weller,  the  el- 
der. 

“ How’s  mother-in-law?” 

“ Wy,  I’ll  tell  you  what,  Sammy,”  said  Mr. 
Weller,  senior,  with  much  solemnity  in  his  man- 
ner ; “ there  never  was  a nicer  woman  as  a wid- 
der,  than  that  ’ere  second  wentur  o’  mine — a 
sweet  creetur  she  was,  Sammy  ; all  I can  say  on 
her  now,  is,  that  as  she  was  such  an  uncommon 
pleasant  widder,  it’s  a great  pity  she  ever  changed 
her  con-dition.  She  don’t  act  as  a vife,  Sammy.” 

“Don’t  she,  though?”  inquired  Mr.  Weller, 
junior. 

The  elder  Mr.  Weller  shook  his  head,  as  he 
replied  with  a sigh,  “ I’ve  done  it  once  too  often, 
Sammy  ; I’ve  done  it  once  too  often.  Take  ex- 
ample by  your  father,  my  boy,  and  be  wery  care- 
ful o’  widders  all  your  life,  specially  if  they’ve 
kept  a public-house,  Sammy.”  Having  deliv- 
ered this  parental  advice  with  great  pathos,  Mr. 
Weller  senior  refilled  his  pipe  from  a tin  box  he 
carried  in  his  pocket,  and,  lighting  his  fresh  pipe 
from  the  ashes  of  the  old  one,  commenced  smok- 
ing at  a great  rate. 

“ Beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  he  said,  renewing  the 
subject,  and  addressing  Mr.  Pickwick,  after  a 
considerable  pause,  “ nothin’  personal,  I hope, 
sir ; I hope  you  han’t  got  a widder,  sir.” 

Pickwick , Chap.  20. 

WIDTH  AND  WISDOM  Weller’s  maxim. 

“ Vait  a minit,  Sammy  ; ven  you  grow  as  old 
as  your  father,  you  von’t  get  into  your  veskit 
quite  as  easy  as  you  do  now,  my  boy.” 

“ If  I couldn’t  get  into  it  easier  than  that,  I’m 
blessed  if  I’d  vear  vun  at  all,"  rejoined  his  son. 

“You  think  so  now,”  said  Mr.  Weller,  with 
the  gravity  of  age  ; “ but  you’ll  find  that  as  you 
gel  vider,  you’ll  get  viser.  Vidth  and  visdom, 
Sammy,  alvays  grows  together.” 


As  Mr.  Weller  delivered  this  infallible  max- 
im— the  result  of  many  years’  personal  experi- 
ence and  observation — he  contrived,  by  a dex- 
terous twist  of  his  body,  to  get  the  bottom  but- 
ton of  his  coat  to  perform  its  office. 

Pickwick , Chap.  55. 

WIFE— An  unhappy. 

* * * Whose  happiness  was  in  the  past, 

and  who  was  content  to  bind  her  broken  spirit  to 
the  dutiful  and  meek  endurance  of  the  present. 

Donibey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  1. 

WIFE— Loss  of  a. 

He  was  not  a man  of  whom  it  could  properly 
be  said  that  he  was  ever  startled  or  shocked  ; 
but  he  certainly  had  a sense  within  him,  that  if 
his  wife  should  sicken  and  decay,  he  would  be 
very  sorry,  and  that  he  would  find  a something 
gone  from  among  his  plate  and  furniture,  and 
other  household  possessions,  which  was  well 
worth  the  having,  and  could  not  be  lost  without 
sincere  regret.  Though  it  would  be  a cool,  busi- 
ness-like, gentlemanly,  self-possessed  regret,  no 
doubt. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  1. 

WIFE  Toots’s  opinion  of  his. 

“ But  Lord  bless  me,”  pursues  Mr.  Toots, 
“ she  was  as  entirely  conscious  of  the  stale  of 
my  feelings  as  I was  myself.  There  was  no- 
thing I could  tell  her.  She  was  the  only  person 
who  could  have  stood  between  me  and  the  silent 
Tomb,  and  she  did  it  in  a manner  to  command 
my  everlasting  admiration.  She  knows  that 
there’s  nobody  in  the  world  I look  up  to  as  I do 
to  Miss  Dombey.  She  knows  that  there’s  no- 
thing on  earth  I wouldn’t  do  for  Miss  Dombey. 
She  knows  that  I consider  Miss  Dombey  the 
most  beautiful,  the  most  amiable,  the  most  an- 
gelic of  her  sex.  What  is  her  observation  upon 
that  ? The  perfection  of  sense.  ‘ My  dear, 
you’re  right.  / think  so,  too.’  ” 

“ And  so  do  I !”  says  the  Captain. 

“ So  do  I,”  says  Sol  Gills. 

“Then,”  resumes  Mr.  Toots,  after  some  con- 
templative pulling  at  his  pipe,  during  which  his 
visage  has  expressed  the  most  contented  reflec- 
tion, “ what  an  observant  woman  my  wife  is  ! 
What  sagacity  she  possesses  ! What  remarks 
she  makes  ! — Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  62. 

“ But,  Susan,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  who 
had  spoken  with  great  feeling  and  high  admira- 
tion, “ all  I ask  is,  that  you’ll  remember  the 
medical  man,  and  not  exert  yourself  too  much.” 

Dombey  cf  Son,  Chap.  61. 

WIFE— Her  deities  to  a husband. 

“ To  be  his  patient  companion  in  infirmity  and 
age  ; to  be  his  gentle  nurse  in  sickness,  and  his 
constant  friend  in  suffering  and  sorrow ; to 
know  no  weariness  in  working  for  his  sake  ; to 
watch  him,  tend  him,  sit  beside  his  bed  and 
talk  to  him  awake,  and  pray  for  him  asleep  ; 
what  privileges  these  would  be  ! What  op- 
portunities for  proving  all  her  truth  and  her 
devotion  to  him  ! ” 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  Chap.  2. 

WIFE  A solemn. 

“ Your  brothers  and  sisters  have  all  in  their 
turns  been  companions  to  me,  to  a certain  ex- 
tent, but  only  to  a certain  extent.  Your  mother 


WIFE 


525 


WILES 


has,  throughout  life,  been  a companion  that  any 
man  might — might  look  up  to — and — and  com- 
mit the  sayings  of,  to  memory — and — form  him- 
self upon — if  he ” 

“ If  he  liked  the  model?”  suggested  Bella. 

“ We-ell,  ye-es,”  he  returned,  thinking  about 
it,  not  quite  satisfied  with  the  phrase  : “ or  per- 
haps I might  say,  if  it  was  in  him.  Supposing, 
for  instance,  that  a man  wanted  to  be  always 
marching,  he  would  find  your  mother  an  inesti- 
mable companion.  But  if  he  had  any  taste  for 
walking,  or  should  wish  at  any  time  to  break  in- 
to a trot,  he  might  sometimes  find  it  a little 
difficult  to  keep  step  with  your  mother.  Or 
take  it  this  way,  Bella,”  he  added,  after  a mo- 
ment’s reflection  : “ Supposing  that  a man  had 
to  go  through  life,  we  won’t  say  with  a compan- 
ion, but  we’ll  say  to  a tune.  Very  good.  Sup- 
posing that  the  tune  allotted  to  him  was  the 
Dead  March  in  Saul.  Well.  It  would  be  a 
very  suitable  tune  for  particular  occasions — 
none  better — but  it  would  be  difficult  to  keep 
time  within  the  ordinary  run  of  domestic  trans- 
actions. For  instance,  if  he  took  his  supper 
after  a hard  day,  to  the  Dead  March  in  Saul, 
his  food  might  be  likely  to  sit  heavy  on  him.  Or, 
if  he' was  at  anytime  inclined  to  relieve  his 
mind  by  singing  a comic  song  or  dancing  a 
hornpipe,  and  was  obliged  to  do  it  to  the  Dead 
March  in  Saul,  he  might  find  himself  put  out  in 
the  execution  of  his  lively  intentions.” 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  II.,  Chap.  8. 

WIFE— A bad-tempered. 

She  wasn’t  a bad  wife,  but  she  had  a temper. 
If  she  could  have  parted  with  that  one  article 
at  a sacrifice,  I wouldn’t  have  swopped  her  away 
in  exchange  for  any  other  woman  in  England. 
Not  that  I ever  did  swop  her  away,  for  we  lived 
together  till  she  died,  and  that  was  thirteen  year. 
Now,  my  lords  and  ladies  and  gentlefolks  all, 
I’ll  let  you  into  a secret,  though  you  won’t  be- 
lieve it.  Thirteen  year  of  temper  in  a Palace 
would  try  the  worst  of  you,  but  thirteen  year  of 
temper  in  a Cart  would  try  the  best  of  you. 
You  are  kept  so  very  close  to  it  in  a cart,  you 
see.  There’s  thousands  of  couples  among  you 
getting  on  like  sweet  ile  upon  a whetstone  in 
houses  five  and  six  pairs  of  stairs  high,  that 
would  go  to  the  Divorce  Court  in  a cart. 
Whether  the  jolting  makes  it  worse,  I don’t  un- 
dertake to  decide  ; but  in  a cart  it  does  come 
home  to  you,  and  stick  to  you.  Wiolence  in  a 
cart  is  so  wiolent,  and  aggrawation  in  a cart  is 
so  aggrawating. 

* * * * * 

My  dog  knew  as  well  when  she  was  on  the 
turn  as  I did.  Before  she  broke  out,  he  would 
give  a howl  and  bolt.  How  he  knew  it,  was  a 
mystery  to  me  ; but  the  sure  and  certain  know- 
ledge of  it  would  wake  him  up  out  of  his  sound- 
est sleep,  and  he  would  give  a howl,  and  bolt.  At 
such  times  I wished  I was  him. — Dr.  Marigold. 

WIFE— (Mrs.  Varden). 

Mrs.  Varden  was  a lady  of  what  is  commonly 
called  an  uncertain  temper — a phrase  which  be- 
ing interpreted  signifies  a temper  tolerably  cer- 
tain to  make  everybody  more  or  less  uncomfort- 
able. Thus  it  generally  happened,  that  when 
other  people  were  merry,  Mrs.  Varden  was  dull  ; 
and  that  when  other  people  were  dull,  Mrs. 
Varden  was  disposed  to  be  amazingly  cheerful. 


Indeed,  the  worthy  housewife  was  of  such  a ca- 
pricious nature,  that  she  not  only  attained  a 
higher  pitch  of  genius  than  Macbeth,  in  respect 
of  her  ability  to  be  wise,  amazed,  temperate  and 
furious,  loyal  and  neutral,  in  an  instant,  but 
would  sometimes  ring  the  changes  backwards 
and  forwards  on  all  possible  moods  and  flights 
in  one  short  quarter  of  an  hour  ; performing,  as 
it  were,  a kind  of  triple-bob-major  on  the  peal 
of  instruments  in  the  female  belfry,  with  a skill- 
fulness and  rapidity  of  execution  that  astonished 
all  who  heard  her. 

It  had  been  observed  in  this  good  lady  (who 
did  not  want  for  personal  attractions,  being 
plump  and  buxom  to  look  at,  though,  like  her 
fair  daughter,  somewhat  short  in  stature)  that 
this  uncertainty  of  disposition  strengthened  and 
increased  with  her  temporal  prosperity  ; and 
divers  wise  men  and  matrons  on  friendly  terms 
with  the  locksmith  and  his  family  even  went  so 
far  as  to  assert,  that  a tumble-dowTn  some  half- 
dozen  rounds  in  the  •world’s  ladder — such  as  the 
breaking  of  the  bank  in  which  her  husband  kept 
his  money,  or  some  little  fall  of  that  kind — 
would  be  the  making  of  her,  and  could  hardly 
fail  to  render  her  one  of  the  most  agreeable 
companions  in  existence.  Whether  they  were 
right  or  wrong  in  this  conjecture,  certain  it  is 
that  minds,  like  bodies,  will  often  fall  into  a 
pimpled,  ill-conditioned  state  from  mere  excess 
of  comfort,  and  like  them,  are  often  successfully 
cured  by  remedies  in  themselves  very  nauseous 
and  unpalatable. — Barnaby  Fudge,  Chap.  7. 

WILL-Won’t,  and  can’t. 

“ How  I envy  you  your  constitution,  Jarn- 
dyce  ! ” returned  Mr.  Skimpole,  with  playful 
admiration.  “You  don’t  mind  these  things, 
neither  does  Miss  Summerson.  You  are  ready 
at  all  times  to  go  anywhere,  and  do  anything. 
Such  is  Will ! I have  no  Will  at  all — and  no 
Won’t — simply  Can’t.” — Bleak  House , Chap.  31. 

WILLS— The  depositaries  of  human  pas- 
sions. 

We  naturally  fell  into  a train  of  reflection 
as  we  walked  homewards,  upon  the  curious 
old  records  of  likings  and  dislikings  ; of  jeal- 
ousies and  revenges  ; of  affection  defying  the 
power  of  death,  and  hatred  pursued  beyond 
the  grave,  which  these  depositaries  contain  ; 
silent  but  striking  tokens,  some  of  them,  of 
excellence  of  heart,  and  nobleness  of  soul ; 
melancholy  examples,  others,  of  the  worst  pas- 
sions of  human  nature.  How  many  men,  as 
they  lay  speechless  and  helpless  on  the  bed  of 
death,  would  have  given  worlds  for  but  the 
strength  and  power  to  blot  out  the  silent  evi- 
dence of  animosity  and  bitterness,  which  now 
stands  registered  against  them  in  Doctors’ 
Commons. — Scenes,  Chap.  8. 

WILLS— The  making-  of. 

The  maxim,  that  out  of  evil  cometh  good, 
is  strongly  illustrated  by  these  establishments 
at  home,  as  the  records  of  the  Prerogative  Of- 
fice in  Doctors’  Commons  can  abundantly  prove. 
Some  immensely  rich  old  gentleman  or  lady, 
surrounded  by  needy  relatives,  makes,  upon  a low 
average,  awillaweek.  The  old  gentleman  or  lady, 
never  very  remarkable  in  the  best  of  times  for 
good  temper,  is  full  of  aches  and  pains  from 
head  to  foot,  full  of  fancies  and  caprices.  Aril 


WILJj 


533 


WIND 


of  spleen,  distrust,  suspicion,  and  dislike.  To 
cancel  old  wills,  and  invent  new  ones,  is  at  last 
the  sole  business  of  such  a testator’s  existence  ; 
and  relations  and  friends  (some  of  whom  have 
been  bred  up  distinctly  to  inherit  a large  share 
of  the  property,  and  have  been,  from  their  cra- 
dles, specially  disqualified  from  devoting  them- 
selves to  any  useful  pursuit,  on  that  account) 
are  so  often  and  so  unexpectedly  and  summarily 
cut  off,  and  reinstated,  and  cut  off  again,  that 
the  whole  family,  down  to  the  remotest  cousin, 
is  kept  in  a perpetual  fever.  At  length  it  be- 
comes plain  that  the  old  lady  or  gentleman  has 
not  long  to  live  ; and  the  plainer  this  becomes, 
the  more  clearly  the  old  lady  or  gentleman  per- 
ceives that  everybody  is  in  a conspiracy  against 
their  poor  old  dying  relative  ; wherefore  the 
old  lady  or  gentleman  makes  another  last  will, 
— positively  the  last  this  time, — conceals  the 
same  in  a china  teapot,  and  expires  next 
day.  Then  it  turns  out  that  the  whole  of  the 
real  and  personal  estate  is  divided  between  half 
a dozen  charities,  and  that  the  dead  and  gone 
testator  has  in  pure  spite  helped  to  do  a great 
deal  of  good  at  the  cost  of  an  immense  amount 
of  evil  passion  and  misery. 

American  A7otes,  Chap.  3. 

WILL— Mr.  Boffin’s  “tight.” 

“ Make  me  as  compact  a little  will  as  can  be 
reconciled  with  tightness,  leaving  the  whole  of 
the  property  to  ‘ my  beloved  wife,  Henrietty 
Boffin,  sole  executrix.’  Make  it  as  short  as  you 
can,  using  those  words  ; but  make  it  tight.” 

At  some  loss  to  fathom  Mr.  Boffin’s  notions  of 
a tight  will,  Lightwood  felt  his  way. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  but  professional  profun- 
dity must  be  exact.  When  you  say  tight ” 

“ I mean  tight,”  Mr.  Boffin  explained. 

“ Exactly  so.  And  nothing  can  be  more 
laudable.  But  is  the  tightness  to  bind  Mrs. 
Boffin  to  any  and  what  conditions?” 

“ Bind  Mrs.  Boffin  ? ” interposed  her  husband. 
“ What  are  you  thinking  of?  What  I want  is  to 
make  it  ail  hers  so  tight  as  that  her  hold  of  it 
can’t  be  loosed.” 

“ Hers  freely,  to  do  what  she  likes  with  ? Hers 
absolutely?  ” 

“ Absolutely  ! ” repeated  Mr.  Boffin,  with  a 
short,  sturdy  laugh. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  8. 

WIND— A winter. 

It  was  a bitter  day.  A keen  wind  was 
blowing,  and  rushed  against  them  fiercely ; 
bleaching  the  hard  ground,  shaking  the  white 
frost  from  the  trees  and  hedges,  and  whirling  it 
away  like  dust.  But  little  cared  Kit  for 
weather.  There  was  a freedom  and  freshness 
in  the  wind  as  it  came  howling  by,  which,  let  it 
cut  never  so  sharp,  was  welcome.  As  it  swept 
on  with  its  cloud  of  frost,  bearing  down  the  dry 
twigs  and  boughs  and  withered  leaves,  and  car- 
rying them  away  pell-mell,  it  seemed  as  though 
some  general  sympathy  had  got  abroad,  and 
everything  was  in  a hurry  like  themselves.  The 
harder  the  gusts,  the  better  progress  they  ap- 
peared to  make.  It  was  a good  thing  to  go 
struggling  and  fighting  forward,  vanquishing 
them  one  by  one  ; to  watch  them  driving  up, 
gathering  strength  and  fury  as  they  came  along  ; 
to  bend  for  a moment,  as  they  whistled  past  ; 
and  then  to  look  back,  and  see  them  speed 


away,  their  hoarse  noise  dying  in  the  distance, 
and  the  stout  trees  cowering  down  before  them. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  69. 

WIND-And  snow. 

As  it  grew  dusk,  the  wind  fell ; its  distant 
moanings  were  more  low  and  mournful ; and, 
as  it  came  creeping  up  the  road,  and  rattling 
covertly  among  the  dry  brambles  on  either  hand, 
it  seemed  like  some  great  phantom  for  whom 
the  way  was  narrow,  whose  garments  rustled  as 
it  stalked  along.  By  degrees  it  lulled  and  died 
away,  and  then  it  came  on  to  snow. 

The  flakes  fell  fast  and  thick,  soon  covering 
the  ground  some  inches  deep,  and  spreading 
abroad  a solemn  stillness.  The  rolling  wheels 
were  noiseless,  and  the  sharp  ring  and  clatter  of 
the  horses’  hoofs  became  a dull,  muffled  tramp. 
The  life  of  their  progress  seemed  to  be  slowly 
hushed,  and  something  death-like  to  usurp  its 
place. 

Shading  his  eyes  from  the  falling  snow,  which 
froze  upon  their  lashes  and  obscured  his  sight, 
Kit  often  tried  to  catch  the  earliest  glimpse  of 
twinkling  lights  denoting  their  approach  to  some 
not  distant  town.  He  could  descry  objects 
enough  at  such  times,  but  none  correctly.  Now, 
a tall  church  spire  appeared  in  view,  which  pres- 
ently became  a tree,  a barn,  a shadow  on  the 
ground,  thrown  on  it  by  their  own  bright  lamps. 
Now,  there  were  horsemen,  foot-passengers,  car- 
riages, going  on  before,  or  meeting  them  in  nar- 
row ways  ; which,  when  they  were  close  upon 
them,  turned  to  shadows  too.  A wall,  a ruin,  a 
sturdy  gable  end,  would  rise  up  in  the  road  ; 
and,  when  they  were  plunging  headlong  at  it, 
would  be  the  road  itself.  Strange  turnings,  too, 
bridges,  and  sheets  of  water,  appeared  to  start 
up  here  and  there,  making  the  way  doubtful 
and  uncertain  ; and  yet  they  were  on  the  same 
bare  road,  and  these  things,  like  the  others,  as 
they  were  passed,  turned  into  dim  illusions. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  70. 

WIND— The  East,  of  Mr.  Jarndyce. 

Ada  and  I agreed,  as  we  talked  together  for  a 
little  while  up-stairs,  that  this  caprice  about  the 
wind  was  a fiction  ; and  that  he  used  the  pre- 
tence to  account  for  any  disappointment  he 
could  not  conceal,  rather  than  he  would  blame 
the  real  cause  of  it,  or  disparage  or  depreciate 
any  one.  We  thought  this  very  characteristic 
of  his  eccentric  gentleness  ; and  of  the  difference 
between  him  and  those  petulant  people  who 
make  the  weather  and  the  winds  (particularly 
that  unlucky  wind  which  he  had  chosen  for  such 
a different  purpose)  the  stalking-horses  of  their 
splenetic  and  gloomy  humors. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  6. 

WIND— A gale  of. 

“ The  wind  blew — not  up  the  road,  or  down 
it,  though  that’s  bad  enough,  but  sheer  across 
at,  sending  the  rain  slanting  down  like  the  lines 
they  used  to  rule  in  the  copybooks  in  school,  to 
make  the  boys  slope  well.  For  a moment  it 
would  die  away,  and  the  traveller  would  begin 
to  delude  himself  into  the  belief  that,  exhausted 
with  its  previous  fury,  it  had  quietly  lain  itself 
down  to  rest,  when,  woo!  he  would  hear  it 
growling  and  whistling  in  the  distance,  and  on 
it  would  come,  rushing  over  the  hill-tops,  and 
sweeping  along  the  plain  gathering  sound  and 


WIND 


527 


WIND 


strength  as  it  drew  nearer,  until  it  dashed  with 
a heavy  gust  against  horse  and  man,  driving  the 
sharp  rain  into  their  ears,  and  its  cold,  damp 
breath  into  their  very  bones  ; and  past  them  it 
would  scour,  far,  far  away,  with  a stunning  roar, 
as  if  in  ridicule  of  their  weakness,  and  triumph- 
ant in  the  consciousness  of  its  own  strength  and 
power.” — Pickwick , Chap.  14. 

WIND  -The  whistling:  of  the. 

The  evening  grew  more  dull  every  moment, 
and  a melancholy  wind  sounded  through  the 
deserted  fields,  like  a distant  giant  whistling  for 
his  house-dog.  The  sadness  of  the  scene  im- 
parted a sombre  tinge  to  the  feelings  of  Mr. 
Winkle.  He  started  as  they  passed  the  angle 
of  the  trench — it  looked  like  a colossal  grave. 

Pickwick , Chap.  2. 

WIN  D-STOHM — At  night. 

The  red  light  burns  steadily  all  the  evening 
in  the  lighthouse  on  the  margin  of  the  tide  of 
busy  life.  Softened  sounds  and  hum  of  traffic 
pass  it  and  flow  on  irregularly  into  the  lonely 
Precincts ; but  very  little  else  goes  by,  save  vio- 
lent rushes  of  wind.  It  comes  on  to  blow  a 
boisterous  gale. 

The  Precincts  are  never  particularly  well 
lighted  ; but  the  strong  blasts  of  wind  blowing 
out  many  of  the  lamps  (in  some  instances  shat- 
tering the  frames  too,  and  bringing  the  glass  rat- 
tling to  the  ground),  they  are  unusually  dark  to- 
night. The  darkness  is  augmented  and  con- 
fused by  flying  dust  from  the  earth,  dry 
twigs  from  the  trees,  and  great  ragged  frag- 
ments from  the  rooks’  nests  up  in  the  tower. 
The  trees  themselves  so  toss  and  creak,  as  this 
tangible  part  of  the  darkness  madly  whirls 
about,  that  they  seem  in  peril  of  being  torn  out 
of  the  earth  ; while  ever  and  again  a crack,  and 
a rushing  fall,  denote  that  some  large  branch 
has  yielded  to  the  storm. 

No  such  power  of  wind  has  blown  for  many 
a winter  night.  Chimneys  topple  in  the  streets, 
and  people  hold  to  posts  and  corners,  and  to 
one  another,  to  keep  themselves  upon  their 
feet.  The  violent  rushes  abate  not,  but  increase 
in  frequency  and  fury,  until  at  midnight,  when 
the  streets  are  empty,  the  storm  goes  thunder- 
ing along  them,  rattling  at  all  the  latches,  and 
tearing  at  all  the  shutters,  as  if  warning  the  peo- 
ple to  get  up  and  fly  with  it,  rather  than  have 
the  roofs  brought  down  upon  their  brains. 

All  through  the  night  the  wind  blows,  and 
abates  not.  But  early  in  the  morning,  when 
there  is  barely  enough  light  in  the  east  to  dim 
the  stars,  it  begins  to  lull.  From  that  time, 
with  occasional  wild  charges,  like  a wounded 
monster  dying,  it  drops  and  sinks  ; and  at  full 
daylight  it  is  dead. — Edivin  Drood , Chap.  14. 

WIND— A solemn  sound. 

As  the  deep  Cathedral  bell  strikes  the  hour, 
a ripple  of  wind  goes  through  these  at  their 
distance,  like  a ripple  of  the  solemn  sound  that 
hums  through  tomb  and  tower,  broken  niche 
and  defaced  statue,  in  the  pile  close  at  band. 

Edivin  Drood , Chap.  2. 

WIND— An  easterly,  in  London. 

It  was  not  summer  yet,  but  spring  ; and  it 
was  not  gentle  spring,  ethereally  mild,  as  in 
Thomson’s  Seasons,  but  nipping  spring  with  an 


easteidy  wind,  as  in  Johnson’s,  Jackson’s,  Dick- 
son’s, Smith’s,  and  Jones’s  Seasons.  The  grat- 
ing wind  sawed  rather  than  blew  ; and  as  it 
sawed,  the  sawdust  whirled  about  the  sawpit. 
Every  street  was  a sawpit,  and  there  were  no 
top-sawyers ; every  passenger  was  an  under- 
sawyer, with  the  sawdust  blinding  him  and 
choking  him. 

That  mysterious  paper  currency  which  circu- 
lates in  London  when  the  wind  blows,  gyrated 
here  and  there  and  everywhere.  Whence  can 
it  come,  whither  can  it  go?  It  hangs  on  every 
bush,  flutters  in  every  tree,  is  caught  flying  by 
the  electric  wires,  haunts  every  enclosure,  drinks 
at  every  pump,  cowers  at  every  grating,  shud- 
ders upon  every  plot  of  grass,  seeks  rest  in  vain 
behind  the  legions  of  iron  rails.  In  Paris,  where 
nothing  is  wasted,  costly  and  luxurious  city 
though  it  be,  but  where  wonderful  human  ants 
creep  out  of  holes  and.  pick  up  every  scrap, 
there  is  no  such  thing.  There,  it  blows  nothing 
but  dust.  There,  sharp  eyes  and  sharp  stomachs 
reap  even  the  east  wind,  and  get  something  out 
of  it. 

The  wind  sawed,  and  the  sawdust  whirled. 
The  shrubs  wrung  their  many  heads,  bemoaning 
that  they  had  been  over-persuaded  by  the  sun 
to  bud  ; the  young  leaves  pined  ; the  sparrows 
repented  of  their  early  marriages,  like  men 
and  women  ; the  colors  of  the  rainbow  were 
discernible,  not  in  floral  spring,  but  in  the 
faces  of  the  people  whom  it  nibbled  and 
pinched.  And  ever  the  wind  sawed,  and  the 
sawdust  whirled. 

When  the  spring  evenings  are  too  long  and 
light  to  shut  out,  and  such  weather  is  rife,  the 
city  which  Mr.  Podsnap  so  explanatorily  called 
London,  Londres,  London,  is  at  its  worst.  Such 
a black  shrill  city,  combining  the  qualities  of  a 
smoky  house  and  a scolding  wife  ; such  a gritty 
city  ; such  a hopeless  city,  with  no  rent  in  the 
leaden  canopy  of  its  sky  ; such  a beleaguered 
city,  invested  by  the  great  Marsh  Forces  of  Essex 
and  Kent.  So  the  two  old  school-fellows  felt  it 
to  be,  as,  their  dinner  done,  they  turned  towards 
the  fire  to  smoke.  Young  Blight  was  gone,  the 
coffee-house  waiter  was  gone,  the  plates  and 
dishes  were  gone,  the  wine  was  going — but  not 
in  the  same  direction. 

Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  12. 

WIND— A penetrating-. 

We  had  been  lying  here  some  half  an  hour. 
With  our  backs  to  the  wind,  it  is  true  ; but  the 
wind  being  in  a determined  temper  blew  straight 
through  us,  and  would  not  take  the  trouble  to 
go  round.  I would  have  boarded  a fireship  to 
get  into  action. 

* * * * * 

The  shrewd  East  rasped  and  notched  us,  as 
with  jagged  razors. 

Down  with  the  Tide.  Reprinted  Pieces. 

WIND— An  angry. 

Out  upon  the  angry  wind  ! how,  from  sighing, 
it  began  to  bluster  round  the  merry  forge,  bang- 
ing at  the  wicket,  and  grumbling  in  the  chim- 
ney, as  if  it  bullied  the  jolly  bellows  for  doing 
anything  to  order.  And  what  an  impotent 
swaggerer  it  was  too,  for  all  its  noise  ; for  if  it 
had  any  influence  on  that  hoarse  companion,  it 
was  but  to  make  him  roar  his  cheerful  song  the 
louder,  and  by  consequence  to  make  the  fire 


WIND 


628 


WINE 


burn  the  brighter,  and  the  sparks  to  dance  more 
gaily  yet : at  length,  they  whizzed  so  madly 
round  and  round,  that  it  was  too  much  for  such 
a surly  wind  to  bear  : so  off  it  flew  with  a howl  ; 
giving  the  old  sign  before  the  ale-house  door 
such  a cuff  as  it  went,  that  the  Blue  Dragon  was 
more  rampant  than  usual  ever  afterwards,  and 
indeed,  before  Christmas,  reared  clean  out  of  its 
crazy  fraijie. 

It  was  small  tyranny  fora  respectable  wind 
to  go  wreaking  its  vengeance  on  such  poor  crea- 
tures as  the  fallen  leaves,  but  this  wind  happen- 
ing to  come  up  with  a great  heap  of  them  just 
after  venting  its  humor  on  the  insulted  Dragon, 
did  so  disperse  and  scatter  them  that  they  fled 
away,  pell-mell,  some  here,  some  there,  rolling 
over  each  other,  whirling  round  and  round  upon 
their  thin  edges,  taking  frantic  flights  into  the 
air,  and  playing  all  manner  of  extraordinary 
gambols  in  the  extremity  of  their  distress.  Nor 
was  this  enough  for  its  malicious  fury : for  not 
content  with  driving  them  abroad,  it  charged 
small  parties  of  them  and  limited  them  into  the 
wheelwright’s  saw-pit,  and  below  the  planks 
and  timbers  in  the  yard,  and,  scattering  tlje  saw- 
dust in  the  air,  it  looked  for  them  underneath, 
and  when  it  did  meet  with  any,  whew  ! how  it 
drove  them  on  and  followed  at  their  heels  ! 

The  scared  leaves  only  flew  the  faster  for  all 
this,  and  a giddy  chase  it  was  : for  they  got  into 
unfrequented  places,  where  there  was  no  outlet, 
and  where  their  pursuer  kept  them  eddying 
round  and  round  at  his  pleasure  ; and  they  crept 
under  the  eaves  of  houses,  and  clung  tightly  to 
the  sides  of  hay-ricks,  like  bats  ; and.  tore  in  at 
open  chamber- windows,  and  cowered  close  to 
hedges  ; and  in  short  went  anywhere  for  safety. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  2. 

WIND— The  west. 

I never  had  so  much  interest  before,  and 
very  likely  I shall  never  have  so  much  interest 
again,  in  the  state  of  the  wind,  as  on  the  long- 
looked-for  morning  of  Tuesday  the  seventh  of 
June.  Some  nautical  authority  had  told  me  a 
day  or  two  previous,  “ Anything  with  west  in 
it  will  do  so  when  I darted  out  of  bed  at 
daylight,  and,  throwing  up  the  window,  was  sa- 
luted by  a lively  breeze  from  the  northwest, 
which  had  sprung  up  in  the  night,  it  came  up- 
on me  so  freshly,  rustling  with  so  many  happy 
associations,  that  I conceived  upon  the  spot  a 
special  regard  for  all  airs  blowing  from  that 
quarter  of  the  compass,  which  I shall  cherish,  I 
dare  say,  until  my  own  wind  has  breathed  its 
last  frail  puff,  and  withdrawn  itself  forever  from 
the  mortal  calendar. — American  Notes , Chap.  16. 

WIND -Around  a church. 

For  the  night-wind  has  a dismal  trick  of  wan- 
dering round  and  round  a building  of  that  sort, 
and  moaning  as  it  goes  ; and  of  trying  with  its 
unseen  hand  the  windows  and  the  doors ; and 
seeking  out  some  crevices  by  which  to  enter. 
And  when  it  has  got  in,  as  one  not  finding 
what  it  seeks,  whatever  that  may  be,  it  wails 
and  howls  to  issue  forth  again  ; and  not  con- 
tent with  stalking  through  the  aisles,  and  glid- 
ing round  and  round  the  pillars,  and  tempting 
tin:  deep  organ,  soars  up  to  the  roof,  and 
strives  to  rend  the  rafters  ; then  flings  itself  des- 
pairingly upon  the  stones  below,  and  passes, 
muttering,  into  the  vaults.  Anon,  it  comes 


up  stealthily,  and  creeps  along  the  walls,  seem- 
ing to  read,  in  whispers,  the  Inscriptions  sacred 
to  the  Dead.  At  some  of  these,  it  breaks  out 
shrilly,  as  with  laughter;  and  at  others,  moans 
and  cries  as  if  it  were  lamenting.  It  has  a 
ghostly  sound  too,  lingering  within  the  altar  ; 
where  it  seems  to  chaunt  in  its  wild  way,  of 
Wrong  and  Murder  done,  and  false  Gods  wor- 
shipped, in  defiance  of  the  Tables  of  the  Law, 
which  look  so  fair  and  smooth,  but  are  so  flawed 
and  broken.  Ugh  ! Heaven  preserve  us,  sitting 
snugly  round  the  fire!  It  has  an  awful  voice, 
that  wind  at  Midnight,  singing  in  a church  ! 

But,  high  up  in  the  steeple  ! There  the  foul 
blast  roars  and  whistles  ! High  up  in  the  stee- 
ple, where  it  is  free  to  come  and  go  through 
many  an  airy  arch  and  loophole,  and  to  twist 
and  twine  itself  about  the  giddy  stair,  and  twirl 
the  groaning  weathercock,  and  make  the  very 
tower  shake  and  shiver  ! High  up  in  the  steeple, 
where  the  belfry  is,  and  iron  rails  are  ragged 
with  rust,  and  sheets  of  lead  and  copper,  shriv- 
elled by  the  changing  weather,  crackle  and 
heave  beneath  the  unaccustomed  tread ; and 
birds  stuff  shabby  nests  into  corners  of  old  oak- 
en joists  and  beams  ; and  dust  grows  old  and 
gray  ; and  speckled  spiders,  indolent  and  fat 
with  long  security,  swing  idly  to  and  fro  in  the 
vibration  of  the  bells,  and  never  loose  their 
hold  upon  their  thread-spun  castles  in  the  air, 
or  climb  up  sailor-like  in  quick  alarm,  or  drop 
upon  the  ground  and  ply  a score  of  nimble  legs 
to  save  one’s  life  ! 

C Jirist mas  Chi  tries,  1st  Quarter. 

WINE— The  broken  cask. 

A large  cask  of  wine  had  been  dropped  and 
broken,  in  the  street.  The  accident  had  hap- 
pened in  getting  it  out  of  a cart  ; the  cask  had 
tumbled  out  with  a run,  the  hoops  had  burst, 
and  it  lay  on  the  stones  just  outside  the  door  of 
the  wine-shop,  shattered  like  a walnut-shell. 

All  the  people  within  reach  had  suspended 
their  business  or  their  idleness,  to  run  to  the 
spot  and  drink  the  wine.  The  rough,  irregular 
stones  of  the  street,  pointing  every  way,  and 
designed,  one  might  have  thought,  expressly 
to  lame  all  living  creatures  that  approached 
them,  had  dammed  it  into  little  pools  ; these 
were  surrounded,  each  by  its  own  jostling  group 
or  crowd,  according  to  its  size.  Some  men 
kneeled  down,  made  scoops  of  their  two  hands 
joined,  and  sipped,  or  tried  to  help  women,  who 
bent  over  their  shoulders,  to  sip,  before  the  wine 
had. all  run  out  between  their  fingers.  Others, 
men  and  women,  dipped  in  the  puddles  with 
little  mugs  of  mutilated  earthenware,  or  even 
with  handkerchiefs  from  women’s  heads,  which 
were  squeezed.dry  into  infants’  mouths  ; others 
made  small  mud-embankments,  to  stem  the  wine 
as  it  ran  ; others,  directed  by  lookers-on  up  at 
high  windows,  darted  here  and  there,  to  cut  off 
little  streams  of  wine  that  started  away  in  new 
directions  ; others  devoted  themselves  to  the 
sodden  and  lee-dyed  pieces  of  the  cask,  licking, 
and  even  champing  the  moister  wine-rotted 
fragments  with  eager  relish.  There  was  no 
drainage  to  carry  off  the  wine,  and  not  only  did 
it  all  get  taken  up,  but  so  much  mud  got  taken 
up  along  with  it,  that  there  might  have  been  a 
scavenger  in  the  street,  if  anybody  acquainted 
with  it  could  have  believed  in  such  a miraculous 
presence. 


WINE 


529 


WINE 


A shrill  sound  of  laughter  and  of  amused 
voices — voices  of  men,  women,  and  children — 
resounded  in  the  street  while  this  wine-game 
lasted.  There  was  little  roughness  in  the  sport, 
and  much  playfulness.  There  was  a special 
companionship  in  it,  an  observable  inclination 
on  the  part  of  every  one  to  join  some  other  one, 
which  led,  especially  among  the  luckier  or 
lighter-hearted,  to  frolicsome  embraces,  drinking 
of  healths,  shaking  of  hands,  and  even  joining 
of  hands  and  dancing,  a dozen  together.  When 
the  wine  was  gone,  and  the  places  where  it  had 
been  most  abundant  were  raked  into  a gridiron- 
pattern  by  fingers,  these  demonstrations  ceased, 
as  suddenly  as  they  had  broken  out.  The  man 
who  had  left  his  saw  sticking  in  the  firewood  he 
was  cutting,  set  it  in  motion  again  ; the  woman 
who  had  left  on  a door-step  the  little  pot  of  hot 
ashes,  at  which  she  had  been  trying  to  soften  the 
pain  in  her  own  starved  fingers  and  toes,  or  in 
those  of  her  child,  returned  to  it ; men  with 
bare  arms,  matted  locks,  and  cadaverous  faces, 
who  had  emerged  into  the  winter  light  from 
cellars,  moved  away  to  descend  again  ; and  a 
gloom  gathered  on  the  scene  that  appeared  more 
natural  to  it  than  sunshine. 

The  wine  was  red  wine,  and  had  stained  the 
ground  of  the  narrow  street  in  the  suburb  of 
Saint  Antoine,  in  Paris,  where  it  was  spilled. 
It  had  stained  many  hands,  too,  and  many  faces, 
and  many  naked  feet,  and  many  wooden  shoes. 
The  hands  of  the  man  who  sawed  the  wood,  left 
red  marks  on  the  billets  : and  the  forehead  of 
the  woman  who  nursed  her  baby,  was  stained 
with  the  stain  of  the  old  rag  she  wound  about 
her  head  again.  Those  who  had  been  greedy 
with  the  staves  of  the  cask,  had  acquired  a 
tigerish  smear  about  the  mouth  ; and  one  tall 
joker  so  besmeared,  his  head  more  out  of  a long 
squalid  bag  of  a night-cap  than  in  it,  scrawled 
upon  a wall  with  his  finger  dipped  in  muddy 
wine  lees — Blood. 

The  time  was  to  come,  when  that  wine  too 
would  be  spilled  on  the  street-stones,  and  when 
the  stain  of  it  would  be  red  upon  many  there. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities,  Chap.  5. 

WINE— Journey  of  a bottle  of. 

And  now,  what  disquiet  of  mind  this  dearly 
beloved  and  highly  treasured  Bottle  began  to 
_ cost  me,  no  man  knows.  It  was  my  precious 
charge  through  a long  tour  ; and  for  hundreds 
of  miles  I never  had  it  off  my  mind  by  day  or 
by  night.  Over  bad  roads — and  they  were 
many — I clung  to  it  with  affectionate  despera- 
tion. Up  mountains,  I looked  in  at  it,  and  saw 
it  helplessly  tilting  over  on  its  back,  with  terror. 
At  innumerable  inn  doors,  when  the  weather 
was  bad,  I was  obliged  to  be  put  into  my  vehi- 
cle before  the  Bottle  could  be  got  in,  and  was 
obliged  to  have  the  Bottle  lifted  out  before 
human  aid  could  come  near  me.  The  Imp  of 
the  same  name,  except  that  his  associations 
were  all  evil  and  these  associations  were  all 
good,  would  have  been  a less  troublesome  trav- 
elling companion.  I might  have  served  Mr. 
Cruikshank  as  a subject  for  a new  illustration 
of  the  miseries  of  the  Bottle.  The  National 
Temperance  Society  might  have  made  a power- 
ful Tract  of  me. 

The  suspicions  that  attached  to  this  innocent 
Bottle  greatly  aggravated  my  difficulties.  It 
was  like  the  apple-pie  in  the  child’s  book.  Par- 


ma pouted  at  it,  Modena  mocked  it,  Tuscany 
tackled  it,  Naples  nibbled  it,  Rome  refused  it, 
Austria  accused  it,  Soldiers  suspected  it,  Jesuits 
jobbed  it.  I composed  a neat  Oration,  develop- 
ing my  inoffensive  intentions  in  connection  with 
this  Bottle,  and  delivered  it  in  an  infinity  of 
guard-houses,  at  a multitude  of  town  gates,  and 
on  every  drawbridge,  angle,  and  rampart  of  a 
complete  system  of  fortifications.  Fifty  times  a 
day,  I got  down  to  harangue  an  infuriated 
soldiery  about  the  Bottle.  Through  the  filthy 
degradation  of  the  abject  and  vile  Roman  States, 
I had  as  much  difficulty  in  working  my  way 
with  the  Bottle,  as  if  it  had  bottled  up  a com- 
plete system  of  heretical  theology.  In  the  Nea- 
politan country,  where  everybody  was  a spy,  a 
soldier,  a priest,  or  a lazzarone,  the  shameless 
beggars  of  all  four  denominations  incessantly 
pounced  on  the  Bottle,  and  made  it  a pretext 
for  extorting  money  from  me.  Quires — quires 
do  I say?  Reams — of  forms  illegibly  printed 
on  whitey-bjown  paper  were  filled  up  about  the 
Bottle,  and  it  was  the  subject  of  more  stamping 
and  sanding  than  I had  ever  seen  before.  In 
consequence  of  which  haze  of  sand,  perhaps,  it 
was  always  irregular,  and  always  latent  with 
dismal  penalties  of  going  back  or  not  going  for- 
ward, w'hich  were  only  to  be  abated  by  the  sil- 
ver crossing  of  a base  hand,  poked,  shirtless,  out 
of  a ragged  uniform  sleeve.  Under  all  dis- 
couragements, however,  I stuck  to  my  Bottle, 
and  held  firm  to  my  resolution  that  every  drop 
of  its  contents  should  reach  the  Bottle’s  desti- 
nation. 

The  latter  refinement  cost  me  a separate  heap 
of  troubles  on  its  own  separate  account.  What 
corkscrews  did  I see  the  military  power  bring 
out  against  that  Bottle  ; what  gimlets,  spikes, 
divining-rods,  gauges,  and  unknown  tests  and 
instruments  ! At  some  places  they  persisted  in 
declaring  that  the  wine  must  not  be  passed 
without  being  opened  and  tasted  ; I,  pleading 
to  the  contrary,  used  then  to  argue  the  question, 
seated  on  the  Bottle,  lest  they  should  open  it  in 
spite  of  me.  In  the  southern  parts  of  Italy, 
more  violent  shrieking,  face-making,  and  ges- 
ticulating, greater  vehemence  of  speech  and 
countenance  and  action,  went  on  about  that 
Bottle  than  would  attend  fifty  murders  in  a 
northern  latitude.  It  raised  important  func- 
tionaries out  of  their  beds  in  the  dead  of  night. 
I have  known  half  a dozen  military  lanterns 
to  disperse  themselves  at  all  points  of  a great 
sleeping  Piazza,  each  lantern  summoning 
some  official  creature  to  get  up,  put  on  his 
cocked  hat  instantly,  and  come  and  stop  the 
Bottle.  It  was  characteristic  that  while  this 
innocent  Bottle  had  such  immense  difficulty 
in  getting  from  little  town  to  town,  Signor 
Mazzini  and  the  fiery  cross  were  traversing 
Italy  from  end  to  end. 

Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  28. 

WINE— Old. 

The  host  had  gone  below  to  the  cellar,  and 
had  brought  up  bottles  of  ruby,  straw-colored, 
and  golden  drinks,  which  had  ripened  long  ago 
in  lands  where  no  fogs  are,  and  had  since  lain 
slumbering  in  the  shade.  Sparkling  and  ting- 
ling after  so  long  a nap,  they  pushed  at  their 
corks  to  help  the  corkscrew  (like  prisoners 
helping  rioters  to  force  their  gates),  and  danced 
out  gayly. — Edwin  Drood , Chap.  ir. 


WINK 


530 


WOMEN 


WINK. 

Mr.  Weller  communicated  this  secret  with 
great  glee,  and  winked  so  indefatigably  after 
doing  so,  that  Sam  began  to  think  he  must  have 
got  the  tic  doloureux  in  his  right  eye-lid. 

Pickwick,  Chap.  33. 

WINK— A slow. 

This  was  said  with  a mysterious  wink  ; or 
what  would  have  been  a wink  if,  in  Mr.  Grew- 
gious’s  hands,  it  could  have  been  quick  enough. 

Edwin  Drood,  Chap.  1 1 . 

WINTER DAY-A. 

The  month  appointed  to  elapse  between  that 
night  and  the  return,  was  quick  of  foot,  and 
went  by  like  a vapor. 

The  day  arrived.  A raging  winter-day,  that 
shook  the  old  house,  sometimes,  as  if  it  shivered 
in  the  blast.  A day  to  make  home  doubly 
home.  To  give  the  chimney-corner  new  de- 
lights. To  shed  a ruddier  glow  upon  the  faces 
gathered  round  the  hearth,  and  draw  each  fire- 
side group  into  a closer  and  more  social  league, 
against  the  roaring  elements  without.  Such  a 
wild  winter  day  as  best  prepares  the  way  for 
shut  out  night ; for  curtained  rooms,  and  cheer- 
ful looks  ; for  music,  laughter,  dancing,  light, 
and  jovial  entertainment. 

Battle  of  Life , Chap.  2. 

WINTER-A  ride  in. 

How  well  I recollect  the  wintry  ride  ! The 
frozen  particles  of  ice,  brushed  from  the  blades 
of  grass  by  the  wind,  and  borne  across  my  face  : 
the  hard  clatter  of  the  horse’s  hoofs,  beating  a 
tune  upon  the  ground  ; the  stiff-tilled  soil  ; 
the  snow-drift  lightly  eddying  in  the  chalk-pit 
as  the  breeze  ruffled  it  ; the  smoking  team  with 
the  wagon  of  old  hay,  stopping  to  breathe  on 
the  hill-top,  and  shaking  their  bells  musically  ; 
the  whitened  slopes  and  sweeps  of  Down-land 
lying  against  the  dark  sky,  as  if  they  were 
drawn  on  a huge  slate  ! 

David  Copper  field.  Chap.  62. 

WIT— And  money. 

“ What  a blessing  to  have  such  a ready  wit,  and 
so  much  ready  money  to  back  it ! ” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  47. 

WOMAN -Deal  lightly  with  her  faults. 

Oh  woman,  God  beloved  in  old  Jerusalem  ! 
The  best  among  us  need  deal  lightly  with  thy 
faults,  if  only  for  the  punishment  thy  nature 
will  endure,  in  bearing  heavy  e\idence  against 
us,  on  the  Day  of  Judgment ! 

Alar  tin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  28. 

WOMAN  Her  perceptions. 

“You  women,”  said  Tom,  “you  women,  my 
dear,  are  so  kind,  and  in  your  kindness  have 
such  nice  perception  ; you  know  so  well  how  to 
be  affectionate  and  full  of  solicitude  without  ap- 
pearing to  be  ; your  gentleness  of  feeling  is  like 
your  touch  ; so  light  and  easy,  that  the  one  en- 
ables you  to  deal  with  wounds  of  the  mind  as 
tenderly  as  the  other  enables  you  to  deal  with 
wounds  of  the  body.” 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  46. 

WOMAN  A stately. 

How  Alexander  wept  when  he  had  no  more 


worlds  to  conquer,  everybody  knows — or  has 
some  reason  to  know  by  this  time,  the  matter 
having  been  rather  frequently  mentioned.  My 
Lady  Dedlock,  having  conquered  her  world,  fell, 
not  into  the  melting,  but  rather  into  the  freezing 
mood.  An  exhausted  composure,  a worn-out  pla- 
cidity. an  equanimity  of  fatigue  not  to  be  ruf- 
fled by  interest  or  satisfaction,  are  the  trophies 
of  her  victory.  She  is  perfectly  well-bred.  If 
she  could  be  translated  to  Heaven  to-morrow, 
she  might  be  expected  to  ascend  without  any 
rapt  u re. 

She  has  beauty  still,  and,  if  it  be  not  in  its 
heyday,  it  is  not  yet  in  its  autumn.  She  has  a 
fine  face — originally  of  a character  that  would 
be  rather  called  very  pretty  than  handsome,  but 
improved  into  classicality  by  the  acquired  ex- 
pression of  her  fashionable  state.  Her  figure 
is  elegant,  and  has  the  effect  of  being  tall.  Not 
that  she  is  so,  but  that  “ the  most  is  made,”  as 
the  Honorable  Bob  Stables  has  frequently  as- 
serted upon  oath,  “ of  all  her  points.”  The 
same  authority  observes,  that  she  is  perfectly 
got  up  ; and  remarks,  in  commendation  of  her 
hair  especially,  that  she  is  the  best  groomed 
woman  in  the  whole  stud. 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  2. 

WOMAN -The  frosty  Mrs.  Wilfer. 

Indeed,  the  bearing  of  this  impressive  woman, 
throughout  the  day,  was  a pattern  to  all  impres- 
sive women  under  similar  circumstances.  She 
renewed  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Boffin,  as  if  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boffin  had  said  of  her 
what  she  had  said  of  them,  and  as  if  Time  alone 
could  quite  wear  her  injury  out.  She  regarded 
every  servant  who  approached  her  as  her  sworn 
enemy,  expressly  intended  to  offer  her  affronts 
with  the  dishes,  and  to  pour  forth  outrages  on 
her  moral  feelings  from  the  decanters.  She  sat 
erect  at  table,  on  the  right  hand  of  her  son-in- 
law,  as  half  suspecting  poison  in  the  viands,  and 
as  bearing  up  with  native  force  of  character 
against  other  deadly  ambushes.  Her  carriage 
towards  Bella  was  as  a carriage  towards  a young 
lady  of  good  position,  whom  she  had  met  in  so- 
ciety a few  years  ago.  Even  when,  slightly  thaw- 
ing under  the  influence  of  sparkling  champagne, 
she  related  to  her  son-in-law  some  passages  of 
domestic  interest  concerning  her  papa,  she  in- 
fused into  the  narrative  such  Arctic  suggestions 
of  her  having  been  an  unappreciated  blessing  to  I 
mankind,  since  her  papa’s  days,  and  also  of  that 
gentleman’s  having  been  a frosty  impersonation 
of  a frosty  race,  as  struck  cold  to  the  very  soles 
of  the  feet  of  the  hearers.  The  Inexhaustible 
being  produced,  staring,  and  evidently  intend- 
ing a weak  and  washy  smile  shortly,  no  sooner 
beheld  her,  than  it  was  stricken  spasmodic  and 
inconsolable.  When  she  took  her  leave  at  last, 
it  would  have  been  hard  to  say  whether  it  was 
with  the  air  of  going  to  the  scaffold  herself,  or 
of  leaving  the  inmates  of  the  house  for  immedi- 
ate execution. 

Our  Mutual  Friend,  Book  IV.,  Chap.  16. 

WOMEN  - Quarrelsome. 

To  many  a single  combat  with  Mrs.  Pipchm, 
did  Miss  Nipper  gallantly  devote  herself  ; and  if 
ever  Mrs.  Bipchin  in  all  her  life  had  found  her 
match,  she  had  found  it  now.  Miss  Nipper 
threw  away  the  scabbard  the  first  morning  she 
arose  in  Mrs.  Pipf'v'in’«  house.  She  ask**d  and 


WOMAN- 


531 


WOMAN 


gave  no  quarter.  She  said  it  must  be  war,  and 
war  it  was  ; and  Mrs.  Pipchin  lived  from  that 
time  in  the  midst  of  surprises,  harassings,  and 
defiances,  and  skirmishing  attacks  that  came 
bouncing  in  upon  her  from  the  passage,  even  in 
unguarded  moments  of  chops,  and  carried  des- 
olation to  her  very  toast. 

Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  12. 

WOMAN— Madam  Defargre,  the  tigress. 

There  were  many  women  at  that  time,  upon 
whom  the  time  laid  a dreadfully  disfiguring 
hand  ; but  there  was  not  one  among  them  more 
to  be  dreaded  than  this  ruthless  woman,  now 
taking  her  way  along  the  streets.  Of  a strong 
and  fearless  character,  of  shrewd  sense  and 
readiness,  of  great  determination,  of  that  kind 
of  beauty  which  not  only  seems  to  impart  to  its 
'-iossessor  firmness  and  animosity,  but  to  strike 
into  others  an  instinctive  recognition  of  those 
qualities  ; the  troubled  time  would  have  heaved 
her  up,  under  any  circumstances.  But,  imbued 
from  her  childhood  with  a brooding  sense  of 
wrong,  and  an  inveterate  hatred  of  a class,  oppor- 
tunity had  developed  her  into  a tigress.  She 
was  absolutely  without  pity.  If  she  had  ever 
had  the  virtue  in  her,  it  had  quite  gone  out  of 
her. 

It  was  nothing  to  her,  that  an  innocent  man 
was  to  die  for  the  sins  of  his  forefathers  ; she 
saw,  not  him,  but  \hem.  It  was  nothing  to  her, 
that  his  wife  was  to  be  made  a widow,  and  his 
daughter  an  orphan  ; that  was  insufficient  pun- 
ishment, because  they  were  her  natural  ene- 
mies and  her  prey,  and  as  such  had  no  right  to 
live.  To  appeal  to  her,  was  made  hopeless  by 
her  having  no  sense  of  pity,  even  for  herself. 
If  she  had  been  laid  low  in  the  streets,  in  any 
of  the  many  encounters  in  which  she  had  been 
engaged,  she  would  not  have  pitied  herself ; nor. 
if  she  had  been  ordered  to  the  axe  to-morrow, 
would  she  have  gone  to  it  with  any  softer  feel- 
ing than  a fierce  desire  to  change  places  with 
the  man  who  sent  her  there. 

Such  a heart  Madame  De large  carried  under 
her  rough  robe.  Carelessly  worn,  it  was  a be- 
coming robe  enough,  in  a certain  weird  way,  and 
her  dark  hair  looked  rich  under  her  coarse  red 
cap.  Lying  hidden  in  her  bosom  was  a loaded 
pistol.  Lying  hidden  at  her  waist,  was  a sharp- 
ened dagger.  Thus  accoutred,  and  walking 
with  the  confident  tread  of  such  a character,  and 
with  the  supple  freedom  of  a woman  who  had 
I habitually  walked  in  her  girlhood,  barefoot  and 
bare  legged,  on  the  brown  sea-sand,  Madame 
Defarge  took  her  way  along  the  streets. 

Tale  of  Tiuo  Cities , Book  III.,  Chap.  14. 

WOMAN— An  ang-elic. 

Mrs.  Todgers  vowed  that  anything  one  quar- 
ter so  angelic  she  had  never  seen.  “ She  want- 
ed but  a pair  of  wings,  a dear,”  said  that  good 
woman,  “ to  be  a young  syrup  : ” meaning,  pos- 
sibly, young  sylph,  or  seraph. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit , Chap.  9. 

WOMAN— An  old  bundle  of  clothes. 

“How’s  Mrs.  Fibbitson  to-day?”  said  the 
Master,  looking  at  another  old  woman  in  a large 
chair  by  the  fire,  who  was  such  a bundle  of 
clothes  that  I feel  grateful  to  this  hour  for  not 
having  sat  upon  her  by  mistake. 

David  Copperfeld,  Chap.  5. 


WOMAN— a handsome. 

“ Not  to  be  wondered  at ! ” says  Mr.  Bucket. 
“ Such  a fine  woman  as  her,  so  handsome  and 
so  graceful  and  so  elegant,  is  like  a fresh  lemon 
on  a dinner-table,  ornamental  wherever  she 
goes.” — Bleak  House,  Chap.  53. 

WOMAN— A brave  and  tender. 

“ My  deal',”  he  returned,  “when  a young  lady 
is  as  mild  as  she’s  game,  and  as  game  as  she’s 
mild,  that’s  all  I ask,  and  more  than  I expect. 
She  then  becomes  a Queen,  and  that’s  about 
what  you  are  yourself.” 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  50. 

WOMAN— Toots’s  opinion  of. 

“ And  now.  Feeder,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ I should 
be  glad  to  know  what  you  think  of  my  union.” 

“ Capital,”  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 

“ You  think  it’s  capital,  do  you,  Feeder  ? " said 
Mr.  Toots,  solemnly.  “ Then  how  capital  must 
it  be  to  Me.  For  you  can  never  know  what 
an  extraordinary  woman  that  is.” 

Mr.  Feeder  was  willing  to  take  it  for  granted, 
but  Mr.  Toots  shook  his  head,  and  wouldn’t  hear 
of  that  being  possible. 

“You  see,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ what  / wanted 
in  a wife  was — in  short,  was  sense.  Money, 
Feeder,  I had.  Sense  I — I had  not,  particu- 
larly.” 

Mr.  Feeder  murmured,  “Oh,  yes,  you  had, 
Toots  ! ” But  Mr.  Toots  said  : 

“ No,  Feeder,  I had  not.  Why  should  I dis- 
guise it?  I had  not.  I knew  that  sense  was 
there,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  sti'etching  out  his  hand 
towards  his  wife,  “ in  perfect  heaps.  I had  no 
relation  to  object  or  be  offended,  on  the  score 
of  station  ; for  I had  no  relation.  I have  never 
had  anybody  belonging  to  me  but  my  guardian, 
and  him,  Feeder,  I have  always  considered  as  a 
Pirate  and  a Corsair.  Therefore,  you  know  it 
was  not  likely,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ that  I should 
take  his  opinion.” 

“ No,”  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

“ Accordingly,”  resumed  Mr.  Toots,  “ I acted 
on  my  own.  Bright  was  the  day  on  which  I did 
so!  Feeder!  Nobody  but  myself  can  tell 
what  the  capacity  of  that  woman’s  mind  is.  If 
ever  the  Rights  of  Women,  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing,  are  properly  attended  to,  it  will  be  through 
her  powerful  intellect. — Susan,  my  dear  ! ” said 
Mr.  Toots,  looking  abruptly  out  of  the  window- 
curtains,  “ pray  do  not  exert  yourself ! ” 

“ My  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Toots,  “ I was  only 
talking.” 

“ But  my  love,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ pray  do  not 
exert  yourself.  You  really  must  be  careful.  Do 
not,  my  dear  Susan,  exert  yourself.  She’s  so 
easily  excited,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  apart  to  Mrs. 
Blimber,  “and  then  she  forgets  the  medical  man 
altogether.” — Dombey  Son , Chapi  42. 

WOMAN-An  old. 

Munching,  like  that  sailor’s  wife  of  yore,  who 
had  chestnuts  in  her  lap,  and  scowling  like  the 
witch  who  asked  for  some  in  vain,  the  old 
woman  picked  the  shilling  up,  and  going  back- 
wards, like  a crab,  or  like  a heap  of  crabs  ; for 
her  alternately  expanding  and  contracting  hands 
might  have  represented  two  of  that  species, 
and  her  creeping  face  some  half-a-dozen  more  : 
crouched  on  the  veinous  root  of  an  old  tree, 
pulled  out  a short  black  pipe  from  within  the 


WOMAN 


WOMAN 


532 


crown  of  her  bonnet,  lighted  it  with  a match, 
and  smoked  in  silence,  looking  fixedly  at  her 
questioner. — Dombey  6°  Son,  Chap.  27. 

WOMAN  The  influence  of  a true. 

The  spirit  of  Agnes  so  pervaded  all  we 
thought,  and  said,  and  did,  in  that  time  of  sor- 
row, that  I assume  I may  refer  the  project  to 
her  influence.  But  her  influence  was  so  quiet 
• that  I know  no  more. 

And  now,  indeed,  I began  to  think  that  in 
my  old  association  of  her  with  the  stained- 
glass  window  in  the  church,  a prophetic  fore- 
shadowing of  what  she  would  be  to  me,  in  the 
calamity  that  was  to  happen,  in  the  fullness  of 
time,  had  found  a way  into  my  mind.  In  all 
that  sorrow,  from  the  moment,  never  to  be  for- 
gotten, when  she  stood  before  me  with  her  up- 
raised hand,  she  was  like  a sacred  presence  in 
my  lonely  house.  When  the  Angel  of  Death 
alighted  there,  my  child-wife  fell  asleep — they 
told  me  so  when  I could  bear  to  hear  it — on  her 
bosom,  with  a smile.  From  my  swoon,  I first 
awoke  to  a consciousness  of  her  compassionate 
tears,  her  words  of  hope  and  peace,  her  gentle 
face  bending  down  as  from  a purer  region 
nearer  Heaven,  over  my  undisciplined  heart, 
and  softening  its  pain. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  54. 

She  was  so  true,  she  was  so  beautiful,  she 
was  so  good, — I owed  her  so  much  gratitude, 
she  was  so  dear  to  me,  that  I could  find  no 
utterance  for  what  I felt.  I tried  to  bless  her, 
tried  to  thank  her,  tried  to  tell  her  (as  I had 
often  done  in  letters)  what  an  influence  she  had 
upon  me  ; but  all  my  efforts  were  in  vain.  My 
love  and  joy  were  dumb. 

With  her  own  sweet  tranquillity  she  calmed 
my  agitation  ; led  me  back  to  the  time  of  our 
parting;  spoke  to  me  of  Emily,  whom  she  had 
visited,  in  secret,  many  times ; spoke  to  me  ten- 
derly of  Dora’s  grave.  With  the  unerring  in- 
stinct of  her  noble  heart,  she  touched  the  chords 
of  my  memory  so  softly  and  harmoniously,  that 
not  one  jarred  within  me  ; I could  listen  to  the 
sorrowful,  distant  music,  and  desire  to  shrink 
from  nothing  it  awoke.  How  could  I,  when, 
blended  with  it  all,  was  her  dear  self,  the  better 
angel  of  my  life  ? 

# * * 

And  now,  as  I close  my  task,  subduing  my 
desire  to  linger  yet,  these  faces  fade  away.  But 
one  face,  shining  on  me  like  a Heavenly  light 
by  which  I see  all  other  objects,  is  above 
them  and  beyond  them  all.  And  that  re- 
mains. 

I turn  my  head,  and  see  it,  in  its  beautiful 
serenity,  beside  me.  My  lamp  burns  low,  and  I 
have  written  far  into  the  night  ; but  the  dear 
presence,  without  which  I were  nothing,  bears 
me  company. 

Oh,  Agnes  ! Oh,  my  soul,  so  may  thy  face  be 
by  me  when  I close  my  life  indeed  ; so  may  I, 
when  realities  are  melting  from  me  like  the  shad- 
ows which  I now  dismiss,  still  find  thee  near 
me,  pointing  upward  ! 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  60. 

WOMAN  A betrothed. 

Now,  and  not  before,  Miss  Fanny  burst  upon 
the  scene,  completely  arrayed  for  her  new 
part.  Now,  and  not  before,  she  wholly  absorb- 


ed Mr.  Sparkler  in  her  light,  and  shone  for 
both  and  twenty  more.  No  longer  feeling  that 
want  of  a defined  place  and  character  which 
had  caused  her  so  much  trouble,  this  fair  ship 
began  to  steer  steadily  on  a shaped  course,  ami 
to  swim  with  a weight  and  balance  that  developed 
her  sailing  qualities. 

Little  Dorrit , Book  II.,  Chap.  15. 

WOMAN  Tackleton’s  opinion  of. 

“Bah!  what’s  home?”  cried  Tackleton 
“ Four  walls  and  a ceiling  ! (why  don’t  you  kill 
that  Cricket  ; I would  ! I always  do.  I hate 
their  noise.)  There  are  four  walls  and  a ceil- 
ing at  my  house.  Come  to  me  !” 

“ You  kill  your  Crickets,  eh  ? ” said  John. 

“ Scrunch  ’em,  sir,”  returned  the  other,  set- 
ting his  heel  heavily  on  the  floor.  “ You'll  sa) 
you’ll  come  ? It’s  as  much  your  interest  as 
mine,  you  know,  that  the  women  should  per- 
suade each  other  that  they’re  quiet  and  content- 
ed, and  couldn’t  be  better  off.  I know  theii 
way.  Whatever  one  woman  says,  anothei 
woman  is  determined  to  clinch,  always.  There’’ 
that  spirit  of  emulation  among  'em,  sir,  that  if 
your  wife  says  to  my  wife,  ‘ I’m  the  happiesi 
woman  in  the  world,  and  mine’s  the  best  hus 
band  in  the  world,  and  I dote  on  him,’  my  wife 
will  say  the  same  to  yours,  or  more,  and  half 
believe  it.” — Cricket  on  the  Hearth , Chap.  1. 

WOMAN-A  delicate. 

“ Mrs.  Wititterly  is  of  a most  excitable  nature 
Sir  Mulberry.  The  snuff  of  a candle,  the  wick 
of  a lamp,  the  bloom  on  a peach,  the  down  or 
a butterfly.  You  might  blow  her  away,  mj 
lord  ; you  might  blow  her  away.” 

Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  27. 

WOMAN— An  enraged. 

With  these  last  words,  she  snaps  her  teeth 
together,  as  if  her  mouth  closed  with  a spring 
It  is  impossible  to  describe  how  Mr.  Bucket  get;- 
her  out,  but  he  accomplishes  that  feat  in  a man 
ner  so  peculiar  to  himself ; enfolding  and  per- 
vading her  like  a cloud,  and  hovering  away  with 
her  as  if  he  were  a homely  Jupiter,  and  she  the 
object  of  his  affections. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  54. 

WOMEN— Fainting-. 

“ She’s  a goin’  off,”  soliloquised  Sam  in  great 
perplexity.  “Wot  a thing  it  is,  as  these  here 
young  creaturs  will  go  a faintin’  avay  just  wen 
they  oughtn’t  to.” — Pickwick,  Chap.  39. 

WOMEN— As  drivers. 

“We  are  not  a heavy  load,  George?” 

“ That’s  always  what  the  ladies  say,”  replied 
the  man,  looking  a long  way  round,  as  if  he 
were  appealing  to  Nature  in  general  against 
such  monstrous  propositions.  “ If  you  see  a 
woman  a driving,  you’ll  always  perceive  that 
she  will  never  keep  her  whip  still ; the  horse 
can’t  go  fast  enough  for  her.  If  cattle  have  got 
their  proper  load,  you  can  never  persuade  a 
woman  that  they’ll  not  bear  something  more.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  26. 

WOMAN-A  pretty. 

She  was  very  pretty ; exceedingly  pretty. 
With' a dimpled,  surprised-looking,  capital  face  : 
a ripe  little  mouth,  that  seemed  made  to  be 


WOMAN 


533 


WOMAN 


kissed — as  no  doubt  it  was ; all  kinds  of  good 
little  dots  about  her  chin,  that  melted  into  one 
another  when  she  laughed : and  the  sunniest 
pair  of  eyes  you  ever  saw  in  any  little  creature’s 
head.  Altogether  she  was  what  you  would  have 
called  provoking,  you  know  ; but  satisfactory, 
too.  Oh,  perfectly  satisfactory. 

Christmas  Carol,  Stave  3. 


“ A young  and  beautiful  girl  ; fresh,  lovely, 
bevvitching,  and  not  nineteen.  Dark  eyes,  long 
eyelashes,  ripe  and  ruddy  lips,  that  to  look  at  is 
to  long  to  kiss,  beautiful  clustering  hair,  that 
one’s  fingers  itch  to  play  with,  such  a waist  as 
might  make  a man  clasp  the  air  involuntarily, 
thinking  of  twining  his  arm  about  it,  little  feet 
that  tread  so  lightly  they  hardly  seem  to  walk 
upon  the  ground — to  marry  all  this,  sir,  this — 
hey,  hey  ! ” — Nicholas  Nickleby , Chap.  47. 

WOMAN -A  wolf-like. 

My  Lady’s  maid  is  a Frenchwoman  of  two- 
and-thirty,  from  somewhere  in  the  southern 
country  about  Avignon  and  Marseilles — a large- 
eyed brown  woman  with  black  hair  ; who  would 
be  handsome,  but  for  a certain  feline  mouth,  and 
general  uncomfortable  tightness  of  the  face,  ren- 
dering the  jaws  too  eager,  and  the  skull  too 
prominent.  There  is  something  indefinably 
keen  and  wan  about  her  anatomy  ; and  she  has 
a watchful  way  of  looking  out  of  the  corners  of 
her  eyes  without  turning  her  head,  which  could 
be  pleasantly  dispensed  with — especially  when 
she  is  in  an  ill-humor  and  near  knives.  Through 
all  the  good  taste  of  her  dress  and  little  adorn- 
ments, these  objections  so  express  themselves, 
that  she  seems  to  go  about  like  a very  neat  She- 
Wolf,  imperfectly  tamed.  Besides  being  accom- 
plished in  all  the  knowledge  appertaining  to  her 
post,  she  is  almost  an  Englishwoman  in  her 
acquaintance  with  the  language — consequently, 
she  is  in  no  want  of  words  to  shower  upon 
Rosa  for  having  attracted  my  Lady’s  attention  ; 
and  she  pours  them  out  with  such  grim  ridicule 
as  she  sits  at  dinner,  that  her  companion,  the 
affectionate  man,  is  rather  relieved  when  she 
arrives  at  the  spoon  stage  of  that  performance. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  12. 

W OMEN— Elderly. 

Ultimately  I found  myself  backing  Traddles 
into  the  fire-place,  and  bowing  in  great  confu- 
sion to  two  dry  little  elderly  ladies,  dressed  in 
black,  and  each  looking  wonderfully  like  a pre- 
paration in  chip  or  tan  of  the  late  Mr.  Spenlow. 

* * * * * 

They  both  had  little,  bright,  round,  twink- 
ling eyes,  by  the  way,  which  were  like  birds’ 
eyes.  They  were  not  unlike  birds,  altogether  ; 
having  a sharp,  brisk,  sudden  manner,  and  a 
little,  short,  spruce  way  of  adjusting  themselves, 
like  canaries. 

* * * * * 

k Exactly  at  the  expiration  of  the  quarter  of 
an  hour,  they  reappeared  with  no  less  dignity 
than  they  had  disappeared.  They  had  gone 
rustling  away  as  if  their  little  dresses  were  made 
of  autumn-leaves  ; and  they  came  rustling  back, 
in  like  manner. — David  Copperfield,  Chap.  41. 

WOMAN— A she-devil. 

A little,  old,  swarthy  woman,  with  a pair  of 
flashing  black  eyes, — proof  that  the  world  hadn’t 


conjured  down  the  devil  within  her,  though  it 
had  had  between  sixty  and  seventy  years  to  do 
it  in, — came  out  of  the  Barrack  Cabaret,  of 
which  she  was  the  keeper,  with  some  large  keys 
in  her  hands,  and  marshalled  us  the  way  that  we 
should  go.  How  she  told  us,  on  the  way,  that 
she  was  a Government  Officer  ( concierge  du 
palais  apostolique'),  and  had  been,  for  I don’t 
know  how  many  years  ; and  how  she  had  shown 
these  dungeons  to  princes  ; and  how  she  was  the 
best  of  dungeon  demonstrators  ; and  how  she 
had  resided  in  the  palace  from  an  infant, — had 
been  born  there,  if  I recollect  right, — I needn’t 
relate.  But  such  a fierce,  little,  rapid,  ‘"•urk- 
ling,  energetic  she-devil  I never  beheld  She 
was  alight  and  flaming  all  the  time.  Her  a*  on 
was  violent  in  the  extreme.  She  never  spoke, 
without  stopping  expressly  for  the  purpose. 
She  stamped  her  feet,  clutched  us  by  the  arms, 
flung  herself  into  attitudes,  hammered  against 
walls  with  her  keys,  for  mere  emphasis  ; now 
whispered  as  if  the  Inquisition  were  there  still : 
now  shrieked  as  if  she  were  on  the  rack  her- 
self ; and  had  a mysterious,  hag-like  way  with 
her  forefinger,  when  approaching  the  remains 
of  some  new  horror — looking  back  and  walking 
stealthily,  and  making  horrible  grimaces — that 
might  alone  have  qualified  her  to  walk  up  and 
down  a sick  man’s  counterpane,  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  other  figures,  through  a whole  fever. 

Pictures  from  Italy. 

WOMAN— A11  unselfish;  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Lorry  knew  Miss  Pross  to  be  very  jealous, 
but  he  also  knew  her  by  this  time  to  be,  beneath 
the  surface  of  her  eccentricity,  one  of  those  un- 
selfish creatures — found  only  among  women — 
who  will,  for  pure  love  and  admiration,  bind 
themselves  willing  slaves,  to  youth  when  they 
have  lost  it,  to  beauty  that  they  never  had,  to 
accomplishments  that  they  were  never  fortunate 
enough  to  gain,  to  bright  hopes  that  never  shone 
upon  their  own  sombre  lives.  He  knew  enough 
of  the  world  to  know  that  there  is  nothing  in  it 
better  than  the  faithful  service  of  the  heart ; so 
rendered  and  so  free  from  any  mercenary  taint, 
he  had  such  an  exalted  respect  for  it,  that,  in  the 
retributive  arrangements  made  by  his  own  mind 
— we  all  make  such  arrangements,  more  or  less 
— he  stationed  Miss  Pross  much  nearer  to  the 
lower  Angels  than  many  ladies  immeasurably 
better  got  up  both  by  Nature  and  Art,  who  had 
balances  at  Tellson’s. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities , Chap.  6. 

WOMAN— An  edge-tool  (Rosa  Dartle). 

She  took  everything,  herself  included,  to  a 
grindstone,  and  sharpened  it.  She  is  an  edge- 
tool,  and  requires  great  care  in  dealing  with. 
She  is  always  dangerous. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  29. 

WOMAN— A sharp  (Rosa  Dartle). 

“ She  is  very  clever,  is  she  not  ? ” I asked. 

“ Clever  ! She  brings  everything  to  a grind- 
stone,” said  Steerforth,  “ and  sharpens  it,  as  she 
has  sharpened  her  own  face  and  figure  these 
years  past.  She  has  worn  herself  away  by  con- 
stant sharpening.  She  is  all  edge.” 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  20. 

WOMAN— An  artificial. 

Thus  they  remained  for  a long  hour,  without 


WOMAN 


534 


WOMAN 


a word,  until  Mrs.  Skewton's  maid  appeared, 
according  to  custom,  to  prepare  her  gradually 
for  night.  At  night,  she  should  have  been  a 
skeleton,  with  dart  and  hour-glass,  rather  than  a 
woman,  this  attendant  ; for  her  touch  was  as  the 
touch  of  Death.  The  painted  object  shrivelled 
underneath  her  hand  : the  form  collapsed,  the 
hair  dropped  off,  the  arched  dark  eyebrows 
changed  to  scanty  tufts  of  gray  ; the  pale  lips 
shrunk,  the  skin  became  cadaverous  and  loose  ; 
an  old,  worn,  yellow,  nodding  woman,  with 
red  eyes,  alone  remained  in  Cleopatra’s  place, 
huddled  up,  like  a slovenly  bundle,  in  a 
greasy  flannel  gown. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  27. 

And  to  prepare  her  for  repose,  tumbled  into 
ruins  like  a house  of  painted  cards. 

Dombey  & Son , Chap.  20. 

WOMAN— Of  fashion  paralyzed. 

Edith  hurried  with  her  to  her  mother’s  room. 
Cleopatra  was  arrayed  in  full  dress,  with  the 
diamonds,  short -sleeves,  rouge,  curls,  teeth,  and 
other  juvenility  all  complete  ; but  Paralysis  was 
not  to  be  deceived,  had  known  her  for  the  ob- 
ject of  its  errand,  and  had  struck  her  at  her 
glass,  where  she  lay  like  a horrible  doll  that  had 
tumbled  down. 

They  took  her  to  pieces  in  very  shame,  and 
put  the  little  of  her  that  was  real  on  a bed. 

***** 

It  was  a tremendous  sight  to  see  this  old 
woman  in  her  finery  leering  and  mincing  at 
Death,  and  playing  off  her  youthful  tricks  upon 
him  as  if  he  had  been  the  Major. 

***** 

When  the  carriage  was  closed,  and  the  wind 
shut  out,  the  palsy  played  among  the  artifi- 
cial roses  again  like  an  almshouse  full  of  su- 
perannuated zephyrs. 

Dombey  Sf  Son,  Chap.  37. 

WOMAN-Of  fashion. 

Walking  by  the  side  of  the  chair,  and  carry- 
ing her  gossamer  parasol  with  a proud  and  wea- 
ry air,  as  if  so  great  an  effort  must  be  soon 
abandoned  and  the  parasol  dropped,  sauntered 
a much  younger  lady,  very  handsome,  very 
haughty,  very  willful,  who  tossed  her  head  and 
drooped  her  eyelids,  as  though,  if  there  were 
anything  in  all  the  world  worth  looking  ifito, 
save  a mirror,  it  certainly  was  not  the  earth  or 
sky. — Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  21. 

WOMAN— Sympathy  for  a fallen. 

As  her  hands,  parting  on  her  sunburnt  fore- 
head, swept  across  her  face,  and  threw  aside  the 
hindrances  that  encroached  upon  it,  there  was 
a reckless  and  regardless  beauty  in  it ; a daunt- 
less and  depraved  indifference  to  more  than 
weather  ; a carelessness  of  what  was  cast  upon 
her  bare  head  from  Heaven  or  earth,  that, 
coupled  with  her  misery  and  loneliness,  touched 
the  heart  of  her  fellow-woman.  She  thought 
of  all  that  was  perverted  and  debased  within 
her,  no  less  than  without ; of  modest  graces  of 
the  mind,  hardened  and  steeled,  like  these  at- 
tractions of  the  person  ; of  the  many  gifts  of 
the  Creator  flung  to  the  winds  like  the  wild 
hair  ; of  all  the  beautiful  ruin  upon  which  the 
storm  was  beating  and  the  night  was  coming. 

Dombey  ir*  Son,  Chap.  33. 


WOMAN  The  instincts  and  prejudices  of. 

It  has  been  often  enough  remarked  that  wo- 
men have  a curious  power  of  divining  the 
characters  of  men,  which  would  seem  to  be  in- 
nate and  instinctive  ; seeing  that  it  is  arrived  at 
through  no  patient  process  of  reasoning,  that  it 
can  give  no  satisfactory  or  sufficient  account  of 
itself,  and  that  it  pronounces  in  the  most  con- 
fident manner  even  against  accumulated  obser- 
vation on  the  part  of  the  other  sex.  But  it  has 
not  been  quite  so  often  remarked  that  this  power 
(fallible,  like  every  other  human  attribute),  is 
for  the  most  part  absolutely  incapable  of  self- 
revision ; and  that  when  it  has  delivered  an  ad- 
verse opinion,  which  by  all  human  lights  is  sub- 
sequently proved  to  have  failed,  it  is  undis- 
tinguishable  from  prejudice,  in  respect  of  its 
determination  not  to  be  corrected.  Nay,  the 
very  possibility  of  contradiction  or  disproof, 
however  remote,  communicates  to  this  feminine 
judgment  from  the  first,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  the  weakness  attendant  on  the  testimony  oi 
an  interested  witness  ; so  personally  and  strongly 
does  the  fair  diviner  connect  herself  with  hei 
divination. — Edzvin  Drood,  Chap.  10. 

WOMAN-  Influence  of  a gmod. 

Strange  to  say,  that  quiet  influence  which  was 
inseparable  in  my  mind  from  Agnes,  seemed  to 
pervade  even  the  city  where  she  dwelt.  The 
venerable  cathedral  towers,  and  the  old  jack- 
daws and  rooks  whose  airy  voices  made  them 
more  retired  than  perfect  silence  would  have 
done  ; the  battered  gateways,  once  stuck  full 
with  statues,  long  thrown  down,  and  crumbled 
away,  like  the  reverential  pilgrims  who  had  gazed 
upon  them  ; the  still  nooks,  where  the  ivied 
growth  of  centuries  crept  over  gabled  ends  and 
ruined  walls  ; the  ancient  houses,  the  pastoral 
landscape  of  field,  orchard,  and  garden  ; every- 
where— on  everything — I felt  the  same  serener 
air,  the  same  calm,  thoughtful,  softening  spirit. 

David  Ccpperjield,  Chap.  39. 

WOMAN— Her  reveng-e  on  dress. 

The  Peasant  Women,  with  naked  feet  and 
legs,  are  so  constantly  washing  clothes,  in  the 
public  tanks,  and  in  every  stream  and  ditch,  that 
one  cannot  help  wondering,  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  dirt,  who  wears  them  when  they  are  clean. 
The  custom  is  to  lay  the  wet  linen  which  is  be- 
ing operated  upon,  on  a smooth  stone,  and  ham- 
mer away  at  it,  with  a flat  wooden  mallet.  This 
they  do,  as  furiously  as  if  they  were  revenging 
themselves  on  dress  in  general  for  being  con- 
nected with  the  Fall  of  Mankind. 

Pictures  from  Italy. 

WOMAN— The  character  of  Mrs.  Bagmet 

“ The  old  girl,”  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  acquiescing, 
“saves.  Has  a stocking  somewhere.  With 
money  in.  I never  saw  it.  But  I know  she’s 
got  it.  Wait  till  the  greens  is  off  her  mind. 
Then  she’ll  set  you  up.” 

“She  is  a treasure  !”  exclaims  Mr.  George. 

“ She’s  more.  But  I never  own  to  it  before 
her.  Discipline  must  be  maintained.  It  was 
the  old  girl  that  brought  out  my  musical  abili- 
ties. I should  have  been  in  the  artillery  now, 
but  for  the  old  girl.  Six  years  I hammered  at 
the  fiddle.  Ten  at  the  flute.  The  old  girl  said 
it  wouldn’t  do ; intention  good,  but  want  of 
flexibility  ; try  the  bassoon.  The  old  girl  bor* 


WOMAN- 


535 


WOMEN 


rowed  a bassoon  from  the  band-master  of  the 
Rifle  Regiment.  I practised  in  the  trenches. 
Got  on,  got  another,  get  a living  by  it ! ” 

George  remarks  that  she  looks  as  fresh  as  a 
rose,  and  as  sound  as  an  apple. 

“ The  old  girl,”  says  Mr.  Bagnet  in  reply,  “ is 
a thoroughly  tine  woman.  Consequently,  she  is 
like  a thoroughly  tine  day.  Gets  finer  as  she  gets 
on.  I never  saw  the  old  girl’s  equal.  But  I 
never  own  to  it  before  her.  Discipline  must  be 
maintained  ! ” — Bleak  House,  Chap.  27. 

WOMAN— Mrs.  Bagmet  as  a true. 

“ George,  you  know  the  old  girl — she’s  as 
sweet  and  as  mild  as  milk.  But  touch  her  on 
the  children — or  myself — and  she’s  off  like  gun- 
powder.” 

“ It  does  her  credit,  Mat !” 

“ George,”  says  Mr.  Bagnet,  looking  straight 
before  him,  “ the  old  girl — can’t  do  anything — 
that  don’t  do  her  credit.  More  or  less.  I never 
say  so.  Discipline  must  be  maintained.” 

“ She’s  worth  her  weight  in  gold,”  says  the 
trooper. 

“In  gold?”  says  Mr.  Bagnet.  “ I’ll  tell  you 
what.  The  old  girl’s  weight — is  twelve  stone 
six.  Would  I take  that  weight — in  any 
metal — for  the  old  girl?  No.  Why  not? 
Because  the  old  girl’s  metal  is  far  more  pre- 
cious— than  the  preciousest  metal.  And  she’s 
all  metal ! ” 

“ You  are  right,  Mat ! ” 

“ When  she  took  me — and  accepted  of  the 
ring — she  ’listed  under  me  and  the  children — 
heart  and  head  ; for  life.  She’s  that  earnest,” 
says  Mr.  Bagnet,  “ and  true  to  her  colors — that, 
touch  us  with  a finger — and  she  turns  out — and 
stands  to  her  arms.  If  the  old  girl  fires  wide — 
once  in  a way — at  the  call  of  duty — look  over  it, 
George.  For  she’s  loyal  ! ” 

Bleak  House,  Chap.  34. 

WOMAN— Her  devotion. 

So  Florence  lived  in  her  wilderness  of  a home, 
within  the  circle  of  her  innocent  pursuits  and 
thoughts,  and  nothing  harmed  her.  She  could 
go  down  to  her  father’s  rooms  now,  and  think 
of  him,  and  suffer  her  loving  heart  humbly  to 
approach  him,  without  fear  of  repulse.  She 
could  look  upon  the  objects  that  had  surrounded 
him  in  his  sorrow,  and  could  nestle  near  his 
chair,  and  not  dread  the  glance  that  she  so  well 
remembered.  She  could  render  him  such  little 
tokens  of  her  duty  and  service,  as  putting  every- 
thing in  order  for  him  with  her  own  hands, 
binding  little  nosegays  for  his  table,  changing 
them  as  one  by  one  they  withered,  and  he  did 
not  come  back,  preparing  something  for  him 
every  day,  and  leaving  some  timid  mark  of  her 
presence  near  his  usual  seat.  To-day,  it  was  a 
little  painted  stand  for  his  watch  ; to-morrow 
she  would  be  afraid  to  leave  it,  and  would  sub- 
stitute some  other  trifle  of  her  making  not  so 
likely  to  attract  his  eye.  Waking  in  the  night, 
perhaps,  she  would  tremble  at  the  thought  of 
his  coming  home  and  angrily  rejecting  it,  and 
would  hurry  down  with  slippered  feet  and 
quickly-beating  heart,  and  bring  it  away.  At 
another  time,  she  would  only  lay  her  face  upon 
his  desk,  and  leave  a kiss  there,  and  a tear. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  23. 


dressed  in  homely  stuffs,  and  indicating  nothing 
but  the  dull  household  virtues,  that  have  so  lit- 
tle in  common  with  the  received  idea  of  hero- 
ism and  greatness,  unless,  indeed,  any  ray  of 
them  should  shine  through  the  lives  of  the  great 
ones  of  the  earth,  when  it  becomes  a constella- 
tion and  is  tracked  in  Heaven  straightway — 
this  slight,  small,  patient  figure,  leaning  on  the 
man,  still  young,  but  worn  and  gray,  is  she  his 
sister,  who,  of  all  the  world,  went  over  to  him 
in  his  shame  and  put  her  hand  in  his,  and  with 
a sweet  composure  and  determination,  led  him 
hopefully  upon  his  barren  way. 

Dombey  Son,  Chap.  33. 

WOMAN— Her  better  nature. 

Notwithstanding  Mr.  Toodle’s  great  reliance 
on  Polly,  she  was  perhaps  in  point  of  artificial 
accomplishments  very  little  his  superior.  But 
she  was  a good  plain  sample  of  a nature  that 
is  ever,  in  the  mass,  better,  truer,  higher,  nobler, 
quicker  to  feel,  and  much  more  constant  to  re- 
tain, all  tenderness  and  pity,  self-denial  and  de- 
votion, than  the  nature  of  men. 

Dombey  &•  Son,  Chap.  3. 

WOMAN— Her  art  at  home. 

The  Captain’s  delight  and  wonder  at  the  quiet 
housewifery  of  Florence  in  assisting  to  clear 
the  table,  arrange  the  parlor,  and  sweep  up  the 
hearth — only  to  be  equalled  by  the  fervency  of 
his  protest  when  she  began  to  assist  him — were 
gradually  raised  to  that  degree,  that  at  last  he 
could  not  chpose  but  do  nothing  himself,  and 
stand  looking  at  her  as  if  she  were  some  Fairy, 
daintily  performing  these  offices  for  him,  the 
red  rim  on  his  forehead  glowing  again,  in  his 
unspeakable  admiration. 

But  when  Florence,  taking  down  his  pipe 
from  the  mantel-shelf,  gave  it  into  his  hand,  and 
entreated  him  to  smoke  it,  the  good  Captain 
was  so  bewildered  by  her  attention  that  he  held 
it  as  if  he  had  never  held  a pipe  in  all  his  life. 
Likewise,  when  Florence,  looking  into  the  little 
cupboard,  took  out  the  case-bottle  and  mixed  a 
perfect  glass  of  grog  for  him,  unasked,  and  set 
it  at  his  elbow,  his  ruddy  nose  turned  pale,  he 
felt  himself  so  graced  and  honored.  When  he 
had  filled  his  pipe  in  an  absolute  reverie  of 
satisfaction,  Florence  lighted  it  for  him — the 
Captain  having  no  power  to  object,  or  to  pre- 
vent her — and  resuming  her  place  on  the  old 
sofa,  looked  at  him  with  a smile  so  loving  and 
so  grateful,  a smile  that  showed  him  so  plainly 
how  her  forlorn  heart  turned  to  him,  as  her  face 
did,  through  grief,  that  the  smoke  of  the  pipe 
got  into  the  Captain’s  throat  and  made  him 
cough,  and  got  into  the  Captain’s  eyes  and 
made  them  blink  and  water. 

Dombey  & Son,  Chap.  49. 

WOMEN— Inquisitive. 

True,  I had  no  Avenger  in  my  service  now, 
but  I was  looked  after  by  an  inflammatory  old 
female,  assisted  by  an  animated  rag-bag  whom 
she  called  her  niece  ; and  to  keep  a room  secret 
from  them  would  be  to  invite  curiosity  and  ex- 
aggeration. They  both  had  weak  eyes,  which 
I had  long  attributed  to  their  chronically  look- 
ing in  at  keyholes,  and  they  were  always  at 
hand  when  not  wanted  ; indeed  that  was  their 
only  reliable  quality  besides  larceny.  Not  to 
get  up  a mystery  with  these  people,  I resolved 


Yes.  This  slight,  small,  patient  figure,  neatly 


WORDS 


530 


WORKING  PEOPLE 


to  announce  in  the  morning  that  my  uncle  had 
unexpectedly  come  from  the  country. 

Great  Expectations , Chap.  40. 

WORDS— Their  influence. 

“ Words,  sir,  never  influence  the  course  of  the 
cards,  or  the  course  of  the  dice.  Do  you  know 
that  ? You  do  ? I also  play  a game,  and  words 
are  without  power  over  it.” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  28. 

WORD— The  last  a new  injury. 

“ Why,  I’d  as  soon  have  a spit  put  through 
me,  and  be  stuck  upon  a card  in  a collection  of 
beetles,  as  lead  the  life  I have  been  leading 
here.” 

“ Well,  Mr.  Meagles,  say  no  more  about  it, 
now  it’s  over,”  urged  a cheerful  feminine  voice. 

“ Over ! ” repeated  Mr.  Meagles,  who  ap- 
peared (though  without  any  ill-nature)  to  be  in 
that  peculiar  state  of  mind  in  which  the  last 
word  spoken  by  anybody  else  is  a new  injury. 
“ Over ! and  why  should  I say  no  more  about  it 
because  it’s  over?  ” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  /.,  Chap.  2. 

WORDS. 

“ Scouring  a very  prairie  of  wild  words.” 

Little  Dorrit , Book  //.,  Chap.  27. 

WORDS— And  high-sounding-  phrases. 

“Oh  Pa  !”  cried  Mercy,  holding  up  her  fin- 
ger archly.  “ See  advertisement  ! ” 

“ Playful — playful  warbler,”  said  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff. It  may  be  observed  in  connection  with 
his  calling  his  daughter  “ a warbler,”  that  she 
was  not  at  all  vocal,  but  that  Mr.  Pecksniff  was 
in  the  frequent  habit  of  using  any  word  that 
occurred  to  him  as  having  a good  sound,  and 
rounding  a sentence  well,  without  much  care 
for  its  meaning.  And  he  did  this  so  boldly,  and 
in  such  an  imposing  manner,  that  he  would 
sometimes  stagger  the  wisest  people  with  his 
eloquence,  and  make  them  gasp  again. 

His  enemies  asserted,  by  the  way,  that  a 
strong  trustfulness  in  sounds  and  forms,  was  the 
master-key  to  Mi\  Pecksniffs  character. 

Martin  Chitzzlewit , Chap.  2. 

WORDS. 

Peggotty’s  militia  of  words. 

David  Copper  field y Chap.  3. 

WORDS— Versus  oaths. 

“ I give  you  my  word,  constable — ” said 
Bras's.  But  here  the  constable  interposed  with 
the  constitutional  principle  “ words  be  blowed  ; ” 
observing  that  words  were  but  spoon-meat  for 
babes  and  sucklings,  and  that  oaths  were  the 
food  for  strong  men. 

Old  Cm  iosity  Shop , Chap.  60. 

WORDS  -The  parade  of. 

Mr.  Micawber  had  a relish  in  this  formal  pil- 
ing up  of  words,  which,  however  ludicrously 
displayed  in  his  case,  was,  I must  say,  not  at  all 
peculiar  to  him.  I have  observed  it,  in  the 
course  of  my  life,  in  numbers  of  men.  It  seems 
to  me  to  be  a general  rule.  In  the  taking  of 
legal  oaths,  for  instance,  deponents  seem  to  en- 
joy themselves  mightily  when  they  come  to  sev- 
eral good  words  in  succession,  for  the  expression 
of  one  idea  ; as,  that  they  utterly  detest,  abomi- 


nate, and  abjure,  or  so  forth  ; and  the  old  an- 
athemas were  made  relishing  on  the  same  prin- 
ciple. We  talk  about  the  tyranny  of  words,  but 
we  like  to  tyrannize  over  them  too  ; we  are  fond 
of  having  a large  superfluous  establishment  of 
words  to  wait  upon  us  on  great  occasions;  we 
think  it  looks  important,  and  sounds  well.  As 
we  are  not  particular  about  the  meaning  of  our 
liveries  on  state  occasions,  if  they  be  but  fine 
and  numerous  enough,  so,  the  meaning  or  neces- 
sity of  our  words  is  a secondary  consideration, 
if  there  be  but  a great  parade  of  them.  And  as 
individuals  get  into  trouble  by  making  too  great 
a show  of  liveries,  or  as  slaves  when  they  are  too 
numerous  rise  against  their  masters,  so  I think 
I could  mention  a nation  that  has  got  into  many 
great  difficulties,  and  will  get  into  many  greater, 
from  maintaining  too  large  a retinue  of  words. 

David  Copperfield , Chap.  52. 

WORDS— To  be  economized. 

He  was  so  perfectly  satisfied -both  with  his 
quotation  and  his  reference  to  it,  that  he  could 
not  help  repeating  the  words  again  in  a low 
voice,  and  saying  he  had  forgotten  ’em  these 
forty  year. 

“ But  I never  wanted  two  or  three  words  in 
my  life  that  I didn’t  know  where  to  lay  my 
hand  upon  ’em,  Gills,”  he  observed.  “ It  comes 
of  not  wasting  language  as  some  do.” 

The  reflection  perhaps  reminded  him  that  he 
had  better,  like  young  Norval’s  father,  “in- 
crease his  store.” — Dombey  dr*  Son,  Chap.  4. 

WORDS. 

The  persecutors  denied  that  there  was  any 
particular  gift  in  Mr.  Chaaband’s  piling  ver- 
bose flights  of  stairs,  one  upon  another,  after 
this  fashion.  But  this  can  only  be  received  as 
a proof  of  their  determination  to  persecute,  since 
it  must  be  within  everybody’s  experience,  that 
the  Chadband  style  of  oratory  is  widely  received 
and  much  admired. — Bleak  House , Chap.  19. 

WORDS— In  earnest. 

A word  in  earnest  is  as  good  as  a speech. 

Bleak  House , Chap.  6. 

WORKING  PEOPLE. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Louisa  had 
come  into  one  of  the  dwellings  of  the  Coketown 
hands  ; for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  was  face 
to  face  with  anything  like  individuality  in  con- 
nection with  them.  She  knew  of  their  exist- 
ence by  hundreds  and  by  thousands.  She  knew 
what  results  in  work  a given  number  of  them 
would  produce,  in  a given  space  of  time.  She 
knew  them  in  crowds  passing  to  and  from  their 
nests,  like  ants  or  beetles.  But  she  knew  from 
her  reading  infinitely  more  of  the  ways  of  toil- 
ing insects  than  of  these  toiling  men  and 
women. 

Something  to  be  worked  so  much  and  paid  so 
much,  and  there  ended  ; something  to  be  infal- 
libly settled  by  laws  of  supply  and  demand  ; 
something  that  blundered  against  those  laws, 
and  floundered  into  difficulty  ; something  that 
was  a little  pinched  when  wheat  was  dear,  and 
over-ate  itself  when  wheat  was  cheap ; some- 
thing that  increased  at  such  a rate  of  percent- 
age, and  yielded  such  another  percentage  of 
crime,  and  such  another  percentage  of  pauper- 
ism ; something  wholesale,  of  which  vast  fo»- 


WORKINGMEN 


537 


WORKINGMEN 


tunes  were  made  ; something  that  occasionally 
rose  like  a sea,  and  did  some  harm  and  waste 
(chiefly  to  itself),  and  fell  again  ; this  she  knew 
the  Coketown  Hands  to  be.  But,  she  had  scarce- 
ly thought  more  of  separating  them  into  units, 
than  of  separating  the  sea  itself  into  its  compo- 
nent drops. — Hard  Times,  Book  II.,  Chap . 6. 

W ORKIN  GMEN— English. 

Gentlemen’s  clubs  were  once  maintained  for 
purposes  of  savage  party  warfare ; working- 
men’s clubs  of  the  same  day  assumed  the  same 
character.  Gentlemen’s  clubs  became  places 
of  quiet  inoffensive  recreation  ; workingmen’s 
clubs  began  to  follow  suit.  If  workingmen 
have  seemed  rather  slow  to  appreciate  advanta- 
ges of  combination  which  have  saved  the  pock- 
ets of  gentlemen,  and  enhanced  their  comforts, 
it  is  because  workingmen  could  scarcely,  for 
want  of  capital,  originate  such  combinations 
without  help  ; and  because  help  has  not  been 
separable  from  that  great  impertinence,  Pat- 
ronage. This  instinctive  revolt  of  his  spirit 
against  patronage  is  a quality  much  to  be  re- 
spected in  the  English  workingman.  It  is  the 
base  of  the  base  of  his  best  qualities.  Nor  is  it 
surprising  that  he  should  be  unduly  suspicious  of 
patronage,  and  sometimes  resentful  of  it  even 
where  it  is  not,  seeing  what  a flood  of  washy 
talk  has  been  let  loose  on  his  devoted  head,  or 
with  what  complacent  condescension  the  same 
devoted  head  has  been  smoothed  and  patted. 
It  is  a proof  to  me  of  his  self-control,  that  he 
never  strikes  out  pugilistically,  right  and  left, 
when  addressed  as  one.  of  “ My  friends  ” or 
“ My  assembled  friends ; ” that  he  does  not  become 
inappeasable,  and  run  amuck  like  a Malay, 
whenever  he  sees  a biped  in  broadcloth  getting 
on  a platform  to  talk  to  him  ; that  any  pre- 
tence of  improving  his  mind  does  not  instantly 
drive  him  out  of  his  mind,  and  cause  him  to 
toss  his  obliging  patron  like  a mad  bull. 

For  how  often  have  I heard  the  unfortunate 
workingman  lectured,  as  if  he  were  a little 
charity-child,  humid  as  to  his  nasal  develop- 
ment, strictly  literal  as  to  his  Catechism,  and 
called  by  Providence  to  walk  all  his  days  in  a 
station  in  life  represented  on  festive  occasions 
by  a mug  of  warm  milk-and-water  and  a bun  ! 
What  popguns  of  jokes  have  these  ears  tingled 
to  hear  let  off  at  him,  what  asinine  sentiments, 
what  impotent  conclusions,  what  spelling-book 
moralities,  what  adaptations  of  the  orator’s  in- 
sufferable tediousness  to  the  assumed  level  of 
his  understanding  ! If  his  sledgehammers,  his 
spades  and  pickaxes,  his  saws  and  chisels,  his 
paint-pots  and  brushes,  his  forges,  furnaces,  and 
engines,  the  horses  that  he  drove  at  his  work,  and 
the  machines  that  drove  him  at  his  work,  were 
all  toys  in  one  little  paper  box,  and  he  the  baby 
who  played  with  them,  he  could  not  have  been 
discoursed  to  more  impertinently  and  absurdly 
than  I have  heard  him  discoursed  to  times  in- 
numerable. Consequently,  not  being  a fool  or 
a fawner,  he  has  come  to  acknowledge  his 
patronage  by  virtually  saying  : “ Let  me  alone. 
If  you  understand  me  no  better  than  that , sir 
and  madam,  let  me  alone.  You  mean  very 
well,  I dare  say  ; but  I don’t  like  it,  and  I won’t 
come  here  again  to  have  any  more  of  it.” 

Whatever  is  done  for  the  comfort  and  ad- 
vancement of  the  workingman  must  be  so  far 
done  by  himself.  And  there  must  be  in  it  no 


touch  of  condescension,  no  shadow  of  patron- 
age. In  the  great  working  districts  this  truth  is 
studied  and  understood.  When  the  American 
civil  war  rendered  it  necessary,  first  in  Glas- 
gow, and  afterwards  in  Manchester,  that  the 
working  people  should  be  shown  how  to  avail 
themselves  of  the  advantages  derivable  from 
system,  and  from  the  combination  of  numbers, 
in  the  purchase  and  the  cooking  of  their  food, 
this  truth  was  above  all  things  borne  in  mind. 
The  quick  consequence  was,  that  suspicion  and 
reluctance  were  vanquished,  and  that  the  effort 
resulted  in  an  astonishing  and  a complete  suc- 
cess.— Uncommercial  Traveller , Chap.  23. 

WORKINGMEN-The  troubles  of. 

Reverting  for  a moment  to  his  former  refuge, 
he  observed  a cautionary  movement  of  her  eyes 
towards  the  door.  Stepping  back,  he  put  his 
hand  upon  the  lock.  But  he  had  not  spoken 
out  of  his  own  will  and  desire  ; and  he  felt  it 
in  his  heart  a noble  return  for  his  late  injurious 
treatment  to  be  faithful  to  the  last  to  those  who 
had  repudiated  him.  He  stayed  to  finish  what 
was  in  his  mind. 

“ Sir,  I canna,  wi’  my  little  learning,  an  my 
common  way,  tell  the  genelman  what  will  better 
aw  this — though  some  working  men  o’  this  town 
could,  above  my  powers — but  I can  tell  him 
what  I know  will  never  do’t.  The  strong  hand 
will  never  do’t.  Vict’ry  and  triumph  will  never 
do’t.  Agreeing  fur  to  mak  one  side  unnat’rally 
awlus  and  forever  right,  and  toother  side  un- 
nat’rally awlus  and  forever  wrong,  will  never, 
never  do’t.  Nor  yet  lettin  alone  will  never  do’t. 
Let  thousands  upon  thousands  alone,  aw  leadin 
the  like  lives  and  aw  faw’en  into  the  like  mud- 
dle, and  they  will  be  as  one,  and  yo  will  be  as 
anoother,  wi’  a black  impassable  world  betwixt 
yo,  just  as  long  or  short  a time  as  sitch-like 
misery  can  last.  Not  drawin  nigh  to  fok,  wi’ 
kindness  and  patience  an  cheery  ways,  that  so 
draws  nigh  to  one  another  in  their  monny  trou- 
bles, and  so  cherishes  one  another  in  their  dis- 
tresses wd’  what  they  need  themseln — like,  I 
humbly  believe,  as  no  people  the  genelman  ha 
seen  in  aw  his  travels  can  beat — will  never  do’t 
till  th’  Sun  turns  t’  ice.  Most  o’  aw,  ratin  ’em  as 
so  much  Power,  and  reg’latin  ’em  as  if  they  was 
figures  in  a soom,  or  machines : wi’out  loves 
and  likens,  wi’out  memories  and  inclinations, 
wi’out  souls  to  weary  and  souls  to  hope — when 
aw  goes  quiet,  draggin  on  wi’  ’em  as  if  they’d 
nowt  o’  th’  kind,  and  when  aw  goes  onquiet, 
reproachin  ’em  for  their  want  o’  sitch  humanly 
feelins  in  their  dealins  wi’  yo — this  will  never 
do’t,  sir,  till  God’s  work  is  onmade.” 

“ What,”  repeated  Mr.  Bounderby,  folding 
his  arms,  “ do  you  people,  in  a general  way, 
complain  of  ? ” 

Stephen  looked  at  him  with  some  little  irreso- 
lution for  a moment,  and  then  seemed  to  make 
up  his  mind. 

“ Sir,  I never  were  good  at  showin’  o’t,  though 
I ha  had’n  my  share  in  feeling  o’t.  ’Deed  vve 
are  in  a muddle,  sir.  Look  round  town — so 
rich  as  ’tis — and  see  the  numbers  o’  people  as  has 
been  broughten  into  bein  heer,  fur  to  weave,  an 
to  card,  an  to  piece  out  a livin’,  aw  the  same  one 
way,  somehows,  twixt  their  cradles  and  their 
graves.  Look  how  we  live,  an  wheer  we  live, 
an  in  what  numbers,  an  by  what  chances,  and 


WORKSHOP 


533 


WORLD 


wi’  what  sameness  ; and  look  how  the  mills  is 
awlus  a goin,  and  how  they  never  works  us  no 
nigher  to  ony  dis’ant  object — ceptin  awlus, 
Death.  Look  how  you  considers  of  us,  an 
writes  of  us,  an  talks  of  us,  an  goes  up  wi*  yor 
deputations  to  Secretaries  o’  State  'bout  us,  and 
how  yo  are  awlus  right,  and  how  we  are  awlus 
wrong,  and  never  had'n  no  reason  in  us  sin  ever 
we  were  born.  Look  how  this  ha  growen  an 
growen,  sir,  bigger  an  bigger,  broader  an 
broader,  harder  an  harder,  fro  year  to  year,  fro 
generation  unto  generation.  Who  can  look  on’t, 
sir,  and  fairly  tell  a man  ’tis  not  a muddle  ? ” 

“ Of  course,”  said  Mr.  Bounderby.  “ Now 
perhaps  you’ll  let  the  gentleman  know,  how  you 
would  set  this  muddle  (as  you’re  so  fond  of  call- 
ing it)  to  rights.” 

“ I donno,  sir.  I canna  be  expecten  to’t. 
’Tis  not  me  as  should  be  looken  to  for  that,  sir. 
'Tis  them  as  is  put  ower  me,  and  ower  aw  the 
rest  of  us.  What  do  they  tak  upon  themseln, 
sir,  if  not  to  do’t  ? ” 

“ I’ll  tell  you  something  towards  it,  at  any 
rate,”  returned  Mr.  Bounderby.  “ We  will 
make  an  example  of  half  a dozen  Slackbridges. 
We’ll  indict  the  blackguards  for  felony,  and  get 
’em  shipped  off  to  penal  settlements.” 

Stephen  gravely  shook  his  head. 

“ Don’t  tell  me  we  won’t,  man,”  said  Mr. 
Bounderby,  by  this  time  blowing  a hurricane, 
“because  we  will,  I tell  you  ! ” 

“ Sir,”  returned  Stephen,  with  the  quiet  con- 
fidence of  absolute  certainty,  “ if  yo  wast’  t.ak 
a hundred  Slackbridges — aw  as  there  is,  and  aw 
the  number  ten  times  towd — an  was  t’  sew  ’em 
up  in  separate  sacks,  an  sink  ’em  in  the  deepest 
ocean  as  were  made  ere  ever  dry  land  coom  to 
be,  yo’d  leave  the  muddle  just  wheer  ’tis.  Mis- 
cheevous  strangers  1 ” said  Stephen,  with  an  anx- 
ious smile  ; “ when  ha  we  not  heern,  I am  sure, 
sin  ever  we  can  call  to  mind,  o’  th’  mischeevous 
strangers  ! ’Tis  not  by  them  the  trouble’s  made, 
sir.  ’Tis  not  wi’  them ’t  commences.  I ha  no 
favor  for  ’em — I ha  no  reason  to  favor  ’em — 
but  ’tis  hopeless  and  useless  to  dream  o’  takin 
them  fro  their  trade,  ’stead  o’  takin  their  trade 
fro  them  ! Aw  that’s  now  about  me  in  this 
room  were  heer  afore  I coom,  an  will  be  heer 
when  I am  gone.  Put  that  clock  aboard  a ship 
an  pack  it  off  to  Norfolk  Island,  an  the  time 
will  go  on  just  the  same.  So  ’tis  wi’  Slackbridge 
every  bit.” — Hard  Times , Book  //.,  Chap.  5. 

W ORKSHOP— Gabriel  Varden’s. 

From  the  workshop  of  the  Golden  Key,  there 
issued  forth  a tinkling  sound,  so  merry  and 
good-humored,  that  it  suggested  the  idea  of 
some  one  working  blithely,  and  made  quite 
pleasant  music.  No  man  who  hammered  on  at 
a dull  monotonous  duty,  could  have  brought 
such  cheerful  notes  from  steel  and  iron  ; none 
but  a chirping,  healthy,  honest-hearted  fellow, 
who  made  the  best  of  everything,  and  felt  kindly 
towards  everybody,  could  have  done  it  for  an 
instant.  He  might  have  been  a coppersmith, 
and  still  been  musical.  If  he  had  sat  in  a jolt- 
ing wagon,  full  of  rods  of  iron,  it  seemed  as  if 
he  would  have  brought  some  harmony  out  of  it. 

Tink,  link,  link — clear  as  a silver  bell,  and 
audible  at  every  pause  of  the  streets'  harsher 
noises,  as  though  it  said,  “ I don’t  care  ; nothing 
puts  me  out  ; I am  resolved  to  be  happy.  ’ 
Women  scolded,  children  squalled,  heavy  carts 


went  rumbling  by,  horrible  cries  proceeded  from 
the  lungs  of  hawkers  ; still  it  struck  in  again, 
no  higher,  no  lower,  no  louder,  no  softer  ; not 
thrusting  itself  on  people’s  notice  a bit  the  more 
for  having  been  outdone  by  louder  sounds — 
tink,  tink,  tink,  tink,  tink. 

It  was  a perfect  embodiment  of  the  still  small 
voice,  free  from  all  cold,  hoarseness,  huskiness, 
or  unhealthiness  of  any  kind  ; foot-passengers 
slackened  their  pace,  and  were  disposed  to  lin- 
ger near  it ; neighbors  who  had  got  up  Splene- 
tic that  morning,  felt  good-humor  stealing  on 
them  as  they  heard  it,  and  by  degrees  became 
quite  sprightly  ; mothers  danced  their  babies  to 
its  ringing  ; still  the  same  magical  link,  tink, 
tink,  came  gaily  from  the  workshop  of  the  Gold- 
en Key. 

Who  but  the  locksmith  could  have  made  such 
music?  A gleam  of  sun  shining  through  the 
unsashed  window,  and  chequering  the  dark 
workshop  with  a broad  patch  of  light,  fell  full 
upon  him,  as  though  attracted  by  his  sunny 
heart.  There  he  stood  working  at  his  anvil, 
his  face  all  radiant  with  exercise  and  gladness, 
his  sleeves  turned  up,  his  wig  pushed  off  his 
shining  forehead — the  easiest,  freest,  happiest 
man  in  all  the  world.  Beside  him  sat  a sleek 
cat,  purring  and  winking  in  the  light,  and  fall- 
ing every  now  and  then  into  an  idle  doze,  as 
from  excess  of  comfort.  Toby  looked  on  from 
a tall  bench  hard  by  ; one  beaming  smile,  from 
his  broad  nut-brown  face  down  to  the  slack- 
baked  buckles  in  his  shoes.  The  very  locks 
that  hung  around  had  something  jovial  in  their 
rust,  and  seemed  like  gouty  gentlemen  of  hearty 
natures,  disposed  to  joke  on  their  infirmities. 
There  was  nothing  surly  or  severe  in  the  whole 
scene.  It  seemed  impossible  that  any  one  of 
the  innumerable  keys  could  fit  a churlish  strong- 
box or  a prison-door.  Cellars  of  beer  and  wine, 
rooms  where  there  were  fires,  books,  gossip,  and 
cheering  laughter — these  were  their  proper 
sphere  of  action.  Places  of  distrust  and  cruelty, 
and  restraint,  they  would  have  left  quadruple- 
locked  forever. — Barnaby  Radge,  Chap.  41. 

WORLD— The  material  and  moral. 

In  the  material  world,  as  I have  long  taught, 
nothing  can  be  spared  ; no  step  or  atom  in  the 
wondrous  structure  could  be  lost,  without  a 
blank  being  made  in  the  great  universe.  I 
know,  now,  that  it  is  the  same  with  good  and 
evil,  happiness  and  sorrow,  in  the  memories  of 
men. — Haunted  Man , Chap.  2. 

WORLD-The. 

The  world — a conventional  phrase  which,  be- 
ing interpreted,  often  signifieth  all  the  rascals 
in  it. — Nicholas  Nickleby,  Chap.  3. 

WORLD-A  battlefield. 

“ It’s  a world  full  of  hearts,”  said  the  Doctor, 
hugging  his  younger  daughter,  and  bending 
across  her  to  hug  Grace — for  he  couldn’t  separ- 
ate the  sisters;  “and  a serious  world,  with  all 
its  folly — even  with  mine,  which  was  enough  to 
have  swamped  the  whole  globe  ; and  it  is  a 
world  on  which  the  sun  never  rises,  but  it  looks 
upon  a thousand  bloodless  battles  that  are  some 
set-ofl"  against  the  miseries  and  wickedness  of 
Battle-Fields  ; and  it  is  a world  we  need  be 
careful  how  we  libel,  Heaven  forgive  us,  for  it 
is  a world  of  sacred  ir*  ‘Series,  and  its  Creator 


WORLD 


539 


WRITING 


only  knows  what  lies  beneath  the  surface  of  His 
lightest  image  ! ” — Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  3. 

WORLD— Its  hollowness. 

“ The  world  is  a lively  place  enough,  in  which 
we  must  accommodate  ourselves  to  circum- 
stances, sail  with  the  stream  as  glibly  as  we 
can,  be  content  to  take  froth  for  substance,  the 
surface  for  the  depth,  the  counterfeit  for  the 
real  coin.  I wonder  no  philosopher  has  ever 
established  that  our  globe  itself  is  hollow.  It 
should  be,  if  Nature  is  consistent  in  her  works.” 

Barnaby  Budge,  Chap.  12. 

WORLD— The  opinion  of  the. 

Let  it  be  remembered  that  most  men  live  in 
a world  of  their  own,  and  that  in  that  limited 
circle  alone  are  they  ambitious  for  distinction 
and  applause.  Sir  Mulberry’s  world  was  peo- 
pled with  profligates,  and  he  acted  accordingly. 

Thus,  cases  of  injustice,  and  oppression,  and 
tyranny,  and  the  most  extravagant  bigotry,  are 
in  constant  occurrence  among  us  every  day.  It 
is  the  custom  to  trumpet  forth  much  wonder 
and  astonishment  at  the  chief  actors  therein, 
setting  at  defiance  so  completely  the  opinion  of 
the  world  ; but  there  is  no  greater  fallacy  ; it  is 
precisely  because  they  do  consult  the  opinion  of 
their  own  little  world  that  such  things  take  place 
at  all,  and  strike  the  great  world  dumb  with 
amazement. — Nicholas  Nicklcby , Chap.  28. 

WORLD— Toots’s  idea  of  the. 

“ Oh,  upon  my  word  and  honor,”  cried  Mr. 
Toots,  whose  tender  heart  was  moved  by  the 
Captain’s  unexpected  distress,  “ this  is  a most 
wretched  sort  of  affair,  this  world  is  ! Some- 
body’s always  dying,  or  going  and  doing  some- 
thing uncomfortable  in  it.  I’m  sure  I never 
should  have  looked  forward  so  much,  to  coming 
into  my  property,  if  I had  known  this.  I never 
saw  such  a world.” — Do/nbey  Son,  Chap.  32. 

WRITING-Short-hand. 

I did  not  allow  my  resolution,  with  respect  to 
the  Parliamentary  Debates,  to  cool.  It  was  one 
of  the  irons  I began  to  heat  immediately,  and 
one  of  the  irons  I kept  hot,  and  hammered  at, 
with  a perseverance  I may  honestly  admire.  I 
bought  an  approved  scheme  of  the  noble  art 
and  mystery  of  stenography  (which  cost  me  ten 
and  sixpence),  and  plunged  into  a sea  of  per- 
plexity that  brought  me,  in  a few  weeks,  to  the 
confines  of  distraction.  The  changes  that  were 
rung  upon  dots,  which  in  such  a position  meant 
such  a thing,  and  in  such  another  position  some- 
thing else,  entirely  different ; the  wonderful 
vagaries  that  were  played  by  circles  ; the  unac- 
countable consequences  that  resulted  from  marks 
like  flies’  legs  ; the  tremendous  effects  of  a curve 
in  a wrong  place  ; not  only  troubled  my  waking 
hours,  but  reappeared  before  me  in  my  sleep. 
When  I had  groped  my  way,  blindly,  through 
these  difficulties,  and  had  mastered  the  alphabet, 
which  was  an  Egyptian  Temple  in  itself,  there 
then  appeared  a procession  of  new  horrors, 
called  arbitrary  characters  ; the  most  despotic 
characters  I have  ever  known  ; who  insisted,  for 
instance,  that  a thing  like  the  beginning  of  a 
cobweb,  meant  expectation,  and  that  a pen-and- 
ink  sky-rocket  stood  for  disadvantageous.  When 
I had  fixed  these  wretches  in  my  mind,  I found 
that  they  had  driven  everything  else  out  of  it ; 


then,  beginning  again,  I forgot  them  ; while  I 
was  picking  them  up,  I dropped  the  other  frag- 
ments of  the  system  ; in  short,  it  was  almost 
heart-breaking. 

It  might  have  been  quite  heart-breaking,  but 
for  Dora,  who  was  the  stay  and  anchor  of  my 
tempest-driven  bark.  Every  scratch  in  the 
scheme  was  a gnarled  oak  in  the  forest  of  diffi- 
culty, and  I went  on  cutting  them  down,  one 
after  another,  with  such  vigor,  that  in  three  or 
four  months  I was  in  a condition  to  make  an 
experiment  on  one  of  our  crack  speakers  in  the 
Commons.  Shall  I ever  forget  how  the  crack 
speaker  walked  off  from  me  before  I began,  and 
left  my  imbecile  pencil  staggering  about  the 
paper  as  if  it  were  in  a fit  ? 

This  would  not  do,  it  was  quite  clear.  I was 
flying  too  high,  and  should  never  get  on,  so  I 
resorted  to  Traddles  for  advice  : who  suggested 
that  he  should  dictate  speeches  to  me,  at  a pace, 
and  with  occasional  stoppages,  adapted  to  my 
weakness.  Very  grateful  for  this  friendly  aid, 
I accepted  the  proposal  ; and  night  after  night, 
almost  every  night,  for  a long  time,  we  had  a 
sort  of  private  Parliament  in  Buckingham 
Street,  after  I came  home  from  the  Doctor’s. 

I should  like  to  see  such  a Parliament  any- 
where else  ! My  aunt  and  Mr.  Dick  represent- 
ed the  Government  or  the  Opposition  (as  the 
case  might  be),  and  Traddles,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  Enfield’s  Speaker  or  a volume  of  par- 
liamentary orations,  thundered  astonishing  in- 
vectives against  them.  Standing  by  the  table, 
with  his  finger  in  the  page  to  keep  the  place, 
and  his  right  arm  flourishing  above  his  head, 
Traddles,  as  Mr.  Pitt,  Mr.  Fox,  Mr.  Sheridan, 
Mr.  Burke,  Lord  Castlereagh,  Viscount  Sid- 
mouth,  or  Mr.  Canning,  would  work  himself 
into  the  most  violent  heats,  and  deliver  the  most 
withering  denunciations  of  the  profligacy  and 
corruption  of  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Dick  ; while  I 
used  to  sit,  at  a little  distance,  with  my  note- 
book on  my  knee,  fagging  after  him  with  all 
my  might  and  main.  The  inconsistency  and 
recklessness  of  Traddles  were  not  to  be  exceed- 
ed by  any  real  politician.  He  was  for  any  de- 
scription of  policy,  in  the  compass  of  a week  ; 
and  nailed  all  sorts  of  colors  to  every  denomi- 
nation of  mast.  My  aunt,  looking  very  like 
an  immovable  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer, 
would  occasionally  throw  in  an  interruption  or 
two,  as  “ Hear  ! ” or  “ No  ! ” or  “ Oh  ! ” when  the 
text  seemed  to  require  it — which  was  always  a 
signal  to  Mr.  Dick  (a  perfect  country  gentle- 
man) to  follow  lustily  with  the  same  cry.  But 
Mr.  Dick  got  taxed  with  such  things  in  the 
course  of  his  Parliamentary  career,  and  was 
made  responsible  for  such  awful  consequences, 
that  he  became  uncomfortable  in  his  mind 
sometimes.  I believe  he  actually  began  to  be 
afraid  he  really  had  been  doing  something, 
tending  to  the  annihilation  of  the  British  con- 
stitution, and  the  ruin  of  the  country. 

Often  and  often  we  pursued  these  debates  until 
the  clock  pointed  to  midnight,  and  the  candles 
were  burning  down.  The  result  of  so  much  good 
practice  was,  that  by-and-bye  I began  to  keep 
pace  with  Traddles  pretty  well,  and  should  have 
been  quite  triumphant  if  I had  had  the  least  idea 
what  my  notes  were  about.  But,  as  to  reading 
them,  after  I had  got  them,  I might  as  well  have 
copied  the  Chinese  inscriptions  on  an  immense 
collection  of  tea-chests,  or  the  golden  characters 


WRITING 


540 


WRITER 


on  all  the  great  red  and  green  bottles  in  the 
chemists’  shops  ! 

There  was  nothing  for  it,  but  to  turn  back 
and  begin  all  over  again.  It  was  very  hard, 
but  I turned  back,  though  with  a heavy  heart, 
and  began  laboriously  and  methodically  to  plod 
over  the  same  tedious  ground  at  a snail’s  pace  : 
stopping  to  examine  minutely  every  speck  in 
the  way,  on  all  sides,  and  making  the  most 
desperate  efforts  to  know  these  elusive  charac- 
ters by  sight  wherever  I met  them.  I was 
always  punctual  at  the  office ; at  the  Doctor’s 
too ; and  I really  did  work,  as  the  common 
expression  is,  like  a cart-horse. 

David  Copperfield,  Chap.  38. 

WRITING— The  attempts  of  ignorance. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boffin  sat,  after  breakfast,  in 
the  Bower,  a prey  to  prosperity.  Mr.  Boffin’s 
face  denoted  Care  and  Complication.  Many 
disordered  papers  were  before  him,  and  he 
looked  at  them  about  as  hopefully  as  an  inno- 
cent civilian  might  look  at  a crowd  of  troops 
whom  he  was  required  at  five  minutes’  notice  to 
manoeuvre  and  review.  He  had  been  engaged 
in  some  attempts  to  make  notes  of  these  papers  ; 
but  being  troubled  (as  men  of  his  stamp  often 
are)  with  an  exceedingly  distrustful  and  correct- 
ive thumb,  that  busy  member  had  so  often  in- 
terposed to  smear  his  notes,  that  they  were 
little  more  legible  than  the  various  impressions 
of  itself,  which  blurred  his  nose  and  forehead. 
It  is  curious  to  consider,  in  such  a case  as  Mr. 
Boffin’s,  what  a cheap  article  ink  is,  and  how 
far  it  may  be  made  to  go.  As  a grain  of  musk 
will  scent  a drawer  for  many  years,  and  still  lose 
nothing  appreciable  of  its  original  weight,  so  a 
halfpenny-worth  of  ink  would  blot  Mr.  Boffin 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  the  calves  of  his 
legs,  without  inscribing  a line  on  the  paper  be- 
fore him,  or  appearing  to  diminish  in  the  ink- 
stand. 

* * * * 

“ And  I tell  you,  my  deary,”  said  Mrs.  Boffin, 
“ that  if  you  don’t  close  with  Mr.  Rokesmith 
now  at  once,  and  if  you  ever  go  a muddling 
yourself  again  with  things  never  meant  nor 
made  for  you,  you’ll  have  an  apoplexy — besides 
iron-moulding  your  linen — and  you’ll  break  my 
heart.” — Our  Mutual  Friend , Book  /.,  Chap.  15. 

WRITING-Short-hand. 

I have  come  legally  to  man’s  estate.  I have 
attained  the  dignity  of  twenty-one.  But  this  is 
a sort  of  dignity  that  may  be  thrust  upon  one. 
Let  me  think  what  I have  achieved. 

I have  tamed  that  savage  stenographic  mys- 
tery. I make  a respectable  income  by  it.  I am 
in  high  repute  for  my  accomplishment  in  all 
pertaining  to  the  art,  and  am  joined  with  eleven 
others  in  reporting  the  debates  in  Parliament 
for  a Morning  Newspaper.  Night  after  night 
I record  predictions  that  never  come  to  pass, 
professions  that  are  never  fulfilled,  explanations 
that  are  only  meant  to  mystify.  I wallow  in 
words.  Britannia,  that  unfortunate  female,  is 
always  before  me,  like  a trussed  fowl ; skewered 
through  and  through  with  office-pens,  and  bound 
hand  and  foot  with  red  tape.  1 am  sufficiently 
behind  the  scenes  to  know  the  worth  of  politi- 
cal life.  I am  quite  an  Infidel  about  it,  and 
shall  never  be  converted. 

David  Coppcrficld,  Chap.  43. 


WRITING— An  ecstasy  of  pel)  and  ink. 

In  his  epistolary  communication,  as  in  his  dia- 
logues and  discourses  on  the  great  question  to 
which  it  related,  Mr.  Dorrit  surrounded  the  sub- 
ject with  flourishes,  as  writing-masters  embellish 
copy-books  and  ciphering-books  ; where  the 
titles  of  the  elementary  rules  of  arithmetic 
diverge  into  swans,  eagles,  griffins,  and  other  cal- 
igraphic  recreations,  and  where  the  capital  letters 
go  out  of  their  minds  and  bodies  into  ecstasies 
of  pen  and  ink. — Little  Dorrit,  Book  //.,  Chap.  15. 

WRITING-The  efforts  of  Sam  Weller. 

“ Wery  good,  my  dear,”  replied  Sam.  “ Let 
me  have  nine  penn’orth  o’  brandy  and  water, 
luke,  and  the  ink-stand,  will  you,  Miss?” 

The  brandy  and  water,  luke,  and  the  ink- 
stand, having  been  carried  into  the  little  parlor, 
and  the  young  lady  having  carefully  flattened 
down  the  coals  to  prevent  their  blazing,  and  car- 
ried away  the  poker  to  preclude  the  possibility 
of  the  fire  being  stirred,  without  the  full  privity 
and  concurrence  of  the  Blue  Boar  being  first  had 
and  obtained,  Sam  Weller  sat  himself  down  in  a 
box  near  the  stove,  and  pulled  out  the  sheet  of 
gilt-edged  letter-paper,  and  the  hard-nibbed  pen. 
Then  looking  carefully  at  the  pen  to  see  that 
there  were  no  hairs  in  it,  and  dusting  down  the 
table,  so  that  there  might  be  no  crumbs  of  bread 
under  the  paper,  Sam  tucked  up  the  cuffs  of  his 
coat,  squared  his  elbows,  and  composed  himself 
to  write. 

To  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  are  not  in  the 
habit  of  devoting  themselves  practically  to  the 
science  of  penmanship,  writing  a letter  is  no  very 
easy  task  ; it  being  always  considered  necessary 
in  such  cases  for  the  writer  to  recline  his  head 
on  his  left  arm,  so  as  to  place  his  eyes  as  nearly 
as  possible  on  a level  with  the  paper,  while 
glancing  sideways  at  the  letters  he  is  con- 
structing, to  form  with  his  tongue  imaginary 
characters  to  correspond.  These  motions,  al- 
though unquestionably  of  the  greatest  assist- 
ance to  original  composition,  retard  in  some 
degree  the  progress  of  the  writer  ; and  Sam  had 
unconsciously  been  a full  hour  and  a half  writ- 
ing words  in  small  text,  smearing  out  wrong 
letters  with  his  little  finger,  and  putting  in  new 
ones,  which  required  going  over  very  often  to 
render  them  visible  through  the  old  blots,  when 
he  was  roused  by  the  opening  of  the  door,  and 
the  entrance  of  his  parent. — Pickwick , Chap.  33. 

WRITER— A smeary. 

He  was  a smeary  writer,  and  wrote  a dreadful 
bad  hand.  Utterly  regardless  of  ink,  he  lavished 
it  on  every  undeserving  object, — on  his  clothes, 
his  desk,  his  hat,  the  handle  of  his  tooth  brush, 
his  umbrella.  Ink  was  found  freely  on  the  cof- 
fee-room carpet,  by  No.  4 table,  and  two  blots 
were  on  his  restless  couch.  A reference  to  the 
document  I have  given  entire  will  show  that  on 
the  morning  of  the  third  of  February,  eighteen 
fifty-six,  he  procured  his  no  less  than  fifth  pen 
and  paper.  To  whatever  deplorable  act  of  un- 
governable composition  he  immolated  those  ma- 
terials obtained  from  the  bar,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  fatal  deed  was  committed  in  bed,  and 
that  it  left  its  evidences  but  too  plainly,  long 
afterwards,  upon  the  pillow-case. 

He  had  put  no  Heading  to  any  of  his  writings. 
Alas  ! Was  he  likely  to  have  a Heading  without 
a Head,  and  where  was  his  Head  when  he  took 


WRITING 


541 


WRITE 


such  things  into  it?  In  some  cases,  such  as  his 
Boots,  he  would  appear  to  have  hid  the  writings  ; 
thereby  involving  his  style  in  greater  obscurity. 
But  his  Boots  were  at  least  pairs; — and  no  two  of 
his  writings  can  put  in  any  claim  to  be  so 
regarded. — Somebody's  Luggage,  Chap.  I. 

WRITING. 

Rob  sat  down  behind  the  desk  with  a most 
assiduous  demeanor  ; and  in  order  that  he  might 
forget  nothing  of  what  had  transpired,  made 
notes  of  it  on  various  small  scraps  of  paper, 
with  a vast  expenditure  of  ink.  There  was  no 
danger  of  these  documents  betraying  anything, 
if  accidentally  lost ; for  long  before  a word  was 
dry,  it  became  as  profound  a mystery  to  Rob, 
as  if  he  had  had  no  part  whatever  in  its  produc- 
tion.— Dombey  <5r“  Son,  Chap.  23. 

WRITING— Dick  Swiveller  as  a correspond- 
ent. 

“ Is  that  a reminder,  in  case  you  should  for- 
get to  call?”  said  Trent  with  a sneer. 

“Not  exactly,  Fred,”  replied  the  imperturba- 
ble Richard,  continuing  to  write  with  a busi- 
ness-like air,  “ I enter  in  this  little  book  the 
names  of  the  streets  that  I can’t  go  down  while 
the  shops  are  open.  This  dinner  to-day  closes 
Long  Acre.  I bought  a pair  of  boots  in  Great 
Queen  Street  last  week,  and  made  that  no 
thoroughfare  too.  There’s  only  one  avenue  in 
the  Strand  left  open  now,  and  I shall  have  to 
stop  up  that  to-night  with  a pair  of  gloves. 
The  roads  are  closing  so  fast  in  every  direction, 
that  in  about  a month’s  time,  unless  my  aunt 
sends  me  a remittance,  I shall  have  to  go  three 
or  four  miles  out  of  town  to  get  over  the  way.” 

“ There’s  no  fear  of  her  failing,  in  the  end  ?” 
said  Trent. 

“ Why,  I hope  not,”  returned  Mr.  Swiveller, 
“ but  the  average  number  of  letters  it  takes  to 
soften  her  is  six,  and  this  time  we  have  got  as 
far  as  eight  without  any  effect  at  all.  I’ll  write 
another  to-morrow  morning.  I mean  to  blot  it 
a good  deal  and  shake  some,  water  over  it  out 
of  the  pepper-castor,  to  make  it  look  penitent. 
‘ I’m  in  such  a state  of  mind  that  I hardly  know 
what  I write  ’ — blot — ‘ if  you  could  see  me  at 
this  minute  shedding  tears  for  my  past  miscon- 
duct ’ — pepper  castor — 1 my  hand  trembles  when 
I think  ’ — blot  again — if  that  don’t  produce  the 
effect,  it’s  all  over.” 

Old  Curiosity  Shop,  Chap.  8. 

WRITING— Of  Joe  Gargery. 

Evidently,  Biddy  had  taught  Joe  to  write. 
As  I lay  in  bed  looking  at  him,  it  made  me,  in 
my  weak  state,  cry  again  with  pleasure  to  see 
the  pride  with  which  he  set  about  his  letter. 
My  bedstead,  divested  of  its  curtains,  had  been 
removed,  with  me  upon  it,  into  the  sitting-room, 
as  the  airiest  and  largest,  and  the  carpet  had 
been  taken  away,  and  the  room  kept  always 
fresh  and  wholesome  night  and  day.  At  my 
own  writing-table,  pushed  into  a corner  and 
cumbered  with  little  bottles,  Joe  now  sat  down 
to  his  great  work,  first  choosing  a pen  from  the 
pen-tray  as  if  it  were  a chest  of  large  tools,  and 
tucking  up  his  sleeves  as  if  he  were  going  to 
wield  a crowbar  or  sledge-hammer.  It  was 
necessary  for  Joe  to  hold  on  heavily  to  the 
table  with  his  left  elbow,  and  to  get  his 
right  leg  well  out  behind  him,  before  he  could 


begin,  and  when  he  did  begin  he  made  every 
down-stroke  so  slowly  that  it  might  have  been 
six  feet  long,  while  at  every  up-stroke  I could 
hear  his  pen  spluttering  extensively.  He  had  a 
curious  idea  that  the  inkstand  was  on  the  side 
of  him  where  it  was  not,  and  constantly  dipped 
his  pen  into  space,  and  seemed  quite  satisfied 
with  the  result.  Occasionally,  he  was  tripped 
up  by  some  orthographical  stumbling-block,  but 
on  the  whole  he  got  on  very  well  indeed,  and 
when  he  had  signed  his  name,  and  had  removed 
a finishing  blot  from  the  paper  to  the  crown  of 
his  head  with  his  two  forefingers,  he  got  up  and 
hovered  about  the  table,  trying  the  effect  of  his 
performance  from  various  points  of  view  as  it 
lay  there,  with  unbounded  satisfaction. 

Great  Expectations,  Chap.  57. 

WRITING— Preparations  for. 

Clemency  Newcome,  in  an  ecstasy  of  laughter 
at  the  -idea  of  her  own  importance  and  dignity, 
brooded  over  the  whole  table  with  her  two 
elbows,  like  a spread  eagle,  and  reposed  her 
head  upon  her  left  arm  as  a preliminary  to  the 
formation  of  certain  cabalistic  characters,  which 
required  a deal  of  ink,  and  imaginary  counter- 
parts whereof  she  executed  at  the  same  time 
with  her  tongue.  Having  once  tasted  ink,  she 
became  thirsty  in  that  regard,  as  tame  tigers  are 
said  to  be  after  tasting  another  sort  of  fluid,  and 
wanted  to  sign  everything,  and  put  her  name  in 
all  kinds  of  places. — Battle  of  Life,  Chap.  1. 

WRITING— Of  a beginner. 

Writing  was  a trying  business  to  Charley,  who 
seemed  to  have  no  natural  power  over  a pen, 
but  in  whose  hand  every  pen  appeared  to  be- 
come perversely  animated,  and  to  go  wrong  and 
crooked,  and  to  stop,  and  splash,  and  sidle  into 
corners,  like  a saddle-donkey.  It  was  very  odd, 
to  see  what  old  letters  Charley’s  young  hand  had 
made  ; they,  so  wrinkled,  and  shrivelled,  and 
tottering  ; it,  so  plump  and  round.  Yet  Charley 
was  uncommonly  expei't  at  other  things,  and 
had  as  nimble  little  fingers  as  I ever  watched. 

“ Well,  Charley,”  said  I,  looking  over  a copy 
of  the  letter  O in  which  it  was  represented  as 
square,  triangular,  pear-shaped,  and  collapsed 
in  all  kinds  of  ways,  “ we  are  improving.” 

Bleak  House , Chap.  31. 

WRITING-DESK-A  spattered. 

He  comes  out  of  his  dull  room — where  he  has 
inherited  the  deal  wilderness  of  desk  bespatter- 
ed with  a rain  of  ink. — Bleak  House , Chap.  20. 

WRITING-A  letter. 

The  writing  looked  like  a skein  of  thread  in 
a tangle,  and  the  note  was  ingeniously  folded 
into  a perfect  square,  with  the  direction  squeez- 
ed up  into  the  right-hand  corner,  as  if  it  were 
ashamed  of  itself.  The  back  of  the  epistle  was 
pleasingly  ornamented  with  a large  red  wafer, 
which,  with  the  addition  of  divers  ink-stains, 
bore  a marvellous  resemblance  to  a black  beetle 
trodden  upon. — Tales,  Chap.  1. 

WRITE  —Kit  learning  to. 

To  relate  how  it  was  a long  time  before  his 
modesty  could  be  so  far  prevailed  upon  as  to 
admit  of  his  sitting  down  in  the  parlor,  in  the 
presence  of  an  unknown  gentleman — how,  when 
he  did  sit  down,  he  tucked  up  his  sleeves  and 


WRITERS 


642 


YEAR 


squared  bis  elbows,  and  put  his  face  close  to  the 
copy-book,  and  squinted  horribly  at  the  lines — 
how,  from  the  very  first  moment  of  having  the 
pen  in  his  hand,  he  began  to  wallow  in  blots, 
and  to  daub  himself  with  ink  up  to  the  very 
roots  of  his  hair — how,  if  he  did  by  accident 
form  a letter  properly,  he  immediately  smeared 
it  out  again  with  his  arm  in  his  preparations  to 
make  another — how,  at  every  fresh  mistake, 
there  was  a fresh  burst  of  merriment  from  the 
child  and  a louder  and  not  less  hearty  laugh 
from  poor  Kit  himself — and  how  there  was  all 
the  way  through,  notwithstanding,  a gentle  wish 
on  her  part  to  teach,  and  an  anxious  desire  on 
his  to  learn — to  relate  all  these  particulars 
would  no  doubt  occupy  more  space  and  time 
than  they  deserve. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop , Chap.  3. 

WRITERS  -Public. 

Flaming  placards  are  rife  on  all  the  dead 
walls  in  the  borough,  public-houses  hang  out 
banners,  hackney-cabs  burst  into  full-grown 
flowers  of  type,  and  everybody  is,  or  should  be, 
in  a paroxysm  of  anxiety. 

At  these  momentous  crises  of  the  national 
fate,  we  are  much  assisted  in  our  deliberations 
by  two  eminent  volunteers;  one  of  whom  sub- 
scribes himself  A Fellow  Parishioner,  the  other, 
A Rate-Payer.  Who  they  are,  or  what  they 
are,  or  where  they  are,  nobody  knows  ; but 
whatever  one  asserts,  the  other  contradicts. 
They  are  both  voluminous  writers,  inditing 
more  epistles  than  Lord  Chesterfield  in  a single 
week  ; and  the  greater  part  of  their  feelings  are 
too  big  for  utterance  in  anything  less  than  capi- 
tal letters.  They  require  the  additional  aid  of 
whole  rows  of  notes  of  admiration,  like  balloons, 
to  point  their  generous  indignation:  and  they 
sometimes  communicate  a crushing  severity  to 
stars. — Our  Vestry.  Reprinted  Pieces. 


Y 

YAWN— An  unfinished. 

Mr.  Jasper,  in  the  act  of  yawning  behind  his 
wineglass,  puts  down  that  screen  and  calls  up  a 
look  of  interest.  It  is  a little  impaired  in  its 
expressiveness  by  his  having  a shut-up  gape  still 
to  dispose  of,  with  watering  eyes. 

Edwin  Droody  Chap.  4. 

YEAR  New. 

Next  to  Christmas-day,  the  most  pleasant 
annual  epoch  in  existence  is  the  advent  of  the 
New  Year.  There  are  a lachrymose  set  of  people 
who  usher  in  the  New  Year  with  watching  and 
fasting,  as  if  they  were  bound  to  attend  as  chief 
mourners  at  the  obsequies  of  the  old  one.  Now, 
we  cannot  but  think  it  a great  deal  more  com- 
plimentary, both  to  the  old  year  that  has  rolled 
away,  and  to  the  New  Year  that  is  just  begin- 
ning to  dawn  upon  us,  to  see  the  old  fellow  out, 
and  the  new  one  in,  with  gaiety  and  glee. 

There  must  have  been  some  few  occurrences 
in  the  past  year  to  which  we  can  look  back  with 


a smile  of  cheerful  recollection,  if  not  with  a 
feeling  of  heartfelt  thankfulness.  And  we  are 
bound  by  every  rule  of  justice  and  equity  to  give 
the  New  Year  credit  for  being  a good  one,  until 
he  proves  himself  unworthy  the  confidence  we 
repose  in  him. 

This  is  our  view  of  the  matter  ; and  enter- 
taining it,  notwithstanding  our  respect  for  the 
old  year,  one  of  the  few  remaining  moments  of 
whose  existence  passes  away  with  every  word 
we  write,  here  we  are,  seated  by  our  fireside  on 
this  last  night  of  the  old  year,  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  thirty-six,  penning  this  arti- 
cle with  as  jovial  a face  as  if  nothing  extra- 
ordinary had  happened,  or  was  about  to  hap- 
pen, to  disturb  our  good  humor. 

Characters  (Sketches),  Chap.  3. 

YEARS-  The  death  of. 

“ Hard  weather  indeed,”  returned  his  wife, 
shaking  her  head. 

“Years,”  said  Mr.  Tugby,  “are  like  Chris- 
tians in  that  respect.  Some  of  ’em  die  hard  ; 
some  of  ’em  die  easy.  This  one  hasn’t  many 
days  to  run,  and  is  making  a fight  for  it.  I 
like  him  all  the  better.” 

Chimes , 4 th  Quarter. 

YEAR— The  old  and  new. 

It  was  a hard  frost,  that  day.  The  air  was 
bracing,  crisp,  and  clear.  The  wintry  sun, 
though  powerless  for  warmth,  looked  brightly 
down  upon  the  ice  it  was  too  weak  to  melt,  and 
set  a radiant  glory  there.  At  other  times,  Trotty 
might  have  learned  a poor  man’s  lesson  from  the 
wintry  sun  ; but,  he  was  past  that,  now. 

The  Year  was  ©Id,  that  day.  The  patient 
Year  had  lived  through  the  reproaches  and  mis- 
uses of  its  slanderers,  and  faithfully  performed 
its  work.  Spring,  summer,  autumn,  winter.  It 
had  labored  through  the  destined  round,  and 
now  laid  down  its  weary  head  to  die.  Shut  out 
from  hope,  high  impulse,  active  happiness,  it- 
self, but  messenger  of  many  joys  to  others,  ic 
made  appeal  in  its  decline  to  have  its  toiling 
days  and  patient  hours  remembered,  and  to  die 
in  peace.  Trotty  might  have  read  a poor  man’s 
allegory  in  the  fading  year ; but  he  was  past 
that,  now. 

And  only  he?  Or  has  the  like  appeal  been 
ever  made,  by  seventy  years  at  once  upon  an 
English  laborer’s  head,  and  made  in  vain? 

The  streets  were  full  of  motion,  and  the  shops 
were  decked  out  gaily.  The  New  Year,  like  an 
Infant  Heir  to  the  whole  world,  was  waited  for, 
with  welcomes,  presents,  and  rejoicings.  There 
were  books  and  toys  for  the  New  Year,  glitter- 
ing trinkets  for  the  New  Year,  dresses  lor  the 
New  Year,  schemes  of  fortune  for  the  New 
Year ; new  inventions  to  beguile  it.  Its  life 
was  parcelled  out  in  almanacks  and  pocket- 
books  ; the  coming  of  its  moons,  and  stars,  and 
tides,  was  known  beforehand  to  the  moment ; 
all  the  workings  of  its  seasons  in  their  days  and 
nights,  >vere  calculated  with  as  much  precision 
as  Mr.  Filer  could  work  sums  in  men  and 
women. 

The  New  Year,  the  New  Year.  Everywhere 
the  New  Year!  The  Old  Year  was  already 
looked  upon  as  dead  ; and  its  effects  were  sell- 
ing cheap,  like  some  drowned  mariner’s  aboard- 
ship.  Its  patterns  were  Last  Year’s,  and  going 
at  a sacrifice,  before  its  breath  was  gone.  Its 


YES 


543 


YOUTH 


treasures  were  mere  dirt,  beside  the  riches  of 
its  unborn  successor  ! — Chimes , zd  Quarter. 

YES— Its  expression. 

I was  much  impressed  by  the  extremely  com- 
fortable and  satisfied  manner  in  which  Mr. 
Waterbrook  delivered  himself  of  this  little 
word  “ Yes,”  every  now  and  then.  There  was 
wonderful  expression  in  it.  It  completely  con- 
veyed the  idea  of  a man  who  had  been  born, 
not  to  say  with  a silver  spoon,  but  with  a scaling 
ladder,  and  had  gone  on  mounting  all  the 
heights  of  life  one  after  another,  until  now  he 
looked  from  the  top  of  the  fortifications,  with 
the  eye  of  a philosopher  and  a patron,  on  the 
people  down  in  the  trenches. 

David  Copper  field.  Chap.  25. 

Y OUTH— Depraved. 

They  were  a boy  and  girl.  Yellow,  meagre, 
ragged,  scowling,  wolfish  ; but  prostrate,  too,  in 
their  humility.  Where  graceful  youth  should 
have  filled  their  features  out,  and  touched  them 
with  its  freshest  tints,  a stale  and  shrivelled  hand, 
like  that  of  age,  had  pinched,  and  twisted  them, 
and  pulled  them  into  shreds.  Where  angels 
might  have  sat  enthroned,  devils  lurked,  and 
glared  out  menacing.  No  change,  no  degrada- 
tion, no  perversion  of  humanity,  in  any  grade, 
through  all  the  mysteries  of  wonderful  creation, 
has  monsters  half  so  horrible  and  dread. 

Christmas  Carol , Stave  3. 

YOUTH— The  depravity  of. 

“ This,”  said  the  Phantom,  pointing  to  the 
boy,  “ is  the  last,  completest  illustration  of  a hu- 
man creature,  utterly  bereft  of  such  remembran- 
ces as  you  have  yielded  up.  No  softening  mem- 
ory of  sorrow,  wrong,  or  trouble  enters  here, 
because  this  wretched  mortal  from  his  birth  has 
been  abandoned  to  a worse  condition  than  the 
beasts,  and  has,  within  his  knowledge,  no  one 
contrast,  no  humanizing  touch,  to  make  a grain 
of  such  a memory  spring  up  in  his  hardened 
breast.  All  within  this  desolate  creature  is  bar- 
ren wilderness.  Ail  within  the  man  bereft  of 


what  you  have  resigned,  is  the  same  barren  wil- 
derness. Woe  to  such  a man  ! Woe,  tenfold, 
to  the  nation  that  shall  count  its  monsters  such 
as  this,  lying  here  by  hundreds  and  by  thou- 
sands ! ” 

Redlaw  shrunk,  appalled,  from  what  he 
heard. 

“ There  is  not,”  said  the  Phantom,  “ one  of 
these — not  one — but  sows  a harvest  that  man- 
kind MUST  reap.  From  every  seed  of  evil  in 
this  boy,  a field  of  ruin  is  grown  that  shall  be 
gathered  in  and  garnered  up,  and  sown  again  in 
many  places  in  the  world,  until  regions  are  over- 
spread with  wickedness  enough  to  raise  the  wa- 
ters of  another  Deluge.  Open  and  unpunished 
murder  in  a city’s  streets  would  be  less  guilty 
in  its  daily  toleration,  than  one  such  spectacle 
as  this.” 

* * * * * 

“ There  is  not  a father,”  said  the  Phantom, 
“by  whose  side  in  his  daily  or  his  nightly  walk, 
these  creatures  pass  ; there  is  not  a mother 
among  all  the  ranks  of  loving  mothers  in  this 
land  ; there  is  no  one  risen  from  the  state  of 
childhood,  but  shall  be  responsible  in  his  or  her 
degree  for  this  enormity.  There  is  not  a coun- 
try throughout  the  earth  on  which  it  would  not 
bring  a curse.  There  is  no  religion  upon  earth 
that  it  would  not  deny  ; there  is  no  people  upon 
earth  it  would  not  put  to  shame.” 

The  chemist  clasped  his  hands,  and  looked, 
with  trembling  fear  and  pity,  from  the  sleeping 
boy  to  the  Phantom,  standing  above  him  with 
its  finger  pointing  down. 

“ Behold,  I say,”  pursued  the  Spectre,  “ the 
perfect  type  of  what  it  was  your  choice  to  be. 
Your  influence  is  powerless  here,  because  from 
this  child’s  bosom  you  can  banish  nothing.  PI  is 
thoughts  have  been  in  ‘ terrible  companionship  ’ 
with  yours,  because  you  have  gone  down  to  his 
unnatural  level.  He  is  the  growth  of  man’s  in- 
difference : you  are  the  growth  of  man’s  pre- 
sumption. The  beneficent  design  of  heaven  is, 
in  each  case,  overthrown,  and  from  the  two  poles 
of  the  immaterial  world  you  come  together.” 

Haunted  Man , Chap.  3. 


INDEX 


A. 

Abbey — Nell  in  the  old,  5. 

Ability — Misdirected,  5. 

Absence  of  Mind,  300. 

Actok— (See  Drama),  157. 

Feeling  a part,  7. 

His  reading  of  Hamlet,  6. 

His  expressions  unconsciously 
imitated,  178. 

The  dying,  6. 

For  the  starved  business, 
283. 

Actors — A gathering  of,  7. 
Acquaintance — The  art  of  extend- 
ing, 7. 

A charity  to  Mr.  Toots,  7. 
Adaptability,  7. 

Addresses— Public,  7. 

Adjectives — Bark’s  use  of  pro- 
fane, 7. 

Admirer— Quale  as  an  indiscrimi- 
nate, 8. 

Adornment — Of  a home,  220,  224. 
Adventurous  People — ( See  Adapta- 
bility), 7. 

Advertising — Sawyer’s  mode  of, 
358. 

As  a means  of  revenge,  8. 

A building  “billed,”  8. 
Show-bills,  9. 

Advertisement — A walking,  9. 
Advertisements — Alphabetical  an- 
swers to,  9. 

Peculiarities  of,  8. 

Advice — Of  Mrs.  Bagnet,  on  con- 
duct, 9. 

Of  Mr.  Micawber,  on  procras- 
tination and  money,  9. 
Pickwick’s,  on  love-making, 
278. 

Of  Joe,  on  lies,  270. 

Of  Wemmick,  on  portable  pro- 
perty, 200. 

Of  Toodle,  225. 

As  to  boy,  52. 

Of  Squeers,  on  appetites,  22. 
To  clergymen,  109. 

To  the  melancholy,  272. 

On  children  (See  Cuttle),  93. 

Of  Mrs.  Crupp,  on  love,  130. 

Of  Bucket,  249. 

Affection — For  home,  222. 

Home  the  place  of,  224. 
Unrequited,  275. 

(See  Love). 

The  expression  of,  9. 

The  subtlety  of,  9. 

Of  the  idiot,  10. 

Affections — Wounded,  10. 

The  natural,  10. 

Of  childhood,  10. 
Affectation  and  Reserve,  397. 

Of  innocence,  249. 
Afflictions — Their  power,  218. 
Affliction— The  agony  of,  10. 
Assuaged  by  memory,  10. 
Comfort  in,  11. 

Affront — Mr.  Pickwick’s,  11. 

Age — A youthful  old,  11. 

The  duties  of  old,  11. 
Revered  by  the  poor,  11. 

The  influence  of  dress  on,  159. 
Ages — Like  drops  in  the  ocean,  30. 
Aggravation — Blood,  liquid,  49. 
Agnes,  294. 

The  true  woman,  532. 
Influence  of,  534. 

Grave  of,  212. 


Alarm- BELL-*-Voice  of  the,  44. 
Alibi— The  elder  Weller’s  idea  of 
an,  11. 

Allen — Ben,  and  Bob  Sawyer,  61. 
Alphabet — Of  the  stars,  453. 

Like  a bramble  bush,  170. 

Joe  and  Pip’s  study  of  the,  170. 
Learning  the,  11. 
Reminiscences  of  its  study,  12. 
Alps — Among  the,  12. 

Of  testimony  (See  Ancestry), 
16. 

Amateur  Artist,  24. 

Amens  ! — Like  Macbeth’s  ( See 

Church),  103. 

America — Liberty  in,  269. 

Justice  in,  254. 

A provincialism  of,  197. 

Canal  boat  in,  56. 

Americans— (See  Chollop),  64. 

Their  characteristics,  12. 

Their  devotion  to  dollars,  13. 
American  Eagle— The,  13. 

Flag,  197. 

Habits— Salivatory  phenom- 
ena, 13. 

In  Washington,  13. 

Publicists  in,  14. 

Women,  fashionable,  14. 

The  social  observances  in,  14. 
Mark  Tapley’s  opinion  of,  15. 
Landlord,  257. 

Dinner,  an,  147. 

Magistrate,  an,  283. 
Congressman,  268. 
Transcendentalists,  486. 
Universities,  495. 

Trees,  491. 

Habits,  481,  482. 

Religion  and  lectures,  395. 
Shakers,  434. 

Speculator,  451. 

Reception,  392. 

Press,  372. 

Prison,  376. 

Railroad  journey,  389,  390. 
Steamboat,  453. 

Amusement— The  philosophy  of  ( See 
“ Circus  ”),  104. 

(See  New  York),  331. 

Anatomy — Venus  on,  15. 
Anatomical  Subject — Wegg  as 

an,  15. 

Ancestors— Remote  and  doubtful, 
16. 

Ancestry— A satire  on  the  pride 
of,  15. 

Its  personal  importance,  16. 
Ancient  Bank,  35. 

Angels — Communion  with  the  (See 
Dead),  134. 

(See  Flowers,  etc.),  197. 
Angels’  Eyes — stars,  453. 

Anger,  300. 

(See  Rage),  386. 

Animals,  299. 

(See  Dogs,  Donkeys,  Cats, 
etc.),  155,  156. 

Their  weather  instincts,  16. 
Anniversary,  294. 

Anniversaries— Of  ghosts,  2Q9. 
Anno  Domini,  17. 

Announcement — Of  a baby,  32. 
Antiquarian  Discovery,  360. 

Controversy,  361. 
Apartment— A spacious,  18. 

A small,  18. 

Of  Dick  Swiveller,  18. 

An  ancient,  18. 


Apartment— A dirty,  19. 

Dusty,  19. 

Apartment — Mark  Tapley’s  idea  of 
a jolly,  19. 

And  gloomy  furniture,  19. 

A cosy, 19. 

Its  grandeur  in  decay,  19. 

A gloomy  (See  dining-room), 
147. 

(See  Library),  269. 

' And  furniture,  19. 

The  hangings  of  an,  20. 

The  ghostly  air  of  an,  20. 

A mouldy,  20. 

To  let — its  advantages,  20. 

A snug,  20. 

Of  a suicide,  21. 

Associations  of  empty,  21. 

The  Growlery  of  Jarndyce,  21. 
Mr.  Fips’  office,  21. 

A model  bedroom,  21. 

A solitary,  22. 

The  loneliness  of  Law  Inns, 

22. 

(See  Inn),  249. 

A grim,  17. 

An  old  and  abandoned,  18. 

An  old  (See  Furniture),  204. 
Apartments — Of  Mr.  Tartar,  17. 
Appearance — Personal  (See  Expres- 
sion — Face  — Features— 
Characters  — Eyes  — Hair, 
e$c.). 

Appetite— and  love,  276. 

(See  Favor),  191. 

The  advice  of  Squeers,  22. 
Apology  — For  drunkenness  (See 
Swiveller),  460. 

Apprenticeship— Of  Oliver  Twist, 

22. 

Apron— Of  Ruth,  237. 

Architect — His  designs,  22. 
Architecture — Monotony  in,  234. 
Argument — “ A gift  of  nature,”  22. 
Aristocracy— A sign  of,  23. 

Of  blood,  49. 

Aristocrat — Monseigneur,  the,  71. 
Aristocratic  Privilege — Gout,  an, 
210. 

Arithmetic,  23. 

Windy,  72. 

Aroma,  23. 

Art — Of  carving,  59. 

Miss  La  Creevy’s  difficulties 
of,  23. 

Family  pictures,  23. 

A top-heavy  portrait,  23. 

Of  the  butcher,  55. 

Of  letter -writing  (See  Valen- 
. tine),  496. 

Italian  pictures,  24. 

Family  pictures,  24. 

Pictures  in  Italian  Churches, 
24. 

Art  and  N ature— A criticism,  23. 
Artist — (See  Art),  23. 

An  Amateur,  24. 

Ashes — Of  a Home,  25. 

Asperity — (<SeeFace,  a frosty),  182. 

(See  Austerity),  27. 
i The  expression  of,  25. 

Association — The  influence  of,  25. 
Associations — Of  evening,  173. 

Of  Christmas,  95. 

Of  Sunday  bells,  43. 

Of  a battle-field,  38. 

Of  childhood,  91. 

Of  holidays,  219. 

Asthma — Of  Mr.  Omer,  55. 


ASTHMA 


648 


BOYTHORN 


Asthma — The  want  of  breath,  25. 
Asylum — A lunatic,  281. 
Attachment— (See  Affection),  0. 
Attachment— Personal,  Lowten’s 
opinion  of,  200. 

Auction  Sale— Of  Donabey’s  furni- 
ture, 25. 

August— Nature  in,  26. 

Scenery  in,  468. 

Aunt— (See  Mr.  F.’s),  83. 
Austerity— In  religion,  27,  94,  395. 
Of  Mr.  Murdstone,  71. 

Of  Mrs.  Clennam,  25. 

Of  Mrs.  General,  60. 

Of  Dombey,  27,  493. 

Its  chilling  influence,  26. 

In  politeness,  27. 

The  selfishness  of,  27. 

Its  influence  on  youth,  27. 
Australia — Micawber  off  for,  303. 
Author  — His  loss  of  imaginary 
friends,  27. 

Mr.  Dick,  the  mad,  27. 

Mad — Mr.  Dick’s  diffusion  of 
facts,  28. 

A conceited,  116. 

Pott’s  method  of  work,  173. 
Authoress  — Mrs.  Hominy,  an 
American,  28. 

Autumn — Sunset  in,  174. 

At  Chesney  Wold,  235. 

Scenery,  28. 

Wind  at  twilight,  29. 

Nature  in,  29. 

The  voices  of,  29. 

Avarice— The  miser,  29. 

Fiedgeby,  the  young  mi- 
ser, 30. 

And  cunning,  30. 

And  heartlessness,  30. 

Awake — Lying,  30. 

Awe,  30. 

n. 

Baby— A sick,  93. 

Its  martyrdom, 30. 

Description  of  a,  31. 

His  welcome  of  pins,  31. 

Talk,  31. 

The  birth  of  a,  31. 

Cutting  teeth,  31. 

A patient,  32. 

Announcement  of  a,  32. 

Dot’s,  32. 

A Moloch  of  a,  32. 

Bachelors — In  society,  33. 

Crusty,  33. 

A miserable  creature,  33. 
Major  Bagstock,  33. 
Bachelor— A bad  habit  to  be  an  old, 
216. 

(See  Sparsit),  450. 

(See  Durdles),  66. 

Mr.  Minns,  the,  70. 

(See  Tottle),  78. 

Bad  Humor — And  religion,  395. 
Bagnet,  Mr. — Description  of,  61. 
Mrs.,  534,  535. 

Her  advice,  on  conduct,  9. 
Birth-day  dinner  of  Mrs.,  148. 
Bagstock— Major,  his  features,  181. 
As  a bachelor,  33. 

At  dinner,  147. 

His  laughter,  259. 

His  opinion  of  stamina,  136. 

As  a traveller,  489. 

The  sayings  of  Major,  34. 
Bailey— An  Old,  53. 

Bailey — His  whiskers,  523. 
Balconies  —An  Italian  street,  34. 
Balloonist-  -A,  34. 

Ball  A fa'icy  dress,  34. 

Spangles  by  daylight,  34. 
mo  lable,  84 

“Balmy”  Dick  Swlvellor’s,  444. 
Banker-  Mr.  Cowry,  the.  70. 

Bank  An  old-fashioned,  35. 

Clerks  (See  House),  232. 
Officials  | Their  Individual- 
ity. 35. 

Bankruptcy.  36. 

The  world’s  Idea  of,  36. 

A normal  condition,  144. 

Court  of,  121. 


Banquet — A fashionable,  149,  150. 
Bantam— Angelo  Cyrus,  61. 
Bar-room — The  Six  Jolly  Fellowship 
Porters.  36. 

The  May-pole,  36. 

A mob  in  John  Willet’s,  36. 
Bargain — Life  a (Gradgrind),  270. 
Barkis — His  dress,  158. 

“ Barkis  is  Willin’,”  36. 

Barkis — “ It’s  true  as  taxes  is,”  37. 

Death  of,  37. 

Bark— His  adjectives,  7. 

Barnaby  Budge — In  the  country, 
119. 

Barnaby’s  Dream,  313. 

Barnacle — A buttoned-up  man,  56. 
Barnacles — For  office,  341,  342,  343. 
Bashfulness— Of  Mr.  Toots,  37. 
Battle-field— An  old,  38. 

The  world  a,  538. 

Bay — (See  City ; the  approach  to  New 
York),  105. 

Beadle — (See  Officials),  342. 

Beard,  312. 

Beauty— A grinning  skull  beneath, 
39. 

(See  Woman),  532. 

Beau — A superannuated,  63. 

Bed — “An  out-an-outer,”  39. 
Bedroom — Pickwick  in  the  wrong, 
39. 

A model  (Nee  apartment),  21. 
Bedstead — A despotic  monster,  41. 
Bedsteads— The  characteristics  of, 
41. 

Beef  and  Mutton— Nothing  solar 
about  them,  167. 

Bees — Models  of  industry,  41. 

Their  example  a humbug,  41. 
Beggars — In  Italian  churches,  41. 
Italian,  42. 

In  the  name  of  philanthropy, 
356. 

Of  society,  42. 

Begging-Letter  Writers,  43. 
Bells — Associations  of  Sunday,  43. 
Grown  worldly,  44. 

The  voice  of  alarm,  44. 
Vibrations  of  the,  44. 

Church,  the,  45. 

At  midnight,  45. 

The  last  stroke  of  the  year,  45. 
The  Chimes,  45. 

The  fairies  of  the,  45. 

Bella  Wilfer — (Nee  Needlework), 
328. 

Benediction — An  interrupted,  209. 
Benevolence — Of  the  poor,  87. 

Its  expression,  178. 

King  Lear  an  exemplification 
of,  46. 

Bereavement — (See  Affliction),  10. 
Berth — In  a canal  boat,  56. 

Betty  Higden — Her  devotion,  88. 
Betsey  Prig — And  Sairey  Gamp, 
410. 

Betsey  Trotwood — Her  impertur- 
bability, 181. 

Her  opinions  (See  Expression 
of  Dress),  178. 

And  Mrs.  Crupp,  46. 

And  Uriah  Heep,  46. 

“ Janet,  Donkeys  1 ” 46. 

Bible — The,  47. 

Bible  Studies— Of  Rob  the  Grind- 
er, 167. 

Bill— A,  47. 

Bills — A house  covered  with  adver- 
tising, 8. 

(See  Advertising),  9. 

Bill — Weeping  on  a wet  wall,  232. 
Bill  of  Fare  (See  Eating),  166. 

“ Bilkr” — The  vagrant  boy,  52. 
Billicicin — Mrs.,  the  housekeeper, 
239. 

Bipeds  and  Quadrupeds,  47. 

Bird— Of  Tim  Linkinwater  (Nee  City 
Square),  107. 

Birds — The  unhappiness  of  cagod, 
47. 

The  traits  of,  47. 

(See  “Christmas  at  Se.a”),  97. 
Birds  and  Angels— Jenny  Wren  (See 
Flowers,  etc.),  197. 
Bird-cage  -Heart  like  a,  219. 


Bird— The  raven  of  Barnaby  Iludgo, 
48. 

Birth — Of  a baby,  31,  49. 
Biiithday— Mrs.  Bagnet’s,  148. 

“ Bitzer,”  62. 

Blackpool — Stephen,  description 
of,  184. 

In  solitude,  449. 

Lectures  Bounderby,  637. 

Life  a muddle  to,  271. 

The  law  a muddle  to,  261. 

The  death  of,  137. 
Blacksmith— (Nee  Evening),  174. 
Bleak  House— Description  of,  234. 
Blessing — Mrs.  Cruncher’s,  211. 

Children,  as  a,  91. 

Blimber— The  school  of  Dr.,  417. 
The  reading  of  Dr.,  392. 
Cornelia,  418. 

Mrs.,  dress  of,  158. 

Doctor,  62. 

Blind — The  faces  of  the,  49. 
Blindness — Degrees  of,  48. 
Blockhead—  (See  Drummle),  G6. 
Blood  vs.  Liquid  Aggravation,  49. 

The  Aristocracy  of,  49. 
Blush— A.  49. 

Blushes,  181. 

Bluster,  48. 

Bluntness  vs.  Sincerity,  48. 
Boarding-house  Keepers  — An- 
swers to  advertisement,  9. 
Boarding-house— Mrs.  Todgers’  49. 
Boarding-house  Keeper— Mrs.Tod- 
gers,  50. 

(See  Billickin),  239. 

Trials  of  a,  213. 

Bob  Cratc  hit’s  Christmas  Dinner, 
98. 

Bob  Sawyer’s  Opinion,  298. 

Body — “A  dem’d,  moist,  unpleas- 
ant,” 287. 

Boffin — Mr.  and  Mrs.,  188,  352. 
Bohemians — The  gypsies  of  gentil- 
ity, 50. 

Boisterousness— Of  Boythorn,  284. 
Books,  291. 

School,  421. 

The  readers  of,  50. 

Of  reference,  50. 

The  lost,  of  earth,  50. 
Book-Keeper — Of  morals  (See  Good 
and  Evil),  210. 
Book-Keeping — Moral,  243. 
Book-Keepers — and  Old  Ledgers, 
60. 

Boldness,  50. 

Boots — Tight;  and  love,  276. 

Tight,  50. 

Irreparable,  50. 

(See  Old  Clothes),  344. 

At  the  inn,  541. 

Pickwick’s  gaiters,  360. 

Bores,  51. 

Bore— A practical,  51. 

“ Born  Again  ” — Mrs.  Weller,  512. 
Botanical  Blotches  — (See  Cup- 
board), 130. 

Botany-Bay  Ease,  145. 

Bottles,  51. 

Journey  of  a,  529. 

Bounderby — Mr.,  62. 

His  dress,  158. 

Josiab,  his  education,  169 
A local  magnate,  283. 

And  Childers,  246. 

The  household  of  (See  Spar- 
sit), 450. 

Bower,  51. 

Boy— Advice  as  to  his  lodgings,  52. 
The  Spartan.  52. 

At  Mugby,  52. 

A street,  52. 

A vagrant,  52. 

A depraved,  52. 

“Jo”  the  outcast,  52. 

Bailey  an  “old,”  53. 

David  Coppcrfleld’s  servant. 
238. 

(See  “ Fat  Boy”),  190,  191. 
Discipline  in  church,  396. 

Ilis  reading,  391. 

His  fight.  193. 

His  toilette,  482. 

Boythorn— Mr.,  62. 


BOT'THQRN 


547 


CHRISTMAS 


Boytiiokn — His  opinion  ol'  Courts, 
128. 

His  opinion  of  Corporations, 
etc.,  118. 

Mr.,  liis  laughter,  259. 

A vigorous  manhood,  284. 

“ Boz  ” — The  original,  54. 

Brass— Sally,  83. 

Sampson,  62. 

Sampson  (See  Compliments), 
115. 

His  opinion  of  hearts,  219. 
Hi^.  office,  264. 

Sally  (See  Swiveller),  460. 
Bread  and  Butter — Eating,  166,  54. 
Breath — Asthma,  the  want,  25,  55. 
Breakfast — Conversation  at,  205. 
Brewers  and  BakArs,  207. 
Broadway  Pig,  362. 

Broker— Pancks’  opinion  of  a,  54. 

In  second-hand  furniture,  54. 
Broker’s  Shop,  54. 

Browdie— John,  the  laughter  of, 259. 
Bruises— Of  Mr.  Squeers,  55. 
Bucket — The  detective,  146. 

Mr.,  the  advice  of,  249. 

Buds — “Children  of  the  flowers,”  92. 
Bully — Of  humility,  62. 

Bumble — His  opinion  of  juries,  254. 

“The  law’s  a bachelor,”  261. 
Bunsby — Capt.,  62,  295. 

(See  Features),  192. 

Burden — Of  cares,  59. 

Business  Manager — Capt.  Cuttle  as 
a,  55. 

Mr.  Carker,  the,  55. 

Business — The  motto  of  Pancks,  55. 
Attachment  to  (See  Horses 
and  Dogs),  228. 

The  routine  of,  216, 

(See  Contentment).  117. 
Butcher— Artistically  considered, 

55. 

Buttoned-up  Men — Their  impor- 
tance, 56. 

Buttons — Of  Sloppy,  74. 

(See  Dress  of  Sloppy),  159. 
Butler— A stately  (See  Dinner),  151. 
Buzfuz — Serjeant,  122,  125. 

C. 

Cabin — (See  Canal  boat),  53. 

Cabs  and  Drivers — Description  of, 

56. 

Calais — Approach  to,  432. 

Callers — Cards  like  theatrical- 

snow,  58. 

Calton — Mr.,  63. 

Canal  Boat — An  American,  56. 
Candle— Lighting  a,  57. 

( See  Chambermaid),  87. 
Candidates — For  office,  171. 
Captain  Cuttle— His  home,  223. 
Dress  of,  157. 

Despondency  of,  227. 
Simplicity  of,  61. 

As  a business  man,  . 55. 

His  love  of  Walter,  134. 

The  expression  of,  181,  182. 
His  habit  of  thought,  215. 

On  shipwreck,  437. 

His  reverence  for  science,  57. 
His  observations  and  charac- 
teristics, 57. 

And  Mrs.  MacStinger,  58. 

And  Mr.  Toots,  58. 

The  reading  of,  392. 

Capital  and  Talent,  305. 

Cards — A game  for  love,  58. 

Of  callers,  58. 

Cares — Second-hand,  59. 

The  oppressiveness  of,  59. 
Carker,  Jr. — Description  of,  241. 

S n.— Description  of,  63. 

The  business  manager,  55, 192. 
(See  Content),  117. 

The  hypocrite,  243. 

Flight  of,  308. 

Carpet-Shaking— The  pleasures  of, 
59. 

Carving — The  art  of,  59. 

Caste,  446. 

Castor-Oil — A conversational  ape- 
rient, 13. 


Cat — Carker  like  a,  63,  192. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  and  Paul,  59. 
Cats  and  Dogs — (See  Dogs),  155. 
Catacombs  of  Rome — The  graves  of 
martyrs,  59. 

“ Catechism  ” — “ Overhaul  the  ’ ’ 
(See  Walk),  504. 

Cathedral — (See  Rome),  407. 

At  sunset,  472. 

Cause  and  Effect — In  life,  272. 
Cellars— And  old  ledgers,  60. 
Centuries— The  awe  of  contempla- 
tion, 30. 

Ceremony — A frosty,  60. 

Chadband — Rev.  Mr.,  and  Jo,  109. 
Chair — Tom  Smart’s  vision,  60. 
“Charley” — (Nee  Orphans),  350. 

The  writing  of,  541. 
Chambermaid,  87. 

Chance  revelations  of  thought, 
218. 

Chancery— The  Court  of,  126,  127. 
Changes  of  Time,  481. 

Change — The  results  of,  87. 
Characters — General  description 
of,  80. 

A haunted  man,  80. 

A family  party  at  Pecksniff’s, 
81. 

Miscellaneous,  81. 

Female,  82. 

(See  Coachman),  113. 

(See  Cabs  and  Drivers),  56. 
(See  Dinner,  fashionable),  149. 
(See  Boy),  52. 

(See  Landlord),  256. 

(See  Gentility,  shabby),  207. 
(See  Inventor),  253. 

(See  Authoress),  28. 

(See  Court),  120. 

(See  Face,  a frosty),  182. 

(See  Betsey  Trotwood),  46. 

(See  Facts),  186. 

(See  Mrs.  Rouncewell),  239. 
(See  Factory-town),  184. 

(See  Face  of  a proud,  etc.),  182. 
(See  Eyes,  inexpressive),  178. 
(See  Carker,  Jr.),  241. 

(See  Silas  Wegg),  239,  240. 

(See  Mantalini),  285. 

(See  Admirer — Quale),  8. 

(See  “Actors,  a gathering 
of”),  7. 

(See  Ball),  34. 

(See  Court,  description  of  Doc- 
tors’ Commons),  120. 

At  a public  dinner,  151. 

And  dress  (See  Dress),  157. 
(See  Sally  Brass),  264. 

(See  Americans  in  Washing- 
ton), 13. 

(See  Serjeant  Snubbin),  266. 
And  characteristics  (See  Capt. 
Cuttle),  57. 

And  characteristics,  61. 
Character— Simplicity  of  Capt. 
Cuttle,  61. 

Purity  of  Tom  Pindh,  218. 

A vigorous  (See  Laugh  of  Boy- 
thorn),  259. 

Illustrated  by  home  surround- 
ings, 223. 

Indecision  of,  246. 
Characteristics— Of  Americans,  12. 
Personal.  192. 

Charity — Acquaintance,  a charity 
to,  7. 

Induced  by  Christmas  associa- 
tions, 97. 

Of  the  poor,  87. 

Held  by  main  force  87. 
Speculators  in,  87. 

The  romance  of,  87. 
Charitable  Missions,  310. 

Cheek — An  unsympathetic,  87. 
Cheer— An  English,  88. 
Cheerfulness — Kit’s  religion,  88. 

Kit’s  philosophy  of,  88. 
Cheerless  Apartment,  269. 
Cheeryble  Brothers,  63. 

Chemist — The,  88. 

Cherub,  295. 

Up  aloft  (See  sailor),  408. 

The  conventional  (See  Wil- 
fer),  79. 


Chess — The  law  a game  of,  260. 
Chesney  Wold— -Autumn  at,  235. 
Animals  at,  16. 

Chesterfield— As  a man  of  the 
world,  88. 

Chevy  Slyme,  74. 

Chick,  294. 

Chickenstalker — Mr.  and  Mrs.  at 
home,  221. 

Child — A matured,  88. 

Sickness  of  Johnny  Harmon, 

88. 

Death  of  Johnny  Harmon,  89. 
A fashionable,  90. 

Of  a female  philanthropist,  90. 
And  father — a contrast,  90. 
Grave  of  a,  212. 

(See  Baby),  30. 

Its  idea  of  an  austere  father, 
191. 

Its  first  experience  in  church, 

102. 

Childhood— Of  Florence,  209. 

Its  affection,  10. 

The  power  of  observation 
in,  90. 

The  fortitude  of,  90. 

The  early  experience  of,  91. 
In  a city,  91. 

Sad  remembrances  of,  91. 

The  dreams  of,  91. 

Neglected,  91. 

Childishness — A misnomer,  91, 
Children— The  blessing  of,  91. 
Injustice  to,  91. 

Keeping  and  losing,  92. 

A lawyer’s  view  of,  92. 

The  sympathy  of,  92. 

At  church,  92. 

At  Christmas,  97. 

Of  nature,  92. 

Neglected,  their  footprints, 

92. 

Who  are  doted  upon,  92. 
Their  legs  calendars  of  dis- 
tress, 93. 

The  love  of,  93. 

In  the  hospital,  93. 

Capt.  Cuttle’s  advice,  93. 
Their  martyrdom,  93. 

The  gauntlet  of  their  diseases, 

93. 

In  love,  93. 

The  death  of,  144. 

A hater  of  (Tackleton),  94. 

(See  Orphans),  350. 

(See  Spiritual  growth),  452. 
Their  education  (Pipchin’s 
system),  167. 

On  Sunday,  470. 

At  seaside,  431. 

Their  education,  167. 

The  Pardiggle,  356. 

Of  Toodle,  225. 

(See  Nurse),  337,  338,  339. 

(See  Race-course),  385. 
Chillip— Dr.,  His  style  of  shaking 
hands,  217. 

Description  of,  298. 

Chimes— (See  Bells),  45. 

Chimneys — (See  “City  Neighbor- 
hood), 107. 

Chimney-sweeping  — (See  Appren- 
ticeship),  22.  ‘ 

Chin— A desert  of,  62. 

A double,  94. 

Chirrup— Mrs. , as  a carver,  59. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.,  274. 

Chivery,  John — Description  of,  64 
His  heart,  218. 
Disappointment  of,  280. 

In  love,  278. 

Reticence  of,  399. 

Chollop— Mr.,  64. 

Choking  Cough,  118. 

Christian — A conventional,  94. 

A professing,  94. 

A rigid,  94. 

“ A boiling-over  old,”  54. 
Christianity — Austere,  27. 
Christmas — Associations  of,  95. 

Day,  96. 

Its  lessons,  96. 

Scrooge’s  opinion  of,  97- 
' Scenes,  97. 


CHRISTMAS 


548 


CRISPARKLE 


Christmas — A charitable  time,  97. 
Eve,  97. 

At  sea,  97. 

Tho  recollections  of,  98. 

Carol,  98. 

Dinner , Bob  Cratchit’s,  98. 

Of  Scrooge,  99. 

(See  Time),  481. 

Eire— {See  Sparks),  450. 
Chuckle— {See  Dance),  131. 

An  internal,  dangerous,  259. 
Ciiuffey — Description  of,  G4. 
Church,  102,  311. 

Pictures  in,  24. 

Child  at,  92. 

And  preacher — A child’s  first 
experience  of,  102. 

A hideous,  102. 

An  apology  to  heaven,  102. 

In  Italy,  102. 

A wedding  in,  102. 

Tower — The  bells,  45. 

Pew,  355. 

Bells,  45. 

Windows,  103. 

Churches — As  Monuments,  101. 

Old,  103. 

A Sunday  experience  among, 
101. 

Beggars  in  Italian,  41. 
Churchyard — A,  103. 

(See  Tombstones),  483. 
Flowers  on  graves,  135. 

Little  Nell  in  an  old,  103. 

In  London,  103. 

Chuzzlewit  & Son— (Nee  Old  Firm), 
347. 

Jonas — His  Education,  170. 
His  bad  passions,  30. 

Anthony — Death  of,  141. 
Circumlocution  Office,  340,  341. 
Circumstantial  Evidence,  173. 
Circus — The  philosophy  of  the,  104. 
People— Mr.  Sleary  on,  104. 
The  performers,  104. 

City — An  old  and  drowsy,  104. 

A quiet  nook  in  London,  105. 
Crowd — Its  expressions,  105. 
Of  Philadelphia,  105. 

The  approach  to  New  York, 
105. 

Travellers  to  the,  105. 

(Nee  Genoa),  206. 

(See  Lyons),  282. 

Childhood  in  a,  91. 

Dust  in  the,  165,  174. 

Gardens,  205. 

Houses,  233,  236. 

Trees,  491. 

Graveyard,  211,  213. 

Its  crowd  — A human  stew, 
130. 

Idlers,  245. 

A housetop  view  in  a,  237. 
Evening  in  the,  174. 

Approach  to  a,  106. 

London  in  old  times,  106. 
Square  — The  office  of  the 
Cheerybles,  106. 
Neighborhood — A,  107. 
Cleanliness— A compromise  with, 

115. 

And  dirt  ( See  Compromise), 

115. 

Of  Mrs.  Tibbs.  238. 
Uncomfortable,  108. 
Clemency  Newcome— Description 
of,  82. 

the  writing  of,  541. 

Olknnam  -Miv.,  her  religion,  27. 
Clerk— A lawyer’s,  108. 

An  indignant,  108. 

II is  office.  108. 

Tho  fail ' fnl  old,  108. 

An  old.  04. 

Smallwood,  n lawyer's,  201. 
Newman  Noggs,  72. 

Mr.  (Irewglotis  as  a model, 
193. 

(See  “ City  Square  "),  100. 
Clerks  \t  lunch,  202. 

Of  lawyers,  200,  207. 

Offices  of  merchants',  108. 
Clergymen  Weller's  opinion  of, 
211. 


Clergymen— (See  Stiggins),  75. 
Advice  to,  109. 

The  true,  109. 

Kov.  Mr.  Chadband,  109. 
Exhortations  of  Chadband, 
109. 

The  fashionable,  110. 

Client— (>ee  Lawyer),  200,  267. 
Clock — Its  expression,  111. 

What  it  said,  111. 

Clothes— (See  Dress),  157-8-9. 

The  ghosts  of,  208. 
Second-hand,  189. 

Second-hand  (See  Fashions) 
189. 

Clothing— (Nee  Old  Clothes),  344. 
Closet— (Nee  Cupboard),  130. 

Clouds — (See  Evening  in  Autumn), 

( See  Execution),  175. 

Coach — Riding  in  a,  111. 

Experience  in  a Virginia,  111. 
The  early  morning,  112. 

An  old  style,  112. 

Travelling— the  miseries  of, 
113. 

Coaches— The  ghosts  of  mail,  112. 
Associations  of  decayed,  112. 
Weller's  opinion  of,  113. 

Their  autobiography,  113. 

Men  like  (Nee  Pecksniff),  284. 
Coachman  — A representative  of 
pomp.  113. 

Turn  Pinch’s  journey  with  a, 

113. 

A labelled,  216. 

His  love  of  his  occupation, 
228. 

Coin — Of  the  heart.  219. 
Coketown— A triumph  of  fact,  1S3. 
Cold — Mrs.  Nickleby’s  cure  lor  a, 

114. 

Coldness,  25. 

And  indifference,  247. 
Coliseum — Rome,  407. 

Collector — Pancks,  the,  114,  257. 
Color— Of  sound  (See  Night),  334. 
Comfort — In  affliction,  11. 

“ Coming  out  strong” — (See  Mark 
Tapley),  288. 

Common  Sense— Mr.  Skimpole’s  idea 
of,  114. 

Complacency — (See  Content.;,  117. 
Compliments — Diffusive,  197. 

Of  a lawyer,  115. 

Composition — Cramming  for  a,  173. 
Compromise — With  cleanliness,  115. 
Conceit — ( See  Bounderby),  62. 

Mr.  Podsnap  as  a type  of,  115. 
The  grandeur  of  Podsnap- 
pery,  115. 

Spiritual,  the  experience  of 
Dickens,  115. 

Self,  116. 

Concentration — Of  mind  (See  Ex- 
pression), 178. 

Condensation — Of  language,  by 

lovers,  281. 

Conduct — Mrs.  Bagnet’s  advice  on, 

9. 

Confusion— Sometimes  agreeable, 

116. 

Congress  of  the  United  States,  i 

116. 

Congressman — In  America,  72,  268. 
Conservatism — (See  Todgers),  328. 
Conscience — Mr.  Pecksniff’s  bank, 

117. 

A troubled,  117,  215. 

A convenient  garment,  117. 
Consolation — In  disajipointment, 
275. 

Constancy — Secret  of  success,  467. 
Consumption — (See  also  Fever,  Sick- 
ufiys,  etc.).  116. 

Content  - The  still  small  voice  of, 
227. 

The  tranquillity  of,  117. 

The  generosity  of,  117. 
Contentment,  117,  270. 

Tho  vision  of  Gabriel  Grub, 

117. 

Contentions — Of  life,  270. 
Contrasts— In  lile,  117. 

Contrition  of  Mr.  Toots,  117. 


Conversation— Castor  Oil  as  a sub- 
ject of,  13. 

(See  Baby  Talk),  31. 
Conventionalities— Social,  18R. 

Iti  religion  and  jiolities,  132. 
Conventionalism— In  Christianity, 
94. 

Conventional  Phrases,  118. 
Convict— His  early  expcricuccs,117. 
Trial  of  a,  128. 

(See  Execution). 

Cooking,  118. 

The  melodious  sounds  of,  118. 
The  misfortunes  of  (See  Din- 
ner), 148. 

Description  of,  99. 

(See  “ Pudding  ”),  381. 

“ Copeland’s”  Pottery,  364. 
Coppebfield — David,  at  school,  417. 
His  first  love,  277. 

Drunk,  163. 

Corns — Treading  on  people’s,  118. 
Corporation — (See  Life  Assurance), 
271. 

Public  boards,  etc.,  118. 
Corpse — (See  Dead-house),  134. 

(See  Death  of  Quilp),  138. 
Correspondence—  (See  Letter,  and 
Writing),  269,  541. 

Costs— Legal  (See  Court),  128. 
Cough— Of  inexpressible  grandeur, 
178. 

A choking,  118. 

An  expressive,  118. 

A monosyllabic,  119. 
Country— The,  119. 

House  and  garden  in  the, 
235. 

Village,  scenes  in  a,  187. 

Mrs.  Skewton’s  Arcadia,  119. 
Scenery,  journey  of  little  Nell, 
119. 

Scenery,  119,  424. 

Excursions  of  Barnaby 
Budge,  119. 

Gentleman,  an  English,  119. 
Court — Trial  in  Old  Bailey,  120. 

A Doctor  of  civil  law,  120. 
Doctors’  Commons,  120,  121. 
And  lawyers,  121. 

The  insolvent,  121. 
Examination  of  Sam  Weller, 
122. 

Trial  of  the  convict,  123. 
Pickwick  in  Court,  124. 

The  Judge  and  Witness,  124. 
The  Juryman,  124. 

The  Judge,  124. 

Buzfuz’s  appeal  for  damages, 
125. 

Trial  in,  125. 

Jaggers,  the  lawyer,  in,  265. 
Court  of  Chancery — The,  127. 

The  Lord  Chancellor  in,  126. 
(Jarndyce  vs.  Jarndyce),  126, 

127. 

Its  bedevilments,  127. 

Its  wiglomeration,  128. 

The  end  of  Jarndyce  vs.  Jarn- 
dyce, 128. 

Boythorn’s  opinion  of  the, 

128. 

C ourts — Like  powder-mills,  129. 
Courtship — (See  Love,  etc.). 

Cow — (See  Facts),  185. 
Crabbedness— Of  Tackleton,  76,  94 
( See  Bachelor),  33. 

Cramming — ( See  Public  Man),  381. 
Creaicle — The  teacher,  64,.  422. 
Credulity — Of  the  world,  193. 
Cricket — Music  of  the,  221,  254, 
255. 

Crime— (See  Revolution),  399. 

Successful  (See  Success),  467. 
Ami  filth  in  London,  129. 

A kind  of  disorder,  129. 

The  fascination  of,  129. 
Criminal — (See  Execution),  176. 

On  trial  (See  Court),  123. 
Criminals  — Their  struggle  with 
crime,  129. 

Crisparkle— Tho  cupboard  of  Mrs., 
130. 

Mr.,  his  eyes,  178. 

Mr.,  356,  357. 


CRITICISM 


549 


DOMBEY 


Criticism — On  art  (See  Art),  23. 
Crossing  the  Channel,  454. 

Crowd — The  escort  of  a,  200. 

Its  expression  and  solitude, 
105. 

A,  130. 

A passing,  130. 

Cruelty — Of  women  (See  Drivers), 
532. 

In  school,  420. 

Its  effect  on  the  mind,  251. 
Face  a stamped  receipt  for, 
179. 

Cruncher — Jerry,  130. 

Mrs.,  her  blessing  before 
meat,  211. 

Crupp — Mrs.  and  Betsey  Trotwood, 
4G. 

“ Spazzums  ” of  Mrs.,  130. 
Mrs.,  her  advice  on  love,  130. 
Cunning — The  simplicity  of,  30. 
Cupboard — Mrs.  Crisparkle’s,  130. 
Cure — For  a cold,  114. 

Curiosity  Shop,  441. 

Curious  Man — A,  64. 

Curse — An  imprecation  of  the  eyes, 
173. 

Curses,  131. 

Cynics,  131. 

S>. 

Damp — “ A demd,  moist,  unpleas- 
ant body,”  287. 

Maps  of  (See  Hotels),  231. 
Dance — A negro,  131. 

. House,  a sailor’s,  409. 

A country,  132. 

A Christmas,  132. 

A solemn,  132. 

A trial  to  the  feelings,  132. 
Dandyism — In  religion  and  politics, 
132. 

Dante — “ An  old  file,”  133. 

Sparkler’s  idea  of,  133. 

Daring  Death.  133. 

Dartle — Rosa,  description  of,  84. 
Daughter — Affection  of  a,  535. 
David  Copperfield,  133. 

Dawn — Description  of,  133. 

(See  Morning.) 

Daybreak,  317. 

Deaf  and  Dumb — Their  responsi- 
bility, 133. 

Dead — The  memory  of,  134. 

The  influence  of  the,  134. 
Memory  of  the,  134. 

The  memory  of  Lady  Ded- 
lock,  134. 

Flowers  above  the  (Little  Nell), 
135. 

(See  Grave  and  Graveyard.) 

Of  a city,  135. 

Dead-House — In  Paris,  134. 

The  ghosts  of  the  Morgue,  134. 
Death — Thoughts  of,  136. 

Scenes  before  the  funeral,  136. 
Scenes  after  funeral,  136. 

A levelling  upstart,  136. 

Of  a remorseful  woman,  136. 
And  stamina  (Bagstock),  136. 
Of  the  good,  137. 

The  approach  of,  137. 
Thoughts  on  the  approach  of, 
137. 

The  discovery  of  its  approach, 
137. 

The  inequality  of,  137. 

Not  to  be  frightened  by,  137. 
Its  expressions,  137. 

Of  Stephen  Blackpool,  137. 

In  the  street.  138. 

Of  Quilp,  138. 

Of  Mrs.  Weller  (Mr.  Weller’s 
letter),  139. 

Of  the  rich  man;  pressure, 
139. 

Of  the  prisoner,  139. 

Of  Little  Nell,  140. 

Of  the  young,  140. 

By  starvation,  141. 

In  old  age,  141. 

Weller’s  philosophy  on,  141. 
Of  “Jo,”  141. 

Its  oblivion,  143. 


Death— Of  a mother,  143. 

Of  youth  (Paul  Dombey),  143. 
Of  Marley,  144. 

Of  the  young  (Thoughts  of 
Little  Nell),  144. 

And  sleep  (See  Childishness), 
91. 

(See  Home,  after  a funeral), 

220. 

In  prison,  379. 

Of  the  schoolboy,  420. 

Of  Ham,  438. 

In  a duel,  164. 

Condemned  to,  378. 

Of  Gaffer,  160. 

On  the  river,  404. 

Of  Barkis,  37. 

Of  little  Johnny  Harmon,  89. 
Of  the  drunkard,  161. 

Of  an  actor,  6. 

Fearless  of,  133. 

Nell’s  thoughts  of  (See  “Ab- 
bey ”),  5. 

A sentence  of  (See  Court),  124. 
Debauch,  205. 

Debt— Chevy  Slyme  in,  206. 
Prisoner  for,  379. 

(See  Dick  Swiveiier),  541. 

(See  Micawber),  304. 

Mantalini  in,  288. 

(See  Bill),  47. 

Skimpole’s  idea  of,  144. 
Debtors — Paying  debts  a disease, 
144. 

Decay — Of  manhood  (Dry  Rot),  164. 
Grandeur  in,  19. 

Deception — Of  Caleb  Plummer,  174, 
278. 

Dedlock— Lady,  her  ennui,  190. 

The  face  of,  182. 

Sir  Leicester,  a gentleman, 
207. 

Paralyzed,  353. 

The  memory  of  Lady,  134. 
Defarge — Madame,  the  tigress,  531. 
Madame,  84. 

(See  Revolution),  400. 
Degradation — By  drunkenness,  160. 
Dejection,  145. 

Demonstration — The  power  of  (See 
Inventor),  253. 

Dennis— The  executioner,  65. 
Deportment  — Prim  (See  Formal 
People),  198. 

Of  Turveydrop,  78. 
Turveydrop  on,  144. 

“ Botany  Bay  ease,”  145. 
Depot— (See  Railroad),  390. 
Depravity  - (See  Boy),  52. 

Natural,  145. 

Of  youth,  543. 

Its  written  lessons,  145. 
Depression — Of  spirits,  145. 
Description — Of  cabs  and  drivers, 
56. 

Of  a foundry,  199. 

Of  bottles  (See  Bar),  51. 

Of  a baby,  31. 

Personal  — (See  Characters, 
Expression,  Face,  Features, 
Eyes,  llair.  etc.) 

Designs— Of  an  architect,  22. 
Despair.  310. 

Despondency  — Of  Capt.  Cuttle, 
227. 

Destiny.  145. 

The  hi  ah- roads  and  by-roads 
of,  145. 

Detective — Nadget(,  the,  71. 

Mr.  Bucket,  the,  146. 
Determination,  146. 

Devil— When  he  is  dangerous, 
146. 

Devotion— (See  Love,  Affection),  9. 
Of  Little  Dorrit.  1-16. 

Of  Tom  Pinch,  146. 

Dew— The  tears  of  the  dawn  (See 
Dawn),  133. 

Diagrams— Like  fireworks,  22. 
Diamonds,  147. 

Diamond  cut  Diamond— (See  Sold), 
448. 

Dice-Box— Of  destiny,  145. 

Dick  -Mr.,  801. 

Mr.  ; his  one  idea,  245. 


Dick— Mr.  ; the  mad  author,  27. 

Mr.  ; his  kite,  256. 

Mr.  (See  Affection),  9. 
Dickens— The  home  of,  220. 

Origin  of  Boz,  54. 

His  spiritual  experiences,  115. 
His  love  of  David  Copperfield, 
133. 

His  opinion  of  work  and  suc- 
cess, 216. 

In  Venice,  498. 

Dick  Swiveller’s  Opinion,  76, 299. 
Swiveiier  on  charities,  310. 
(See  also  Swiveiier.) 

Diet— Schoolboy,  419,  421. 
Difficulties — Micawber’s,  302. 
Digestion — The  process  of  wind- 
ing up,  14  7. 

Dignity— (-See  Pride),  372. 

Of  servant,  396. 

Its  relations  to  dress,  158. 

An  expression  of,  147. 

Like  an  eight-day  clock,  147. 
Dilemma— Capt  Cuttle  in  a,  215. 
Dingwall— Mr.,  65. 
Dining-table— A Dead  Sea  of  ma- 
hogany. 147. 

Room— A gloomy,  147. 
Dinner—  (See  Pomposity),  366. 
Fashionable,  447. 

(See  Waiters),  502, 503. 

A Christmas,  98. 

(.See  Lunch),  262. 

(See  Restaurant),  397-8. 

At  sea,  427. 

Of  Guppy  (S?e  Eating),  167. 
An  austere,  26. 

Bagstock  at,  147.. 

Bagstock  after,  147. 

And  dinner-time,  147. 

Toby  Veck’s,  147. 

Dick  Swiveller’s  observations 
on,  148. 

Mrs.  Bagnet’s  birthday,  148. 

A fashionable— its  guests,  149. 
Alter,  150. 

Party — a fashionable,  150. 

In  Start;,  151. 

An  unsocial.  151. 

Description  of  public,  151. 
With  a philanthropist  (Mrs. 

Jellyby).  152. 

Pickwick  after  wine,  152. 

A fashionable.  153. 

At  a restaurant,  153. 

“The  musty  smell  of  ten 
thousand  ” (See  Dining- 
room), 147. 

Pip’s  misfortunes  at,  152. 
Diogenes,  154. 

Dirt — In  apartments,  19,  115. 
Disappearance  — A mysterious 
153. 

Disappointment— (See  Tears),  476, 
227. 

Disease— (See  Consumption),  116. 
Paying  debts  a,  144. 

Of  children,  93. 

Dismal  Jemmy,  65. 

Display— Value  of  public,  154. 
Dissecting,  298. 

Distinctions— In  gentility,  207. 

In  life.  272. 

Distrust— Not  just.  272. 

Docks — Liverpool,  408. 

Docks — Down  by  the,  154. 

Doctor  of  Civil  Law,  120. 
Doctors’  Commons,  120. 

Dodson  and  Fogg— (Lawyers), ,267. 
Dog — And  Joe  (See  Outcast),  350. 
His  fidelity,  154. 

A Christian,  155. 

A pug.  155. 

The  gam  Pols  of  Boxer,  155. 
Dogs  and  Cats,  155. 

Doggish  Man — (See  Gashford),  67. 
Dollars— Americans,  their  devo- 
tion to,  13. 

Dolly  Varden,  83 
Dombey  and  Son.  314. 

Dombey  —The  unsociable  library  of, 
269. 

His  home,  220. 

Remorse  of,  396. 

Bankrupt.  36. 

Auction  sale  of  his  furniture,  25. 


DOMBEY 


650 


FACE 


Dombey— Ilia  austerity,  27. 

Mr.,  as  a grandfather,  211. 
His  expression,  181. 

His  pride,  294. 

His  egotism,  170. 

Paul,  death  of,  143. 

Mrs.,  death  of.  143. 

Dignity  (See  Pride),  372. 

And  his  child,  90. 

Domestic  Tyranny,  493. 
Donkey— Ilis  obstinacy,  156. 
Donkeys— 156. 

Blooded,  156. 

Janet,  46. 

And  post-boys,  370. 

Doors—  (See  Door  knockers),  156. 
Door-knockers  The  physiog- 
nomy of,  156. 

Dotiieboys’  Hall — (See  Letter 
from),  269,  419. 

Dot— Her  embrace,  112. 

(See  Pipe- filling),  363. 

( See  Pipe),  363. 

Dot’s  Baby,  32. 

Dover,  429. 

Dowager— The  rustle  of  her  dress 
159. 

Doyce— The  inventor,  66,  252  253. 
Dr.  Chillip,  298. 

Dragon,  289. 

Drama  — Curdle’s  opinion  of  the, 
157. 

Dreams  — Of  the  sane  and  insane, 
157. 

Of  childhood,  91. 

Among  the  poor,  444. 

(See  Sleep),  443. 

(See  Grief),  214. 

Dress— Individuality  of,  157. 

Of  Miss  Tox,  157. 

Party  toilette,  157. 

The  power  of,  158. 

Its  relations  to  dignity,  158. 

Of  Barkis,  158. 

Of  an  artificial  woman,  159. 
The  rustle  of,  159. 

Its  influence  on  age,  159. 

159. 

An  antediluvian  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, 159. 

Buttoned-up  men,  56. 

(See  Little  Dorrit’s  uncle), 
65. 

Of  Cheeryble  Bros.,  63. 

Of  Bunsby,  62. 

(See  Toilette),  483. 

(See  Characters,  etc.),  61. 

(See  Chuffey),  64. 

Fancy  (See  Ball),  34. 

Of  ecclesiastics  and  ticket- 
porters  (See  Contrasts),  117. 
Of  liuth,  237,  238. 

Of  Mr.  Bounderby,  158. 

A seedy,  158. 

Of  Joe,  158. 

Pip  and  Joe  in  uncomfortable, 
158. 

Of  Mr.  Sloppy,  159. 

Of  Mrs.  Wilier,  159. 

Of  Dr.  Marigold,  159. 

A bad  fit,  159. 

Drink — (See  Sherry  Cobbler),  435. 
Oxford  night-caps  (See  Night- 
caps), 336. 

Toast,  410. 

324. 

Drinking  (Sec  Sairey  Camp),  412. 

Without  moderation,  164. 
Drinking  Age  — Its  expressions, 
179. 

Drivers  and  Cabs,  56. 

Drowned  And  resuscitated,  159. 
Gaffer,  160. 

(See  Drunkard),  161. 

Drowning  (See  Heath  of  Ouilp),138. 
298. 

Duummle  Bentley,  GO. 

Drunkard  -Ills  descent,  100. 

The  death  of.  161. 

Drunkenness  - Tho  l’lclcwlckians, 

102. 

Of  Diclt  Hwlveller.  162. 

Of  Mr.  Pecksniff,  162. 

Of  David  Oopperflold,  163. 

The  effects  of,  164, 

Apology  fur,  460. 


Dry  Rot— In  men,  the,  164. 
Duality  of  Thought  — (Sec  Ideas), 
245. 

Duet, — Description  of  a,  164. 

Dumps — Nicodcmus,  33. 

Durdles— Description  of,  66. 
Dust— In  apartments,  19. 

In  churches  (See  Church), 102. 
Of^dead  citizens  (Churches), 

In  London,  165. 

Dusty— Evening  in  London,  a,  174. 
Duty— The  test  of  a great  soul,  165. 
To  society,  165. 

The  world’s  idea  of,  165. 
Duties— Of  old  age,  11. 

Dwarf— (See  Quilp.) 


Eagle— The  French,  165. 

The  American,  13. 

Early  Rising,  165. 

Earthquake,  398. 

Earth — Revolution  of  the,  495. 
Eating — In  America  (See  Dinner), 


( See  Lunch),  262. 

The  process  of  winding  up 
(See  Digestion),  147. 

(See  Gourmand),  210. 

Grace  before,  211. 

A pauper  overfed,  106. 

A bill  of  fare.  166. 


auu  uuuer  (joe 
Pip),  166. 

And  growth,  Guppy’s  lunch 
1G7. 

Its  “ mellering  ” influence. 
167. 


Beef  and  mutton,  167. 
Eccentricity  of  Trades,  486. 
Ecclesiastical  Dignitaries,  117. 
Economy  in  Words,  536. 

Editor— Pott,  the,  72. 

(See  Popularity),  369. 
Education— Early  (See  Alphabet), 11. 
(See  Youth),  543. 

(See  Universities),  495. 

Of  facts,  185. 

Of  children,  167. 

Mrs.  Pipehin’s  system,  167. 

A victim  of,  167. 

Early,  168. 

The  forcing  process  in  Dr. 

Blimber’s  school,  168. 

In  England,  168. 

Practical,  169. 

(See  “ Facts.”) 

The  Gradgrind  School  of,  169. 
The  misfortune  of,  169. 

Josiah  Bounderby’s  practical, 
169. 


A perverted,  170. 

Early,  the  alphabet,  170. 
From  A to  Z,  170. 
Effervescence— Of  rage,  386. 
Egotism — Of  pride,  373. 

Self-importance,  and  igno- 
rance (See  Country  Gentle- 
man), 119. 

(See  Conceit),  115. 

170. 

Election— Mr.  Weller  at  an,  170. 

A public,  the  devotion  of 
party,  170. 

A spirited,  171 
Candidates,  171. 

Elements— Of  «lovo,  280. 
Eloquence— Of  Rev.  Mr.  Chad- 
band,  109. 

Embarrassment— Enjoyment  of, 
265. 

Embrace— An  earnest.  172. 

Like  a path  of  virtue,  172. 

A deflnil  ion  of,  172. 
Emigrants.  303,  301. 

Departure  of,  435. 

Ship.  171. 

On  shipboard,  172. 

Empty  Rooms,  21. 

Encyclopedias  -An  eyo  to  look, 
179. 

Enemies  of  I lie  human  race  (See 
I ’epravlty),  145, 

Energy,  172. 


Engine— Job  Trotter  a portable 
182. 

England— Its  fashions,  189. 

Education  in,  168. 
Englishmen— As  travellers,  173. 

Their  cheer,  88. 

English  Labor— Its  evils,  256. 

Country  gentleman,  119. 
Enjoyment—1 The  influence  of  (See 
Dance),  132. 

Ennui  - ( See  Fashion),  190. 
Enthusiasm,  172. 

E fi  d e m 1 cs — M ora  1 , 1 73. 

Epistolary  Labor— (See  Letter- 
writing),  269. 

Epithet- -Definition  of  an,  173. 
Essay - - Pott’s  mode  of  preparation 
173. 


Eternity,  173. 

The  ocean  of,  30. 

(See  River),  403. 

Evening — The  influences  of  a sum- 
mer, 173. 

A summer  Sunday,  173. 

I11  the  citv,  174. 

In  London,  a dusty,  174. 

In  the  spring-time,  174. 

An  autumn,  174. 

On  the  river,  403. 

Shadows,  434. 

Evidence — Of  a witness,  173. 

Circumstantial,  173. 
Exaggeration— Of  Caleb  Plum- 
mer, 174. 

Example — Of  bees,  41. 
Excitement— Men  till,  177. 
Exclusiveness— Fashionable,  188. 
Execution— The  gallows,  175, 
of  Fagin,  176. 

(See  Guillotine),  214. 
Executioner— Dennis,  the,  65. 
Expectoration— In  America,  177. 
Expression— A triumphant,  177. 

A fierce,  177. 

Of  feat  ure  (Joe),  177. 

An  unhappy,  178. 

A weighty.  178. 

A convivial,  178. 

Alter  sleep,  178. 

The  imitation  of,  178. 

Of  dress,  178. 

Of  benevolence,  17S. 

A concentrated,  178. 

“Faint  with  dignity,”  147. 

Of  Mrs.  Yardeii,  180. 

(See  Eyes,  Faces,  Features, 
Characters.) 


“Like  an  eight-day  clock,” 
147. 

Of  diamonds,  147. 

(See  Faces  of  the  Blind),  49. 
In  coughing.  118. 

In  death,  137. 

Of  asperity,  25. 

Of  the  hand,  217. 

Of  a crowd,  105. 

Admonitory,  of  a clock,  111. 
Extremes— In  life,  240. 

Eye— Its  expression,  179. 

Of  Mr.  Murdstone,  71. 

(See  Bunsby),  62. 

Its  devilish  expression,  179. 

A learned,  179. 

An  expressive,  179. 


Eyes — An  imprecation  on  the,  173. 
Of  Mrs.  Varden,  180. 

Out  of  town,  180. 

178. 

Sinister,  178. 

Solemn.  178. 

Of  Mr.  Crisparkle,  178. 
Inexpressive.  178. 
Inquisitive,  178. 

Of  Ruth,  178. 

Bright,  179. 

Eye- glass — (See  Official),  343. 


F. 


Face— Like  the  knavo  of  clubs, 
180. 

An  Irish,  180. 

Like  a capital  O,  181. 

No  guide  to  thoughts.  180. 
Like  a physiognomical  punch, 
181. 


FACE 


551 


GARDEN- 


FACE— An  unsympathetic,  87. 

A pretty,  39. 

Of  Mr.  Grewgious,  182. 

Of  Job  Trotter,  182. 

Of  a hypocrite,  182. 

A frosty,  182. 

Of  a scornful  woman,  182. 
Shadowed  by  a memory,  182. 
Of  Marley,  in  the  fire-place, 
196. 

Its  expression  after  death, 
137. 

A cool  slate,  87. 

Like  door-knocker  (See  Cal- 
ton),  63. 

Not  a letter  of  recommenda- 
tion, 180. 

Faces— Of  the  blind,  49. 

Their  expression,  179. 

A nosegay  of,  191. 

Facts — Gradgrind,  the  man  of,  185. 
Gradgrind’s  lessons  of,  185. 
The  man  of,  185. 

A disgust  of,  185. 

The  Gradgrind  philosophers, 
185. 

Gradgrind  on,  186. 
versus  Fancies,  186. 

Mr.  Dick’s  dissemination  of, 
253. 

Mr.  Dick’s'  diffusion  of,  28. 
(See  School),  423. 

(See  Education, the  Gradgrind, 
etc.),  169. 

Factory— Iron  Works,  184. 
Factories — The  hands,  184.  . 
Factory-town — A triumph  of  fact, 
183. 

Its  peculiarities,  183. 

The  workingmen,  184. 

484. 

Fagin — The  execution  of,  176. 
Fainting  — Mrs.  Yarden’s  family 
tactics,  186. 

Of  Miss  Miggs,  187. 

The  freemasonry  of,  187. 
Fair— A village,  187. 

The  Greenwich,  187. 

Fairies— Of  the  bells,  45. 

Faith — Its  triumphs,  59. 

Fallen  Women,  534. 

Falsehood — And  truth,  491. 

(See  Lies),  270. 

Fame— (See  Nobody),  336. 

Family — Of  the  Chuzzlewits,  15,  16. 
A reunion  (Toodle’s),  225. 
Tactics,  Mrs.  Varden’s,  186. 
Party,  81. 

Portraits,  23. 

Trials — (See  Husbands),  243. 
Fancy — Of  animals,  16. 

Fancies—  Night  (See  Night),  335. 
Half  awake,  30. 
versus  Facts,  186. 

Fang — His  face  liable  for  damages, 
180. 

Farewell  — Mr.  Merdle’s  style  of, 
268. 

Farmer,  291. 

Fascination— Queer  (See  Swiveller), 
460. 

Of  crime,  129. 

Fashion— The  ennui  of,  190. 

The  world  of,  189. 

(See  Rouge),  408. 

In  England,  189. 

Fashions— Of  the  age  (See  Dandy- 
ism), 132. 

Like  human  beings,  189. 
Second-hand  clothes,  189. 
Fashionable  Exclusiveness,  188. 
People — The  Veneerings,  188. 
People — How  they  are  man- 
aged, 189. 

Women,  14,  534. 

Woman — Her  dress,  159. 
Clergymen,  110. 

Party,  a,  188. 

Society,  188. 

Conventionalities,  188. 

Calls,  188. 

Funeral,  a,  203. 

Footmen  and  Sam  Weller, 
515. 

Hall,  34. 


Father— And  Child— A contrast, 
90. 

Child’s  idea  of  a,  191. 

And  children,  191. 

{See  Baby,  Dot’s),  32. 

Fat  Boy— And  Sam  Weller,  516. 
Joe  as  a spy,  190. 

Joe  in  love.  191. 

Joe,  the,  190. 

Favor — The  pleasure  of  a,  191. 
Fear — A means  of  obedience,  191. 
Features— (See  Expression),  177, 
178. 

And  manners,  an  excess  of, 
192. 

Their  expression  in  death, 137 
(See  Characters.) 

(See  Baby),  32. 

And  personal  characteristics, 
192. 

(See  Eyes),  178. 

Feelings— Of  Mr.  Toots,  193. 

Sam  Weller  on  the,  192. 

Of  public  men.  192. 

Of  Mr.  Pecksniff,  192. 
Felony— A kind  of  disorder  (See 
Crime),  129. 

Female  Characters,  82. 

Fever — Its  hallucinations,  193. 

The  wanderings  of,  137. 

Its  ravings,  6. 

Fiction— Of  the  law,  260. 

Characters  in,  193. 
Fidelity— And  Order— Of  Mr. 

Grewgious,  193. 

Of  Tim  Linliin water,  108. 

Of  Diogenes  (Dog),  154. 
Fight — A schoolboy’s,  193. 

Between  Dick  Swiveller  and 
Quilp,  193. 

Pip’s,  194. 

In  bar-room,  36. 

Figures— A kind  of  ciphering 
measles,  23 

Figure— Of  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  193. 
Filial  Duty  (See  Weller),  512. 
Financier — (See  Tigg),  77. 

Fips — Mr.,  his  office,  21. 

Firmness  — (See  Determination), 
146. 

Eire,  194. 

And  mob,  194. 

Its  red  eyes,  195. 

And  breeze,  195. 

A bright,  196. 

Little  Nell  at  the  forge,  196. 
Sikes,  the  murderer,  at  a,  196. 
Fireplace — An  ancient,  196. 

Fist — Of  John  Browdie,  181. 

Five  Points,  N.  Y.,  329. 

“Fixing”  — A provincialism  of 
America,  197. 

Flag— The  American,  197. 
Flamwell— Mr.  (A  social  pretend- 
er), 66. 

Flatterer,  197. 

Fledgeby— The  miser,  30. 

Whiskers  of,  523. 

Fleet  Market,  290. 

Flintwitch  — Jeremiah,  descrip- 
tion of,  67. 

Flirts— (See  Dolly  Varden),  83. 
Flirtation— ((See  Weller),  512. 
Florence— Her  filial  love,  275. 

Her  girlhood,  209. 

In  her  desolate  home,  224. 

A wanderer,  226. 

“ The  golden  water,”  136. 

535. 

Flowers— Of  hope,  228. 

Floating  on  the  river,  227. 
Above  the  dead,  135. 

Birds  and  Angels,  197. 
Fluctuations — In  life,  270. 
Flute-Player— Mr.  Mell,  the,  197. 
Flute-Music — Dick  Swiveller’s  sol- 
ace, 197. 

Fog— A sea  of,  198. 

And  whiskers,  181. 

Fogg— Mr.,  the  lawyer,  67. 

Foreign  Languages,  259. 

Forge — Little  Nell  at  the,  196. 

The  village,  174. 

Forgiveness,  198. 

Peoksniffian,  198. 


Formal  People,  198. 

Footmen’s  “ Swarry,”  515. 
Footman — (See  House),  231. 
Fortitude — Of  Little  Nell,  90. 
Fortune  Hunters,  198.  • 
Foundry— Description  of,  199. 

(See  Fire,  Little  Nell,  etc.), 

199. 

Fountain— The  waters  of,  199. 

Ruth  at  the,  279. 

Fowls — ( See  City  Neighborhood), 
107. 

Carving,  59. 

Their  peculiarities,  199. 
Fragrance — (See  Aroma),  23. 
Fraternal  Railing — An  embrace, 
172. 

Frankness,  218. 

France— The  reign  of  the  guillotine, 
215. 

Scenes  in  Flemish,  199. 
French — Eagle,  the,  165. 
Gentleman,  a,  208. 

And  English  fashions,  189. 
Language,  the,  199. 

Friends — The  escort  of  a crowd  of, 

200. 

The  value  of  dead,  134. 

Not  too  many,  200. 
Friendship — Lowten’s  opinion  of, 
200. 

Between  opposite  characters, 
200. 

A Pecksniffian,  200. 

The  Damons  and  Pythiases  of 
modern  life,  200. 

Friendly  Service  — Wemmiek’s 
opinion  of  a,  200. 
Friendless  Men,  201. 

Frivolity — (See  Hearts,  light),  219. 
Frogs — The  music  of,  201. 

Frost— The,  201. 

Funeral — Mr.  Mould’s  philosophy 
of  a,  201. 

Of  Anthony  Chuzzlewit,  202. 
Its  pretentious  solemnities, 
202. 

A fashionable,  203. 

An  unostentatious,  203. 

Of  Mrs.  Joe  Gargery,  203. 

Of  Little  Nell,  204. 

Before  the,  136. 

Home  alter  a,  220. 

After  the,  136,  202. 

The  request  of  Dickens,  201. 
Furniture— ((See  Bed),  39,  41. 

(See  Chair),  60. 

Of  a lawyer’s  office,  262. 

(See  Dining-room),  147. 

Of  a table,  223. 

In  a desolate  home,  225. 

(See  Apartments),  17,  18,  19, 

20. 

Auction  sale  of,  25. 

Broker  in  second-hand,  54. 
(See  Home,  Apartments,  etc.). 
Old-fashioned,  204. 

Covered,  204. 

The  home  of"  a usurer,  204. 
Future — The  river  a type  of  the, 
205. 

Fussy  People  — (Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Merrywinkle),  244. 

G. 

Gabriel  Grub— His  vision,  117. 
Gadshill— The  home  of  Dickens, 
220. 

Gaffer — His  death,  160. 

Gaiety— Of  Mark  Tapley,  288,  289. 
Forced,  205. 

Gallows — An  execution,  175. 
Gallantry— Pecksniffian,  205. 
Galvanic — Don’t  be,  46. 

Game — Of  cards  for  love,  58. 

Games — Christmas,  95. 

Gamblers— ((See  Race-course),  385. 

The  frenzied,  205. 

Gamp — Sairey  (See  Nurse),  338. 

410. 

Her  observation  on  hearts, 
219. 

Garden,  205. 

An  old,  205. 


GARDENS 


552 


HOMINY 


Gardens— In  London,  205. 

Vauxhall,  497. 

Gardening — In  London,  392. 
Gargery— Jlrs.  Joe  (See  “ Cleanli- 
ness ”),  108. 

Mrs.  Joe,  the  funeral  of,  203. 
Mrs.  Joe,  84. 

Joe,  C7. 

Gasiiford,  G7. 

Genealogy,  355. 

General^Mi's.,  ceremony  of,  GO. 

Mrs.,  description  of,  85. 
Genius— In  debt,  20G. 

The  weakness  of,  206. 
Gentility— The  distinctions  of,  207. 
Shabby,  207. 

New  South  Wales,  145. 
Gentleman — “ A werry  good  imita- 
tion,” 207. 

An  English,  207. 

A French,  208. 

The  grace  of  a true,  208. 

The  true,  208. 

Genoa,  206. 

George — Mr.,  the  trooper,  67. 
Ghost — Of  the  dead  (See  Dead- 
house),  134. 

And  the  senses,  208. 

Of  dead  businesses,  442. 

Of  clothes,  208. 

A privilege  of  the  upper 
classes,  209. 

Their  anniversaries,  209. 

An  argument  with  a,  208. 

Of  Marley,  his  appearance, 
180. 

Of  Marley,  208. 

Giants— Used  up,  209. 

Gift — Argument  a gift,  22. 

“ Gift  of  Gab  ” — (See  Speech),  452. 
Girls — Traddles’  idea  of,  209. 
Girlhood— Of  Florence,  209. 
Gloves — Bounderby’s  opinion  of, 
158. 

Gobler — Mr.,  the  hypochondriac, 
245. 

God  Save  the  King — Miss  Pross’s, 
352. 

Gold — The  influence  of  riches,  210. 
Good — The  death  of  the,  137. 

And  evil  (See  Honor),  226,  210. 
Deeds,  their  influence  (See 
Dead,  the  influence  of  the), 
134. 

Humor,  philosophy  of,  88. 

(See  Cheeryble),  63. 

Religion  of,  88. 

Its  contagiousness,  259. 
Good-night— An  interrupted  bless- 
ing, 209. 

Good  Purposes — Perverted,  210. 
Goodness — Its  propagation,  210. 

Of  heart  (See  Cheeryble).  63. 
(See  Clergyman;  the  true),  109. 
Gordon — Lord,  68. 

Gossip— (See  News),  330. 

210. 

Gout— A patrician  disorder,  210. 

Mr.  Weller’s  remedy  for,  210. 
An  aristocratic  privilege,  210. 
Gourmand— A,  210. 

Gowan — Mrs.,  her  house,  232. 

An  amateur  artist,  24. 

Grace— Before  dinner,  152. 

Before  meat,  211. 

Gradgrind — The  man  of  facts,  185. 
His  school  of  philosophy,  186. 
II iH  philosophy  of  life,  270. 
The  house  of,  236. 

Description  of,  186. 

Ills  taste,  474. 

(See  Opportunities),  348. 

His  school  of  education,  169. 
Grammar — For  the  laity,  211. 

(See  Addresses),  7. 
Grandfather-  The,  211. 
Gratitude—  A mother's,  211. 

Grave  The,  211. 

Of  the  dead  pauper,  211. 

Of  the  martyrs.  69. 

(Sec,  Funeral,  after  the),  202. 

Of  Mr.  Merdle,  211. 

Flowers  on,  135. 

A child's,  212. 

Of  the  erring,  212. 


Grave— Of  Smike,  212. 
Grave-digger,  212. 

Grave-diggers  (See  Old  Age),  343. 
289. 

Graveyard  — (See  Churchyard),  103, 
213. 

Gravestones  — Pip’s  reading  of 
them,  213. 

Pip’s  family,  213. 

Gravy — The  human  passion  for,  213. 
Greatness  — Nothing  little  to  the 
really  great,  165. 

Modest,  313. 

Greenwich  Fair— A spring  rash, 
187. 

Grewgious — Mr.,  68. 

His  fidelity  and  order,  193. 
Face  of,  182. 

Gride — Arthur,  the  usurer,  68. 
Gridiron — A gridiron  is  a,  213. 
Grief — A burden,  214. 

(See  Affliction) , 10. 

Groves— John  Chivery  among  the 
linen,  279. 

Growlery — Of  Jarndyce,  21. 
Guillotine— The,  214. 

Execution  by  the,  214. 

The  reign  of  the,  215. 

Guilt — The  pain  of,  215. 

Guppy — The  woe  of,  181. 

Guests  at  Dinner — Description  of, 
149,  151. 

Gusher— The  face  of,  181. 

Guster.  85. 

Gypsies— (See  Eace-course),  385. 

II. 

Habeas  Corpus— Sam  Weller  on, 
266. 

Habit— Force  of,  379. 

Of  reflection,  215. 

Its  influence,  216. 

And  duty,  216. 

Habits — American  (See  Americans), 
13. 

Of  work  and  life,  Dickens’, 

216. 

Hackman — A labelled,  216. 

Hair— A head  of,  216. 

Unruly,  216. 

Of  Bitzer,  62. 

Of  Bunsby,  62. 

(See  Dress  of  Joe),  158. 

Of  Pancks,  like  a porcupine, 
179. 

Arts  auxiliary,  312. 

“ Aggerawaters”  (^ee  Wilkins), 
80. 

Halo— Of  diabolism,  179. 
Hallucinations  of  mind,  193. 
Ham— A simoon  of,  23. 

His  death,  438. 

Hamlet — A journeymaji,  in  conver- 
sation, 179. 

An  actor’s  reading  and  dress, 6. 
Hand — Merdle’s  style  of  shaking, 

217. 

Its  gentleness,  217. 

Its  character,  217. 

A resolute,  217. 

Dr.  Chillip’s  style  of  shaking, 

217. 

A ghostly,  217. 

Of  sympathy,  217. 

A cold  and  clammy,  27. 
Shaking,  peculiar,  36. 

Shaking  (See  Salutation),  413. 
Handkerchief — An  ante  - diluvial) 
159. 

Happiness— Overflowing  (See  Con- 
tent), 117. 

Of  Mark  Tapley,  288,  289. 

At  Christmas,  95,  99. 

Of  the  unfortunate,  217. 

The  power  of  trifles.  217. 

True,  218. 

Harris— Mrs.  and  Suiroy  Gamp, 
411.-12. 

Habit:  Tim  advantages  of  seeming, 

218. 

Hat  -Sam  Weller’s  apology  l’or  his, 

218. 

The  pursuit  of  a,  218. 

Haunted  Man — A,  80. 


Head— A soft,  better  than  a soft 
hi  art,  210. 

Of  hair,  216. 

Headstone— Bradley,  the  teacher, 
422. 

Heat— (See  Sun),  471. 

Heart — (See  Love),  277. 

Its  inn oi ' i ce  and  guilt,  250. 
An  oppressed  (Toots),  275. 

Of  John  Chivery,  279. 

Its  secrets  (See  Death),  the 
approach  of,  137. 

In  the  right  place,  218. 
Innocent,  218. 

Open,  218. 

Loving,  218. 

A pure  (Tom  Pinch),  218. 

The  chance  revelations  of  tho, 
218. 

Afflictions,  218. 

The  coin  of  the,  219. 

An  empty,  219. 

Like  a bird-cage,  219. 

The  silent  influence  of  the, 
219. 

The  necessity  for  shutters, 
219. 

Light,  219. 

Mere  mechanisms,  219. 

And  heads,  219. 
Heartlessness,  30,  219. 

Heaven — The  real,  219. 

Heep — Uriah,  68. 

Humility  of,  241. 

The  hand  of,  217. 

And  Betsey  Trotwood,  46. 
Asleep,  444. 

300. 

IIexam— Charley,  at  school,  416. 
Hiccough— Of  a passing  fairy,  23. 
High  Tide,  480. 

Holidays,  421. 

The  happy  associations  of, 
219. 

In  school,  415. 

(See  Eaces),  384. 

Holiness — Sometimes  a matter  of 
dress,  158. 

Homage — To  woman,  219. 

Home — Of  Miss  Tox,  222. 

Of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  222. 

The  love  of,  222. 

The  comforts  of  (Gabriel  Var- 
den),  223. 

Of  confusion  and  wretched- 
ness, 223. 

A rosary  of  regrets,  223. 

Of  Capt.  Cuttle,  223. 

The  representative  of  charac- 
ter, 223. 

In  the  suburbs,  224. 
Disappointment  in  a,  224. 
Adornment  of  a,  224. 

The  place  of  affection,  224. 

An  abandoned,  224. 

A desolate,  224. 

A fashionable,  225. 

A family  reunion  at  Toodle’s, 

225. 

Of  Miss  Tox,  226. 

Its  peace  and  consolation, 

226. 

Of  Dickens — Gadshill,  220. 

Of  Dombey,  220. 

After  a funeral,  220. 

Of  a tourist,  220. 

The  music  of  crickets  at, 

221. 

• Of  Mrs.  Chickenstalker,  221. 

221. 

Of  a female  philanthropist, 

221. 

A solitary,  221. 

Of  the  toy  maker,  486. 

Of  Sol  Gills,  410. 

An  unhappy,  271. 

Its  ruins,  25. 

Prison  the  only,  379. 

Memories  of,  91. 

Again,  432. 

Of  the  poor,  367. 
Homelessness,  226. 

Homeliness— (See  Fang),  180. 

Uomin  v — Mrs.,  uu  American  author- 
ess, 28. 


HONEST  EYES 


Honest  Eyes,  179. 

Honest  Man— An,  227. 

The  luxury  of,  227. 

Honor— The  true  path  of,  226. 

The  word  of,  227. 
Honeythunder,  355. 

Hook— Capt.  Cuttle’s,  325. 

Hope — In  misfortune,  310. 
Disappointed,  227. 

A subtle  essence,  228. 

Hopes — Disappointed,  227. 

Of  Capt.  Cuttle,  227. 
Unrealized,  228. 

Horse — Tenacity  of  life  in  a,  228. 

A fast,  223. 

The  carrier’s,  228.  ' 

Mr.  Pecksniffs,  223. 
Theatrical,  366. 

Horse-flesh— Judges  of,  254. 

Horses — And  women,  532. 

And  dogs,  228. 

Horseback — Winkle  on,  228. 
Hospital — The  patients  in  a,  229. 
Associations  of  a,  229. 

A female,  230. 

Maggy’s  experience  in  a,  230. 
The  sick  in,  230. 

(See  Poor),  367. 

Children  in  the.  93. 

Death  in  the,  89. 

Hotel — Physiognomy  of  a,  359. 

(See  Inn),  247. 

A fashionable,  230. 
Characteristics  of,  231. 

House — Of  a Barnacle,  231. 

A sombre,  231. 

An  old,  232. 

A tenement,  232. 

And  surroundings  (of  Mrs. 

Gowan),  232. 

A gloomy,  232. 

In  a lashionable  locality,  233. 

A debilitated,  233. 

Illuminated  by  love,  233. 

A tierce-looking,  233. 

An  ancient,  renovated,  233. 

An  old-fashioned,  233. 

A stiff-looking,  233. 

Of  a Southern  planter,  233. 

A monotonous  pattern,  234. 

Of  Caleb  Plummer,  234. 

A shy-looking,  234. 

Description  of  Bleak  House, 
etc.,  234. 

A sombre-looking,  235. 

A dissipated-looking,  235. 

A dull,  lashionable,  235. 

In  winter,  235. 

And  garden,  235. 

Mr.  Gradgrind’s,  236. 

Of  Mr.  Dombey,  220. 

(See  Boarding-house),  49. 

A solitary,  221. 

(See  Inn),  247. 

After  a death,  220.  • . 

Putting  its  hair  in  papers  (See 
Furniture),  204. 

Covered  with  advertisements, 

8. 

Houses— Old,  236. 

A neighborhood,  236. 

In  St.  Louis,  236. 

Isolated  in  a city,  236. 
Involved  in  law,  236. 

(See  City  Neighborhood),  107. 
Housekeeper— Ruth  as  a,  237,  238. 
Servants  a curse  to  the,  238. 
Neatness  of  Mrs.  Tibbs,  238. 
Mrs.  Sweeney,  238. 

Of  Dedlock  Hall,  239. 

Mrs.  Billickin,  239. 

(See  Cleanliness),  108. 

(See  Kitchen),  256. 

Boarding,  50. 

A China  shepherdess  (Nee 
Cupboard),  130. 
Housekeeping,  434. 

After  marriage,  293. 
Housewife — The  carving,  59. 
House-agent— Casby,  the,  236. 
House-top — Scenes  from  Todgers’, 
237. 

Household — A loom  in  the,  274. 
House-front  — Like  an  old  beau, 
236. 


553 


Howler — Rev.  Melchisedeck,  295. 
Hubble — Mrs.,  Description  of,  85. 
Huckster — The  stall  of  Silas  Wegg, 

Mr?  Wegg,  240. 

Human  Ills — The  world  full  of  wisi- 
tations,  210. 

Human  Help — And  God’s  forgive- 
ness, 240. 

Humanity— Its  extremes,  240. 
Humbugs — Official,  240. 

Social,  Miss  Mowcher’s  opin- 
ion, 240. 

Humility — A bully  of,  62. 

(Nee  Uriah  Heep),  68. 

Of  Uriah  Heep,  241. 
Description  of  Carker,  Junr., 

241. 

Hunger— In  an  English  workhouse, 

242. 

Before  the  French  revolution, 

242. 

(See  Restaurant).  397-8. 
Hungry  Jurymen,  254. 

Hurry— The  advantage  of  a seem- 
ing, 218. 

Husbands— A tea-party  opinion  of, 

243. 

Mrs.  Jiniwin’s  treatment  of, 
243. 

Husband— A surly,  243. 

Pott,  the  subjugated,  243. 
Hypocrite — Moral  bookkeeping  of, 
243. 

Carker,  the,  213. 

Quilp’s  description  of  a,  244. 
Pecksniff,  as  a,  244. 

Wel'er’s  opinion  of  a.  244. 
And  Misanthropy,  309. 

His  face,  182. 

* (See  Clergyman),  109. 
Hypocrisy,  244. 

And  conceit,  244. 
Hypochondriac,  244. 

(Mr.  Gobler;,  245. 


I. 


Ideas,  480. 

Like  money,  to  be  shaken, 
167. 

A flow  of,  245. 

Mr.  Willet’s  cooking  process, 
245. 

Penned  up,  245. 

The  association,  245. 

Idiot — Barnaby  Rudge,  73. 

His  affection,  10. 

In  prison  (See  Night),  334. 
Idle  Life — An,  245. 

Idlers— City,  245. 

Ignorance  and  Wealth  — (See 
Country  Gentleman),  119. 
Imagination— And  Love,  230. 

A starved,  246. 

Imitation— Of  expression,  178. 
Immortality— (Nee  Postboys),  370. 
Impartiality  of  the  Sea,  428. 
Impertinence — Rebuked,  246. 
Imperturbability  — Of  counte- 
nance, 189. 

Improvement — (See  Railroad),  386- 
388. 

“Impogician” — Sairey  Gamp  will 
not  suffer,  413. 

Impositions — Life  to  be  protected 
from,  273. 

Impostors — Social,  246. 

Impressions — Of  people;  first,  246. 
Impudence  and  Credulity,  246. 
Incomprehensibility  — The  com- 
pound interest  of,  246. 
Income,  304. 

Indecision — Of  character,  246. 
Sparkler’s,  246. 

Indian — The  noble,  a delusion,  413. 
Individuality — (See  Lawyer),  266. 

(See  Bank  Officials),  35. 
Indigestion  — Love  and  religion, 
395. 

Indifference,  247. 

Industry— Bees  as  models  of,  41. 
Infants — (See  Baby),  30,  31. 
Influence — Of  the  dead,  134. 

Of  events  on  life,  272. 


“JO” 


Influence — Of  woman,  280. 

Of  association,  25. 

The  mellering  influence  of 
eating,  167. 

Silent,  219. 

Kind,  247. 

Injustice — To  children,  91. 

(See  Innocent  Offenders),  250. 
To  the  Jews,  254. 

Inn — (-See  Landlord),  256. 

Hotel,  Tavern,  etc.  (-See  Bar- 
room), 36. 

(.See  Hotel). 

An  English,  247. 

The  Maypole,  247. 

A roadside,  247. 

Memories  of  an  old,  248. 
Scenes  in  an,  248. 

An  unwholesome,  249. 

An  ancient  apartment  in  an, 

249. 

Room  in  an,  249. 

A wayside,  249. 

Inns— Of  Europe,  247. 

Innocence — The  affectation  ol’  ad- 
vice, etc.,  249. 

And  guilt,  250. 

Innocent  Offenders  — Public  in- 
justice to,  250. 

Hasty  judgment  of  the,  250. 
Innovation  — Opposed  (-See  Tod- 
gers’s),  328. 

(.See  Railroad),  386. 
Inquisitiveness,  64,  250. 

Of  lawyers,  267. 

Inquisitive  Women,  535. 

Eyes,  178. 

Inquisition— Tli e tortures  of  the, 

250. 

Insanity— In  dreams,  157. 
Insolvency— Court  of,  121. 
Institutions — Banking.  35.  - 
Instincts— Of  animals,  16. 

And  prejudices  of  woman, 
534. 

(See  Affections),  10. 

Insult— To  Pickwick,  11. 
Insurance  Company'— A Life,  271. 
Intellect— And  Blindness,  48. 

Blighted  by  cruelty,  251. 
Interest  and  Convenience,  247. 
Interviewing,  311. 

I n valid  — (See  Hospital;  Si  ck ; 
Fever). 

Philosophy  of  an,  251. 

Tim  Linkimvater’s  friend, 

252. 

Reveries  of,  252. 

Inventor— (See  Doyoe),  66. 

Character  of  Daniel  Doyce, 

253. 

Encouragement  of,  253. 
Invention  and  Discovery— The 
mental  property  in,  252. 
Iron  Works— (See  Forge),  and  Fac- 
tory, 184. 

Irving — Washington,  30. 

Italy— Its  lessons  to  the  world, 
252. 

Italian— Buildings  and  streets,  34. 
Churches,  beggars  in,  41. 
Beggars,  42. 

Ivy  Green — The,  253. 

J. 

Jack— The  sailor,  408. 

Jaggers — Mr.,  the  lawyer,  68,  265. 

At  home,  265. 

Jarley’s  Waxworks,  506. 

Jarndyce  v.  Jarndyce,  126-7-8. 

His  growlery,  21. 

(-See  Coui’ts). 

Jingle — Description  of,  69. 
Jealousy — Of  Mantalini,  285. 

Of  Mrs.  Snagsby,  74,  75,  253. 
Jellyby — Mrs.,  355. 

The  home  of  Mrs.,  221,  223. 
Mrs.,  dinner  with,  152. 

On  missions,  311. 

“ The  husband  of  Mrs.,”  355. 
Jemmy — Dismal,  65. 

Jewelry,  291. 

Jews— Injustice  to  the,  254. 

“Jo” — The  outcast,  350,  351. 


“JO” 


554 


“Jo  ” — His  ignorance,  350. 

The  death  of,  141. 

The  outcast,  52. 

And  Rev.  Mr.  Chadband,  109. 
(See  Graveyard),  213. 

JOBBING,  299. 

His  seedy  attire,  158. 

Joe — The  fat  boy,  expression  of, 
177. 

The  fat  boy,  190,  191. 

Joe  Gargery — Mrs.,  on  a Rampage, 
391. 

The  writing  of,  541. 

The  gentleness  of  his  hand, 
217. 

And  Pip,  G7. 

His  opinion  of  an  inn,  249. 
His  dress,  158. 

Study  of  the  alphabet,  170. 
Jokes — Upon  public  men,  254. 
Joker — Tibbs  as  a,  77. 

Jolly,  289. 

Jollity  — Of  Mark  Tapley,  288,  289. 
Jonas  ChuzzleWit,  299. 

Jorkins— The  silent  partner,  69. 
Journey—  (See  Ride). 

Judge — (See  Court),  124. 

The  Lord  Chancellor,  126. 
And  witness  in  Court,  124. 

Of  horseflesh,  254. 

Juries — Bumble’s  opinion  of,  254. 
Juryman — His  examination,  124. 

Hungry,  254. 

Jury,  254. 

Justice — A picture  of,  283. 

In  America,  254. 

K. 

Kenwigs — Mr.,  on  jokes,  254. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  (See  Baby),  31. 
Mrs.,  as  a dazzler,  193. 
Kettle — An  aggravating,  254. 

And  cricket,  254. 

Boiling  a,  255. 

The  song  of  the,  255. 

Kindred  Vices,  499. 

Kindness — (See  Influences),  247. 
King  Lear — An  example  of  benevo- 
lence, 46. 

Kiss— A cold,  256. 

Kisses — Lips  and,  255. 

Kissing — Mark  Tapley’s  foreign 
manner,  255. 

Kit  learning  to  write,  541. 

Kite-  -Mr.  Dick  and  his  facts,  256. 
Kitchen — Of  Clemency  Neweome, 
256. 

Kitterbell — Charles,  his  expres- 
sion, 178. 

Description  of,  69. 

Mrs.,  description  of,  86. 
Knitting,  256. 

Krook,  69. 

L. 

La  Creevy — Miss,  on  a cross-grain- 
ed man,  283. 

Miss,  her  art,  23. 

Labor — (See  Working  People),  536, 
537. 

The  curse  on  Adam,  49. 
Clerical,  341. 

The  evils  of  English,  256. 
Lamp,  256. 

(See  Light  at  Night),  270. 
Landlord— A New  England,  256. 
John  Willet,  the,  257. 

Pancks  and  the,  257. 

(See  Inn),  257. 

Revenge  of  Pancks,  257. 
Languages — An  acquaintance  with, 
259. 

The  diillcultics  of  a foreign, 
259. 

Of  lovers;  its  condensation, 
281. 

A dismal,  199. 

Landscape— (See  Scenery),  28. 
Lantern-  A queer  (See  Hcioncc), 
426. 

Last  Word,  536. 

Laugh  -Of  Mr.  Willet,  180. 

The  mclodruinutic,  259. 


Laugh— 259. 

An  enjoyable,  259. 

A sorrowful,  259. 

An  internal  chuckle,  259. 

The  contagion  of  a,  259. 

A hoarse,  dramatic,  8. 
Laughter— Kit’s  philosophy  of,  88. 
And  good  humor,  259. 

John  Browdie’s,  259. 

Of  Major  Bagstock,  259. 
Laundresses,  260. 

Laura  Bridgman — The  mute,  49. 
Law — The  majesty  of,  260. 

An  excuse  for,  260. 

The  fictions  of,  260. 

The  hardship  of  the,  260. 
Houses  involved  in,  236. 
Boythorn’s  opinion  of,  128. 

A suit  in  (See  Courts),  126-7. 
Betsey  Trotwood’s  opinion  of, 
129. 

303,  306. 

Offices — The  loneliness  of,  22. 
Stationer,  Snagsby,  the,  260. 

A game  of  chess,  260. 

A joke,  260. 

A married  man’s  opinion  of 
the,  261. 

A muddle,  to  Stephen  Black- 
pool, 261. 

Lawyer— Snitchey,  the,  74. 

(See  Court,  Insolvent),  121. 

(See  Courts  and  Lawyers), 

121. 

In  Court,  120,  121,  122,  124, 
125,  127. 

His  compliments,  115. 

(See  Sampson  Brass),  62. 

Mr.  Jaggers,  68-9. 

Spenlow,  the,  75. 

His  view  of  children,  92. 
Vholes,  the,  79. 

Stryver,  the,  76. 

An  imperturbable  ( See  Tulk- 
inghorn),  180. 

Mr.  Fogg,  67. 

328 

Offices  at  night,  262. 

Without  brains,  262. 

His  office,  262. 

Inns  of,  262. 

The  old,  262. 

Tulkinghorn,  the,  263. 

The  office  of  Sampson  Brass, 
264. 

The  office  of  Vholes,  264. 

Sally  Brass  as  a,  264. 

Jaggers  in  court,  265. 

Jaggers  at  home,  265. 

Office  of  Jaggers,  265. 

His  enjoyment  of  embarrass- 
ments, 265. 

His  office,  clerks,  etc.,  266. 
His  individuality,  266. 

And  client,  266. 

Appearance  of  Serjeant  Snub- 
bin,  266. 

Always  inquisitive,  267. 

And  client — Dodson  and 

Fogg.  267. 

Lawyers  — Their  own  prescrip- 
tions, 267. 

Like  undertakers,  267. 

Their  distrustful  nature,  267. 
Clerks  and  offices,  267. 

Office  of  Snitchey  & Graggs, 
268. 

269. 

Clerk  of,  261,  108. 

Clerks  at  lunch,  262. 
Law-terms— Sam  Weller  on,  266. 
Leaves — Autumn,  174. 

A gust  of  tears,  29. 
Leave-taking,  268. 

Lectures,  895. 

Ledgers — Old.  60. 

Legs  Simon  Tnppcrtit’s.  269. 

Of  Tilly  Slowboy,  269. 

269,  293. 

Calendars  of  distress,  93. 

Like  a roll  of  flannel,  269. 
Crooked.  888. 

( See  Slntkspcure).  434 
Kll'ect  of  love  <m  Toots’,  275. 
Just  come,  268. 


LONDON 


Legs — ( See  Drunkenness  of  Peck- 
sniff), 162. 

Legacies— Hankering  after,  268. 
Legislators— American,  263. 
Lessons-  Of  Christmas,  96. 

Of  depravity,  145. 

Letter — (See  Valentine).  490 
From  Fanny  Nqueers.  269. 
Letter-writing— l’eggoity’s,  269. 
Of  Mr.  Weller,  on  the  death 
of  Mrs.  W..  139. 

Letter-writer-— The  begging,  43. 
Lexicon— A dropsical,  60. 

Liberty  in  America,  269. 
Library— An  unsocial,  209. 

Lies,  270. 

In  a parenthesis,  67. 

Life— A cheerful  view  of.  251. 

The  plug  of  (See  Lillyvick), 
69. 

Its  declining  years,  272. 

Its  stations,  272. 

The  influence  of  events,  272. 

A bargain  across  a counter, 
270. 

A burden  to  Sim.  Tappcrtit, 
270. 

A chequered,  270. 

A contented,  270. 

An  embodied  conundrum. 
270. 

A game.  270. 

A muddle,  to  Stephen  Black- 
pool, 271. 

A wasted,  271. 

And  death,  the  inequalities 
of,  137. 

Its  u n rewards  (See  Popular- 
ity), 336,  369. 

Its  mysteries  (See  Suicide), 
467. 

Un  re  wards  (See  Nobody),  336. 
Assurance  Company,  oflice  of 
a,  271. 

The  melancholy  side  of,  272. 
The  revenges  of,  272. 

The  river  of,  272. 

Social  distinctions  of,  272. 
Transitions  of,  272. 

To  he  protected  from  imposi- 
tions, 273. 

Pancks1  philosophy  of,  273. 
Tigg’s  idea  of,  273. 

Light— At  night.  270. 

(See  Candle),  57. 

Lighthouse,  270. 

Lights— The  street,  270. 

Likeness— A.  273. 

Lillyvick— Mr..  69. 

Linkinwater  — 1 Tim,  his  age,  11. 
His  friend,  252. 

Lions— Biped  and  quadruped,  47. 
Lips  and  Kisses,  255. 

Lirriper — Mr.,  description  of,  69. 

Mrs.,  opinion  of  Paris,  353. 
Literature— Mr.  Britton’s  opinion 
of.  273. 

(See  Reforms),  391. 

Little  Dorp.it— Her  devotion,  146. 
Uncle  of,  65. 

Description  of,  S4. 

Little  Nell — And  the  old  school- 
master, 134. 

Night  thoughts  of,  336. 

In  the  churchyard.  135. 

(See  Churchyard),  103. 

(See  Abbey),  5. 

Iler  fortitude.  90. 

(See  Night),  333. 

Thoughts  on  death,  144. 

The  love  for,  277. 

On  the  road,  4'-3. 

At  tho  forge,  196,  199. 

Death  of,  140. 

Funeral  of,  204. 

Little  People,  274. 

The  qualities  of,  274. 

Littimer — Pattern  of  respectabili- 
ty, 396. 

Lobley — The  sailor,  70. 

Locksmith,  638. 

Lodger-  < ’apt.  Cuttle  ns  a,  58: 

Logic — (See  Opinion).  348. 
Loneliness — (See  Bell),  45. 

London,  274. 

Streets  of,  31G. 


LONDON 


555 


MODERATION 


London — Dust  in,  165. 

The  poor  of,  129. 

Recreations  in,  393. 

A solitude,  449. 

Suburb  of,  466. 

On  Sunday,  469,  470. 

In  summer,  467. 

At  night  (See  Night),  334. 
Streets,  457-8-9. 

A fog  in,  198. 

A dusty  evening  in,  174. 

Tom  Pinch’s  ride  to,  113. 
Shabbiness  in,  274. 

In  old  times,  106. 

Loom — The  household,  274. 

Lord  Gordon,  68. 

Lord’s  Prayer — Jo’s  repetition  of 
the,  142. 

Loss — Of  children,  92. 

Of.  a wife,  524. 

Lost — Search  for  the,  274. 

Love — The  disappointment  of  Dick 
Swiveller,  279. 

The  disappointment  of  John 
Chivery,  280. 

The  elements  of  its  growth, 
280. 

The  period  of,  280. 

A school-mistress  in,  274. 

A smouldering  fire,  275. 
Alienated,  275. 

The  consolation  of  disappoint- 
ed, 275. 

Unrequited,  of  Toots,  275. 
Oppressiveness  of,  276. 

An  outcast  from  a parent’s, 

276. 

And  appetite,  276. 

And  tight  boots,  276. 

Cymon  Tuggs  in,  276. 

First,  of  David  Copperfield, 

277. 

For  Little  Nell,  277. 

Its  sorcery,  278. 

Making;  Pickwick’s  advice, 

278. 

John  Chivery  in,  278. 

Of  Ruth  and  John  Westlock, 

279. 

Of  the  Carrier  for  Dot,  218. 
Joe,  the  fat  boy,  in,  191. 

At  school,  421. 

(See  Needlework),  328. 

Among  children,  93. 

Of  children,  93. 

Pecksniffian,  205. 

Music  the  solace  of,  197. 

Its  expression  (See  Eyes  of 
Ruth),  178. 

The  advice  of  Mrs.  Crupp, 
130. 

(See  Affection),  9. 

Of  home,  222. 

An  embrace  of,  172. 
Selfishness  of,  434. 

Language  of  (See  Vegetables), 
498. 

Lovers — Their  power  of  condensa- 
tion, 281. 

Loveliness  in  Woman — The  influ- 
ence of,  280. 

Lowry— Mr.,  the  banker,  70. 
Lunatic— (Nee  Madman),  281. 

Asylum— An  American,  281. 
His  courtship  of  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by,  281. 

(Nee  Author),  27,  28. 

Lunch— Of  Guppy,  167. 

(See  Clerks  at),  262. 

Lyons,  282. 


M. 

Machinery— Oar-making,  282. 
MacStinger— Mrs.,  295,  318. 

Mrs.,  and  Capt.  Cuttle,  58. 
MacChoakumchild  — The  teacher, 
Madman — The  raving  of  a,  282. 

(See  Lunatic). 

Magistrate — An  American,  283. 
Office  of  a,  283. 

A pompous,  265. 

A police,  283. 

Grummer,  the,  260. 


Magnate  — Bounderby  as  a local, 
283. 

A local,  65. 

Maggy,  86. 

Her  hospital  experiences,  230. 
Her  idea  of  a theatre,  478. 
Maid — “ Glister,”  Mrs.  Snagsby’s, 
85. 

Tifly  Slowboy,  85. 

Man — An  emaciated,  283. 

A surly,  283. 

Mr.  Pecksniff’s  views  of,  284. 
Of  the  world — Chesterfield  as 
a,  88. 

Manhood — Its  decay  (See  Dry  Rot), 
164. 

Modest,  289. 

A vigorous  (Boy thorn),  284. 

A boisterous,  284. 

A useful  and  gentle,  284. 
Mankind  — The  vision  of  Gabriel 
Grub,  117. 

Manager — Cuttle  as  a business,  55. 
Manner  — (See  Asperity,  Austerity, 
etc.),  27. 

(See  Bluster),  48. 

Mantalini— Mr.  (See  Rage),  386. 

His  characteristics,  285,  286, 

287. 

Manufacture — Oar  making  (See 
also  Factory),  282. 
Manufacturing  Town,  183. 

Maps— Bursting  from  walls,  232. 
Mark  Tapley,  289. 

His  opinion  of  the  sea,  428. 
Kissing  his  country,  255. 

His  idea  of  jolly  rooms,  19. 
Wants  misfortune,  288. 

His  opinion  of  Pecksniff,  288. 
Cannot  do  himself  justice, 

288. 

No  credit  in  being  jolly,  288. 
Market— (Fleet),  290. 

French,  290. 

Covent  Garden,  290. 

Salisbury,  290. 

Day,  290. 

Marigold — Dr.,  192. 

His  dress,  159. 

Marchioness— And  Dick  Swiveller, 
464,  465. 

The,  at  cribbage,  461. 
Marriage — (See  Valentine),  496. 

Of  Walter  and  Florence,  102. 
Uncongenial,  493. 

Elder  Weller  on,  521. 

292,  293,  294,  295,  296,  297. 

(See  Weller),  513. 

Marley— His  face,  180. 

Death  of,  144. 

Marseillaise— The,  296. 
Marshalsea,  310. 

Martyrdom — Of  children,  30,  93. 
Martin — Miss,  description  of,  86. 
Matrimony— (Nee  Old  Boys),  343, 
296. 

292,  296. 

Meagles— The  home  of,  220. 

Mrs.,  her  face,  180. 
Meanness— (Nee  Facis),  185. 
Measles — Figures  a kind  of  ci- 
phering, 23. 

Meat — To  be  humored,  not  drove, 
55. 

Mechanism— The  heart  a,  219. 
Medicine  — (Nee  Physician),  357, 
358,  359. 

292,  298. 

Meeting — At  Mrs.  Weller’s,  475. 
Meek— Mr.,  his  protest.  30. 

Mell — The  teacher.  417. 

Mr.,  the  flute  player,  197. 
Melancholy,  145. 

Its  cure.  272. 

Melodramatic  Laugh.  259. 
Memories— Of  an  old  inn,  248. 

Flowing  to  eternal  seas,  227. 
Of  childhood.  91. 

Sad  (See  Remorse),  396. 

(Nee  Christmas),  98. 

Of  a battle-field,  38. 

And  reveries  of  the  sick,  252. 
Its  influence  on  the  face,  182. 
Of  the  dead,  134. 

Influence  on  grief,  10. 


Mephistopheles  — Bagstock  an 
overfed,  147. 

Merchant  — A conceited  (See 
Conceit),  115. 

Merdle  — His  style  of  shaking 
hands,  217. 

Mrs.,  her  grammar,  211. 

His  dinner  in  state,  153. 

Mr.,  death  of,  139. 

Fall  of  (Nee  Rich  Mar),  402. 
293. 

Merriment — (See  Laughter),  259. 
Merry  People,  299. 

Meteoric  Phenomena,  426. 
Micawber — At  punch,  382. 

Speech  of,  300. 

His  difficulties,  302,  304,306. 
Description  of.  70. 

299,  300,  301,  302.  303. 

Mrs.,  302,  303,  304,  305,  306. 
307. 

Advice  of  on  money,  etc.,  9. 
Microscope — Eyes  of  a telescope 
and,  178. 

Mrs.  Miff,  86. 

Miggs,  86. 

306.  307,  313. 

Miss,  and  Simon  Tappertit, 
1S7. 

Her  expression,  181. 
Milestones,  307. 

Military  Review,  307. 

Glory,  448. 

Mills  — (See  Factory-Town),  183, 
184. 

Mind— Blighted  by  cruelty.  251. 
(Nee  Ideas),  245. 

Confused  by  drunkenness, 
164.  (See  also  Drunken- 
ness.) 

Confusion  of.  246. 

While  half  asleep.  39. 

A starved  imagination,  246. 

A burdened,  214. 

A disordered,  193. 

Effect  of  poetry  on,  364. 

A waning,  91. 

An  active  (Mrs.  Snagsby),  250. 
The  wanderings  of  the,  137. 
An  excited,  177. 

Minns — Mr.  Augustus  (bachelor),  70. 
Miniature— In  another’s  eyes,  179. 
Mint — The  heart  a royal,  219. 

Mint  Juleps — And  sherry  cobblers, 
234. 

Mirth— Natural  and  forced,  205. 
Mirror — Its  reflection,  150,  309. 

(See  Apartment),  20. 
Misanthropes,  309. 

(See  Cynics),  131. 

Miser — Scrooge,  the,  73. 

Grandfather  Smallweed,  74. 
(See  Arthur  Gride),  68. 

His  avarice,  29,  30. 

(See  Furniture,  the  home  of, 
etc.),  204. 

Misery — Of  solitude,  449. 

Mission — (See  Reformers),  394. 

(See  Charity),  87. 

Missions  of  Life.  310,  311. 
Missionaries — Weller’s  opinion  of, 
244. 

Missionary,  310. 

Misfortune,  310. 

Misfortunes — Of  a bachelor,  33. 
Wisitations,  240. 

Of  children,  91,  93. 

Coveted  by  Mark  Tapley,  288. 
Mississippi  Sunset,  472. 

River,  405. 

Mistakes  of  Science,  426. 

Mistake — Pickwick  in  wrong  bed- 
room, 39. 

Mist — (See  Fog),  198. 

Mob,  311. 

Shout  with  largest,  311. 
Revolutionary,  311. 

(See  Revolution),  400,  401. 

In  John  Wiliet’s  bar,  36. 

And  fire,  194. 

Moddle — Mr.,  310. 

Model — Plummer’s  idea  of  a,  81. 
Hair  and  art,  312. 

Artists’,  312. 

Moderation — In  drinking,  164. 


riCDEST  GREATNESS 


556 


OLD 


Modest  Greatness,  313. 

Modesty— And  blushes,  49. 

Of  Toots,  37. 

Of  self-respect,  396. 

Miss  Tox’s  ( See  Nursery),  339. 
289,  313. 

Money — And  its  uses,  313. 

Barnaby’s  dream  of,  313. 

A child’s  idea  of,  313. 

Lender,  314. 

Micawber’s  advice  on,  9. 

And  ignoi’ance  (See  Wealth), 
506,  507. 

Ruined  by  a legacy,  378. 

And  time,  481. 

(See  Rich  Man),  401,  402. 

And  wit,  530. 

(See  Society),  448. 
Monstrosity— Wegg  as  a,  15. 
Montague  Tigg — Description  of, 

Monseigneur — Description  of,  77. 
Moon— At  sea  (See  Night),  334. 
Morality'— Of  Pecksniff,  354. 
Moral  Responsibility— (See  Deaf 
and  Dumb).  133. 

Moral  Epidemics,  173. 

Morgue— In  Pari-,  134. 

Morning,  314,  315,  316,  317. 

Early  Rising,  105. 

(See  Execution),  175. 

Ride.  112,  402. 

Mother,  317. 

Her  domestic  care  (See  Cup- 
board), 130. 

Her  gratitude,  211. 

The  little  (See  Orphans),  350. 
The  death  of  a.  143. 

Mother  s— Pride,  317. 

Love,  318. 

Virtues  visited.  318. 
Motives— (See  Interest  arid  Con- 
venience), 247. 

Mould — The  undertaker,  201,  494. 

Mr.,  philosophy  of,  201. 
Mountain— (See  Alps),  12. 

Water.  318. 

Mourning  Garb,  318. 

Mouth — Its  expression  (See  Mrs. 
General).  179. 

A post  office  (See  Wemmick). 
79. 

(See  Papa),  353. 

“Movin  on,  Sir,’’ — ( See  Boy),  52. 
Mowchkr— Miss,  on  rouge,  408. 

Miss,  on  social  humbugs, 240. 
Miss,  description  of,  8(1. 

Mrs. — Mark!  eliam,  86. 

General,  85,  i79. 

F’s  aunt.  83. 

Muddle — The  law  a,  261. 

Life  a,  271. 

Mugby — Boy  at,  52. 

Murdstone— Miss,  description  of, 
82. 

Mr.,  description  of,  71. 
Religion  of,  395. 

Murder— (See  Revolution),  399.  • 
Murderer— Death  of,  318. 
Discovered,  320. 

Fears  of,  321. 

Fascinations  of,  321. 

Purpose  of,  321. 

Phantoms  of,  322. 

Philosophy  of,  322. 

Music— Snore.  323. 

Serenade,  323. 

Sampson  Brass’s,  323. 
Sympathy  of.  323. 

Overture,  321. 

Definition  of,  324. 

Its  associations,  324. 

Power  of,  324. 

Of  n ickels.  221. 

Of  the  water;  a Sunday  tune, 
205. 

Of  the  keltic  and  cricket,  254, 
255. 

(See  Song),  450. 

(See  Ship),  435. 

The  street  singer,  460. 

(See  Organ).  319.  350. 
Musician  Mr.  Moll,  197. 

Mutes  ( See  mind), 49. 

Mystery.  321.  325. 

AmJ  Love,  280. 


N. 

Nadgett— (The  secret  man),  71. 
Name— A sign,  325. 

An  unchristian,  325. 

Betsey  Trotwood's  objection, 
325. 

A morsel  of  grammar,  325. 

An  undesirable,  326. 

A good,  326. 

( See  Wilfer),  79. 

Napoleonic  Faces,  326. 

Native — Bagsioek’s ; his  dress,  159. 
Nature— Not  responsible  for  hu- 
man errors.  326. 

Sqneers’  opinion,  326. 

Child’s  love  of,  320. 

(See  Niagara),  332. 

Description  of,  38. 

In  August,  26. 

In  autumn,  29. 

Children  of.  92. 

The  voices  of.  29. 

Navy  Yard,  326,  327. 

Neatness— Of  Mrs.  Tibbs,  238. 

(See  Kitchen).  256. 

Of  Mr.  Tartar.  17. 

Necessity  and  Lawyers,  328. 
Needlework— Love  as  a teacher 
of,  328. 

Neglect — In  childhood,  91,  92. 

Of  opport unities  (See  Death), 
137. 

Negro— Dance,  131,  409. 

Coachman,  111. 
Neighborhood,  290. 

A city,  237. 

Repulsive,  457. 

Of  houses.  232,  236. 

In  the  suburbs,  224. 

A11  ancient,  328,  330. 

Five  Points,  New  York,  329. 
An  irregular,  329. 

A foul.  329. 

‘•Its  influences,”  329. 

Nell— Night  thoughts  of,  336. 

(>ee  Night),  333. 

(See  Little  Nell.) 

At  school,  418. 

Her  country  journey,  119. 
“Never  Mind,”  330. 

Newgate.  374. 

Newman  Noggs— His  face,  180. 

(See  Clerk),  108. 

Newcome,  Clemency— Her  kitch- 
en, 256. 

Newspaper— (See  Advertisements), 
8, 9. 

A diminutive  reader  of,  330. 

A smeared,  330. 

News— Its  rapid  circulation,  330. 
Newsboy' — Adolphus  Tetterby.  330. 
New  York— Streets  of.  329,  331. 
The  approach  to,  105. 

Five  Points,  329. 

New  South  Wales  Gentility, 
145. 

New  Year,  542. 

Niagara.  331. 

Nickleby'-  -Ralph,  the  usurer,  495, 
496. 

Mrs.,  and  the  lunatic,  2S1. 
Mrs.,  on  night-caps,  336. 
Night— A light  at.  270. 

And  morning  (See  Dawn),  133. 
Bells  at.  45. 

School  at,  410. 

Storm  at,  455. 

Birds  of  prey,  427. 

332.  333.  334. 

Walks,  335. 

Fancies,  335. 

Thoughts,  336. 

Caps.  33(5. 

Nipper — Miss  ; her  sayings,  472. 
Joaki  Percy,  E q.,  71, 
Nobility,  330. 

Nobody — Story  of.  336. 

Noggs  Newman,  72. 

Noses — 111  art,  336. 

887. 

Nose— Mixed  or  composite,  336. 
(See  Features),  192. 

An  intern  lent  I vo,  178. 

As  if  touched  by  the  linger  of 
the  devil,  179.' 


No  Name— (See  Nobody).  336. 

“No  Thoroughfare  '‘'—(See  Dick 
Swivcller),  541. 

Note — When  found,  make  a,  58. 
Nurse-  (See  Suircy  Gamp),  84. 

The  Marchioness,  (See  Swiv- 
eller),  462. 

Mrs.  Pipchin.  the,  337. 
Characteristics  of,  337. 

A gentle,  337. 

Mrs.  Squ«'crs  as  n,  338. 

Sairey  Gamp  as  a,  338. 
Mercenary,  3:38. 

And  child,  339. 

Nursery— Miss  Tax  in  a,  339. 

Child  in  a,  339. 

O. 

Oar-making,  282. 

Oath— (See  Profanity),  380. 

Of  Mr.  Peggotty.  339. 

Oaths — And  words,  536. 
Obituary— Of  John  Chi  very,  280. 
By  Joe,  3(54. 

Oblivion— Of  death,  143. 
Observation— Jn  children.  90. 
Obstinacy— Of  donkeys,  156. 
Obscurity— 01  ancestry,  16. 
Obstructions— In  life  “and  travel, 
339. 

Occupations — Humanizing,  339. 
Offender — An  innocent,  250. 
Office — Reminiscences  of  a law, 
20(5. 

Candidates  for,  171. 

Of  Mr.  Fips,  21. 

Of  Sampson  Brass,  264. 

Of  Jaggers,  265. 

Of  Snitch ey  & Craggs,  268. 

Of  the  Cheeryble  Brothers, 
106. 

A lawyer's,  by  candlelight, 
339. 

A smeary,  339. 

An  intelligence,  339. 

A business.  340. 

The  circumlocution,  340. 
Defence  of  the  circumlocu- 
tion, 340. 

Trials  of  the  circumlocution, 
341. 

Aspirants  for  (The  Barnacles), 
341. 

Holders  (The  Barnacles),  342. 
Oflawyers,  2(52,  264,  267. 

Of  clerks,  108. 

The  loneliness  of  law,  22. 
Official— (See  Magistrates),  283. 
(See  Dingwall),  65. 

Bank,  35. 

Humbugs,  240. 

(Alderman  Cute),  342. 

The  village.  342. 

The  beadle.  342. 

The  nursery  of,  342. 

Barnacle  at  home,  342. 
Barnacle,  the  public,  343. 
Ohio  River — Scenery, ‘404. 

Old  Age — The  duties  of,  11. 

A youthful,  11. 

In  a poor-house,  230. 

343. 

The  vanity  of.  343. 

Old  Bailey — The,  120,  375. 

Old— Boys,  343 

Coaches,  112. 

Clerk  (See.  Chuffey),  64. 
Clothes  (See  Shop),  344,  441. 
Couple,  345. 

Edifices  (See  Churches),  103. 
Fashioned  hank,  35. 

Firm.  347. 

Houses  (See  House  and 
Home), 

Ledgers,  the  smell  of,  GO. 
Lady,  346. 

Maid,  34(5.  347. 

Man,  death  of  an,  141. 

Man,  the  conventional,  345, 
346. 

Memories  (See  Sea),  429. 
People,  Swivellor’s  opinion 
or.  346. 

People,  obstinacy  of,  346. 
Times,  346. 


OLD 


557 


POOH 


Old — Wine,  520. 

Woman,  531,  533. 

Women,  a type  of  good,  348. 
Oliver  Twist— Apprenticeship  of, 
22. 

Among  the  coffins,  495. 

Omer — Mr.,  his  philosophy  of  old 
age,  11. 

Mr.,  liis  want  of  breath,  25. 
Mr.,  his  short  breath,  55. 

Mr.,  his  cheerful  philosophy, 
251. 

Omnibus,  348. 

Operatives — (See  Factories),  184. 
Opinion — Of  the  world,  539. 

A unanimity  of,  348. 

How  changed,  348. 

A self-important  (See  Expres- 
sion), 178. 

Opportunities — Lost,  348. 
Neglected,  216. 

Oppressiveness— Of  cares,  59. 
Oracle— The  village,  348. 

The  medical,  358. 

Oratory — Of  Rev.  Mr.  Chadband, 
109. 

Orator— A windy,  349. 

A British,  349. 

Organ— Tom  Pinch  at  the,  349. 

Its  melody,  350. 

Organist,  350. 

Ornaments— Of  a home,  220,  224. 
Orphans,  350. 

Dress  of  Oliver  Twist,  158. 
Outcast — Jo,  350,  351. 

Betty  Higden,  351. 

An,  352. 

From  a parent’s  love,  273. 

Jo,  the,  52. 

(See  Homelessness),  226. 

(See  Night),  333. 

Ovekeed— A pauper,  166. 

Oysters— And  poverty,  371. 

(See  New  York),  331. 

P. 

Pain— To  a sleeper  (See  Guilt),  215. 
Painters— (Nee  Art),  23. 

Paint — Miss  Moweher’s  opinion  of, 
408. 

Panic — Intoxication  of,  353. 
Pancks— The  collector,  114. 

His  business  motto,  55. 

His  opinion  of  a broker,  54. 

72,  310. 

Like  a porcupine,  179. 

His  philosophy  of  life’s 
duties,  273. 

On  reference,  394. 

And  the  Patriarch,  257. 
Pantry — (Nee  Cupboard),  130. 

Papa — As  a mode  of  address,  353. 

Potatoes,  poultry,  prunes,  and 
prism,  179. 

Paralysis— Sir  L.  Dedlock,  353. 
Pardiggle — Mrs.,  356. 

Pardiggle’s  Mission,  311. 

Paris — Mrs.  Lirriper’s  opinion  of, 
353. 

The  ghosts  of  the  Morgue, 
134. 

Parliament — The  national  dust- 
heap,  353. 

A member  of,  353. 

Partner — The  silent,  69. 

Scrooge  as  a business,  144. 
Parting  and  Meeting,  352. 

Party — Devotion  to,  170. 

On  the  river,  405. 

A fashionable,  188. 

A social,  352. 

Passions— Influence  of  bad,  354. 
Pastime — Of  the  aristocracy,  23. 
Patience  and  Gentleness,  146. 
Patient — In  a hospital,  229. 

Baby,  32. 

Patriotism — (See  Revolution),  400. 
Of  Miss  Pross,  352. 

Of  the  Barnacles,  341. 
Patrons  and  Patronesses — Boffin’s 
opinion  of,  352. 

Paul— At  school,  415. 

His  idea  of  money,  313. 

On  the  sea-shore,  428. 


Paul’s  Reverie,  324. 

Pauper— An  overfed,  166. 

The  dead,  211. 

Peace — At  home,  226. 

Pecksniff — As  a hypocrite,  244. 

Mark  Tapley’s  opinion  of,  288. 
As  a moral  man,  354. 

Drunk,  162. 

Making  love,  205. 

His  forgiveness,  198. 

His  views  of  man,  284. 

The  horse,  228. 

His  feelings,  192. 

Throat  of,  354. 

Miss  Cherry,  face  of,  182. 
Conscience  of,  117. 

And  his  daughters,  354. 
Family  party,  81. 

Pecksniffian — Morality,  354. 

Traits,  354. 

Tears,  477. 

Pedigree — Influence  of  time  upon, 

355. 

Peggotty,  82. 

Mr.,  his  face,  181. 

Oath  of,  339. 

“ Barkis  is  willin,”  37. 

Her  letter  writing,  269. 
Peecher— Miss,  the  schoolmistress, 
274. 

Pell — Solomon  (See  Court,  Insol- 
vent), 122. 

Penitence  — Extra  superfine  (writ- 
ing), 355. 

People — First  impressions  of,  246. 
Like  languages,  259. 

Little,  274. 

Personal  Descriptions— (Nee  Char- 
acters), 31. 

(Nee  Features),  192. 

Pets— Children  as,  92. 

At  school,  417. 

Petrifaction  — A widow  glaring, 
179. 

Pew,  355. 

Pew-opener,  294. 

Mrs.  Miff,  the,  86. 

Phantom — (See  Chair),  60. 

Phantoms — Of  the  bells,  45. 
Philadelphia — Description  of,  105. 

Eastern  Penitentiary,  376. 
Philanthropy  — Gunpowderous, 
355. 

As  a platform  manoeuvre,  356. 
Beggars  in  name  of,  356. 
Philanthropists — (See  Reformers). 
(See  Charity),  87. 

Mrs.  Crisparkle,  355. 

At  dinner,  152. 

Mrs.  Jellyby  at  home,  221. 

The  child  of  a,  90. 

Mrs.  Jellyby,  355. 
Honeythunder,  355. 

Traits  of,  355. 

Mrs.  Pardiggle,  356. 
Phrenological  formation  of, 
357. 

Philosopher— Puzzled,  426. 
Philosophy  — Of  life’s  duties, 
Pancks’,  273. 

Squeers  on,  357. 

Of  Sam  Weller,  514. 

Of  Dick  Swivelier,  463. 

Of  an  invalid,  251. 
Photographs — (See  Lirriper),  69. 
Phrases — Like  fireworks  (See  Con- 
ventional), 118. 

Physician— (Nee  Poor),  369. 

(Nee  Chillip,  Dr.),  217. 

Bob  Sawyer,  357,  358. 

The  oracular,  358. 

A fashionable,  359. 

The,  359. 

A blessing,  359. 

Physiognomy — Of  a hotel,  359. 

Of  door-knockers,  156. 

Pianist  — (See  Fashionable  Party), 
188. 

Pickwick— Policy  of,  311. 

His  antiquarian  discovery, 

360. 

Sam  Weller’s  opinion  of,  360. 
The  antiquarian  controversy, 

361. 

In  a rage,  361. 


Pickwick— 360. 

Insult  to,  11. 

After  wine,  152. 

Inebriated,  382. 

On  trial,  125. 

In  court,  124. 

And  the  lawyers,  267. 

At  whist,  521. 

At  Bath,  506. 

And  the  driver,  228. 

Advice  on  love-making,  278. 

In  the  wrong  bedroom,  39. 
Pickwickians’— Sense,  360. 

Drunk,  162. 

Before  a magistrate,  260. 
Pictures— In  the  sunset,  472. 

(■>ee  Art).  23,  24. 

01  depravity.  145. 

Pie — A weal  (See  Eating),  167. 

Pig — An  American,  362. 

Pigs,  362. 

Pike-keepers,  309. 

Pillow— (Nee  Nurse),  338. 

Pinch— Tom,  72,  289,  290,  291. 

Tom,  the  purity  of  his  nature, 
218. 

Tom,  his  expression,  181. 
Tom,  his  ride.  402. 

Tom,  at  the  organ,  349,  350. 
Pioneer— Western,  362. 

Pipe,  445,  446. 

Pictures  in  the  smoke,  363. 
Pipe  Filling— A fine  art,  363. 

Pip — His  family  gravestones.  213. 
His  misfortunes  at  dinner, 
152. 

Pip  and  Joe — Dress  of,  15S. 

(See  Eating),  166. 

Pip — His  fight,  194. 

Pipchin — Mrs.,  and  the  cat,  59. 

Mrs.,  her  educational  system, 
167. 

Mrs.,  the  home  of.  222. 

Mrs.  (See  Nurse),  337. 
Pipkin— Nathaniel,  72. 

Plagiarism — Dramatic,  363. 
Planter— The  home  of  a Southern, 
233. 

Plate-making,  361. 

Platform  — Of  other  people’s 
corns  (See  Corns),  1 i 8. 
Pleasures  of  Christmas,  95. 
Plummer— Caleb,  his  exaggeration, 
174. 

Caleb,  his  loving  deception, 
278. 

Caleb,  the  home  of,  234. 
Pocket — Mrs.  Sarah,  180. 

Podsnap — ( See  Dinner-party),  150. 
Miss,  the  fashionable,  90. 
Their  exclusiveness,  188. 

( See  Conceit),  115. 

Poetical  Obituary— By  Joe.  364. 
Poetry— Weggs’  opinion  of,  364. 

Of  charity,  87. 

Pogram — Elijal),  14,  72. 

Poison,  297. 

Police — ( See  Pctective),  146. 
English  detective,  365. 
Magistrate,  283. 

Office,  365. 

Polish  and  Deportment,  144. 
Politeness— Austerity  in,  27. 
Politician— Pot-house  ( See  Ora- 
cle), 348. 

Pot-house  ( See  Orator),  349. 
(See  Office),  341,  342,  343,  365, 

366. 

Politics — Weller  at  an  election, 
170,  171. 

In  America,  116. 

Political  Economy— Toots  on,  366. 
Pomp— Represented  by  a coach- 
man, 113. 

Pomposity'— Sap  sea  a type  of,  366. 

Its  influence,  366. 

Pont— A theatrical.  366. 

Poor — Their  characteristics,  366. 
Plea  of  the.  367. 

Homes  of  the,  367. 

Hospital  scenes  among  the, 

367. 

And  unfortunate,  voice  of, 
366. 

Parish,  368. 

To  be  cultivated,  36S- 


POOR 


558 


REVENGE 


Poor— Patient?,  369. 

Public  duty  to  the,  308. 
Tenderness  ot'  the,  369. 
Kindness  to  eacli  other,  369. 
Their  reverence  tor  old  age, 
11. 

Charity  of  the,  87. 

Their  love  of  home,  222. 

Men,  and  poor  women,  the 
difference,  207. 

Of  London  (See  Crime  and 
Filth),  129. 

Relations,  395. 

Popularity — (Slurk,  the  editor), 
3G9. 

(See  Ride),  402. 

Porter — Toby  Veck,  the,  3G9. 

A solemn,  370. 

Portraits— (See  Art),  23,  24. 
Positiveness  — Mrs. Pratchett’s  ,370 
Post  Boys — And  donkeys,  370. 
Pott— Submissiveness  of  Mr.,  206. 
Mr.,  the  editor,  72. 

His  mode  of  writing  an  essay, 
173. 

His  domestic  afflictions,  243. 
Potato — The  charm  of  peeling  ( See 
dinner,  Dick  Swiveller’s), 
148. 

(See  cooking),  118. 

Potomac  River,  453. 

Pottery,  364. 

Poultry — (See  Eagle),  165. 

Poverty — (See  Poor),  366,  367,  368, 
369,  370. 

Its  straits,  207. 

(See  Five  Points),  329. 

371. 

And  oysters,  371. 

Power— Its  attraction  for  low  na- 
tures, 371. 

And  will,  371. 

Insolence  of  newly  acquired, 
371. 

Petty  (See  Official),  342. 

Of  sublime  intelligence,  466. 
Practical --Man  (See  Utilitarian), 
also  372. 

Men  (See  Gradgrind  and 
Bounderby). 

Bore,  51. 

Prairie — Scenery,  425. 

“Of  wild  words,”  536. 
Prayer— Cruncher  on,  371. 

At  sea,  436. 

Of  Jo,  142. 

Pratchett  — Mrs.  (See  Chamber- 
maid), 87. 

Preacher— His  exhortations,  109. 
Preaching  v.  Practice— (/See  Law- 
yers), 267. 

Precepts— Of  married  ladies,  372. 
Precociousness  — Of  Smallweed, 
261. 

Prkdicament,  372. 

Preserving  the  Unities,  495. 
Press— American,  372. 

(See  Popularity)  369. 

Pressure —A  cause  of  death,  139. 
Pretenders— Social,  188. 

Pride,  372.  373. 

The  expression  of,  182. 

Cume  io  grief,  873. 

Prim  People — (See  Formal),  198. 
Primer— Or  introduction  to  the  art 
of  coughing,  119. 

Principle  — Sknnpole’s  opinion 
of,  874. 

A nmn  of  (Weller),  374. 
Prison,  310. 

Burnaby  in  (See  Night),  334. 
Prisonous,  a street  boy,  52. 
374,  375.  376.  377. 

Newgate,  371. 

Sunrise  in.  374. 

French,  375. 

Old  Bailey,  375. 

Discipline,  375. 

Solitary  coiillnement  in  Amer- 
ican, 376. 

Prisoner  Before  execution,  377. 
Old,  37H. 

Dead,  379. 

Friendless.  279. 

Sampson  Bruss,  379. 


Prisoner— For  debt  (Weller’s  sto- 
ry), 379. 

Trial  of  a,  123. 

Death  of  t lie,  139. 

(See  Court)  120. 

Privileges— (Coach),  207. 
Prize-fight  -(See  Fight.),  194. 
Procrastination — Mica w ber’s  ad- 
vice on,  9. 

Prodigies — Children  as,  92. 
Prodgit — Mrs.  (See  Baby),  31. 
Profanity"— Bark's  adjectives,  7. 
(See  Oath),  339. 

380. 

Of  old  Lobbs,  880. 
Professing  Christians,  94. 
Professional  Enthusiasm,  380. 
Proofs — Smeared,  381. 

Property— Portable,  Wenmiick’s 
advice,  200. 

Prosperity" — Effect  of  (Mark  Tap- 
ley),  381. 

Protection— From  crime  and  im- 
position, 273. 

Protest— Of  Mr.  Meek,  30. 
Proverb — A flowinu-bearded  and 
patriarchal,  381. 

Provincialisms— Of  America,  197. 

“ Prunes  and  Prism  ” — (See  Papa), 
353. 

Psy'CHOLogy— Of  visions,  499. 
Public  Men  — Self-importance  of, 

381. 

Duties  of  secretary,  381. 

Their  feelings,  192. 

Must  expect  sneers,  254. 

In  America,  14. 

Public— vv  liters,  542. 

Display— The  value  of.  154. 
House  (See  Inn),  247.  (See 
Inns  and  Bars). 

Ilotir-e,  a dissipated- looking, 
235. 

Dinners.  151. 

Injustice  to  innocent  offend- 
ers, 250. 

Pudding  — Description  of  ( See 
Christmas  Dinner),  99. 

A successful,  381. 

Pugilist — A moral,  82. 

“ Chicken, ” 381. 

Pulpit  Slan.g,  443. 

Pumblechook.  72. 

Punch— Mi  caw  ber’s,  382. 

Bob  Sawyer’s,  382. 

Its  results,  382. 

Feeling,  the  groundwork  of, 

382. 

The  aroma  of  a,  23. 
Punishment— At  school,  416,  417, 
422. 

Puppy-Love— (See  School  Days), 420. 
Puritan— (See  Gordon),  68. 
Pursuit— Of  the  lost,  274. 

Purse— An  empty,  383. 

Q* 

Quack,  292. 

Quadrille— A trial  to  the  feelings 
(See  Dancing),  132. 

A negro,  131. 

Quake rly  Influence— (See  City 
of  Philadelphia),  105. 
Quale— As  an  admirer,  8. 

Quarrel,  296. 

(See  Gamp),  410. 

(See  " Never  Mind  ”).  330. 
Quarrelsome  Women,  530. 

Quilp.  73. 

Ilis  expression,  181. 
llis  description  of  a hypo- 
crite. 244. 

llis  fight  with  Dick  Swivellcr, 
193. 

At  home,  384. 

Ilis  domestic  system,  881. 
Mrs.,  and  Mrs.  Jiniwin,  213. 
Death  of.  138. 

Post-mortem  examination  of, 

383. 

1C. 

Race-courhe— Scenes  upon  a,  385. 
Races— Going  to  the,  384. 


Rage — Of  Pickwick,  301. 

Rage— Its  effervescence,  380. 

A madhouse  style  of  manner, 
386. 

Of  Mr.  Smallwood,  386. 
Railroad— Construction  of  the,  386. 
A finished,  387. 

The  course  of,  388. 

Rush  of  the  engine,  388. 

On  a,  388. 

Preparations  for  a,  389. 

Train,  389. 

Arrival  of  the  train,  389. 
Journey,  in  America,  389. 
Cars,  in  Americ  a,  390. 

Its  responsibility,  390. 

Depot,  390. 

Rain— In  the  city,  390. 

Alter  a,  390. 

A drizzly,  390. 

Rampage— Mrs.  Joe  on  a,  391. 
Reading — A boy’s,  391. 

Wopsle’s  manner  of,  391. 
Words  delicious  to  taste,  391. 
Mr.  Wcgg’s  difficulty  in,  391. 
Dr.  Blimber’s  style  of,  392. 
Capt.  Cuttle’s  style  of,  392. 

On  gin  and  water,  392. 
Readers— Of  books,  50. 

Real  and  Mimic  Life  — Its  distinc- 
tions, 272. 

Rebuke — Of  impertinence,  246. 
Reception— A cool,  301. 

An  American,  392. 
Recreation  — Gardening  in  Lon- 
don, 393. 

In  London,  393. 

Red  Tape,  340,  341,  393. 

Red-faced  Men,  394. 

Referee— Weller  on  a,  141. 
Reference— Book  of,  50. 
References,  394. 

Refinement— An  evidence  of,  394. 
Reflection  — Capt.  Cuttle’s  habit 
of,  215. 

Reformers— (See  Child  of  Philan- 
thropist), 90. 

A party  of  female,  394. 
Reforms — Public,  influence  of  lit- 
erature on,  394. 

Refrigerator  — The  noble  (See 
Austerity),  26. 

Relations — Poor,  395. 

Relics — Of  Rome,  407. 

Religion — Austerity  in,  27. 

Practical  versus  professed, 256. 
And  lectures  in  New  Eng- 
land, 395. 

A vent  for  bad  humor,  395. 
Austerity  in,  395. 

Indigestion,  and  love,  395. 
Austere,  of  the  Murdstoues, 

395. 

True  and  false,  396. 

Religious  Experiences  — Of 
Charles  Dickens,  115. 
Reminiscences — Of  school,  420. 

Of  a convict,  117. 

Remorse — Of  Mr.  Dombey,  396. 
Reparation  — Religious,  of  Mrs. 
Clennam,  396. 

Repining — Useless  tears,  396. 
Resemblance — Family,  23. 

Reserve  and  Affectation,  397. 
Resentment — Mr.  Buifle  and  the 
Major,  397. 

Respect,  Self  — The  modesty  of, 

396. 

Respectability'— A pattern  of  (Lit- 
timer),  396. 

Rest— Tranquillity  of,  397. 
Restaurant— Dinner  in  a,  153. 

(See  Lunch),  262. 

(See  Waiters).  502. 

(Sec  Inn),  247. 

Question  of  refreshment,  397. 
A,  398. 

A French.  398.  f 
Restlessness  — (See  Conscience;, 
117. 

Retribution,  398. 

Reticence— Of  Mr.  Chivcry,  399. 

Of  Mrs.  General,  399. 

Revenge — Advertising  a means  of, 
8. 


BEVENGE 


559 


SHAK8PEABE 


Revenge,  310. 

Reverence— For  science,  57. 
Reverend  Shepherd  — Stiggins, 
the,  75. 

Reveries — And  memories  of  the 
sick,  252. 

Review,  307. 

Revolution — Hunger  before  the 
French,  242. 

Bef'ofe  the  French,  399. 

Scenes  in  the  French,  400. 
Mobs  of  the  French,  401. 
Knitting  women  of  the 
French,  401. 

Rheumatism — versus  Gout,  210. 

versus  Tombatism,  401. 

Rich  Man — His  importance,  401. 
World’s  tribute  to  the,  402. 
His  fall,  402. 

And  poor,  402. 

Ride— Tom  Pinch’s  (See  Coachman), 
113. 

Tom  Pinch’s  morning,  402. 

In  winter,  530. 

Riding — And  walking,  504. 
Riderhqod — Rogue,  drowned,  159. 
Rising — Early,  165. 

River — Of  life,  272. 

Scenes  upon  (See  City,  ap- 
proach to  New  York),  105. 
Compared  to  death,  143. 

At  night  ( See  Night),  334. 

Its  treatment  of  the  dead,  138. 
Scenery,  the  Ohio,  404. 
Mississippi,  on  the,  405. 

At  evening,  403. 

A portal  of  eternity,  403. 

A midnight  funeral,  404. 

Its  foreknowledge  of  the  sea, 
404. 

Scene,  on  the  Thames,  403. 
Side  (Docks,  down  by  the),  154. 
Thief,  404. 

And  ferry-boat,  their  moral, 
403. 

A dreary  neighborhood  by 
the,  405. 

A water  party,  405. 

Sports,  a rowing  match,  406. 
Sports,  water  excursions,  406. 
Roast  Pig— (Nee  Weather),  510. 

Rob  the  Grinder  — A victim-  of 
education,  167. 

Rochester  Bridge,  424. 

Rokesmith — Mrs.  John  (Nee  Needle- 
work), 328. 

Mrs.  John  — Her  announce- 
ment of  a baby,  32. 
Romance — Of  charity,  87. 

Days  of  (Nee  Old  Times),  346. 
Rome — Its  catacombs  and  graves,  59. 
Its  past  and  present,  406. 

Its  relics,  407. 

The  Coliseum,  407. 

St.  Peter’s,  407. 

Its  ruins,  408. 

Roofs  — Oppressed  by  chimneys, 
106. 

Rooms— (Nee  Apartments),  17. 

Of  Mr.  Tartar,  17. 

Rosa  Dartle,  533. 

“ Rosy  and  Balmy  ” — The,  280. 
Rouge— Miss  Mowcher  on,  408. 
Rouncewell  — Mrs.  the  house- 
keeper of  Dedlock  Hall,  239. 
Routine — Of  daily  life,  216. 

Budge — Barnaby,  73. 

His  raven,  48. 

His  devotion,  10. 

Mrs.,  her  expression  of  ter- 
ror, 182. 

Rugg— Mr.  and  Mrs.,  73. 

Ruins — ( See  “Abbey”),  5. 

Of  a home,  224,  225. 

Of  Rome,  408. 

Tourists  among  (Mrs.  Gene- 
ral), 408. 

Of  old  grave-yards,  103. 
Rumor — Popular,  408. 

Ruth — The  influence  of  her  pres- 
ence, 280. 

And  John  Westlock,  the  love 
Of,  279. 

The  eyes  of,  178. 

As  a housekeeper,  237. 


S. 

Sacredness  of  Truth,  491. 

Sailor — “Poor  mercantile  Jack,” 
408. 

Mr.  Lobley,  the,  70. 
Description  of  Sol  Gills, 
410. 

Home  of  Sol  Gills,  410. 
Sailors — Their  characteristics,  409. 
Dance-house,  a,  409. 

Their  associations  (Docks), 
154. 

Sairey  Gamp — And  Betsey  Prig, 
410. 

And  Mrs.  Harris,  411. 

Her  observations,  411. 

On  drinking,  412. 

On  human  anticipations,  412. 
On  steamboats,  412. 

Will  not  suffer  “ impogician,” 
413. 

(See  Nurse),  338. 

84. 

And  Mr.  Mould,  201. 

Sale — Auction,  Dombey.  25. 
Salutation — A hearty,  413. 

The  conventional,  413. 

Sally  Brass — Description  of,  264. 

(See  also  Brass),  83. 

Sampson  Brass  convicted,  379. 
Sandwich — A boy  between  two 
boards,  9. 

A Mugby  Station,  413. 

And  entertainment,  413. 
Sarcasm — Its  expression,  413. 

Satire — On  pride  of  ancestry,  15. 
Sawbones,  514. 

Sawyer — Bob,  298. 

Experience  of,  357,  358. 

Punch  of,  382. 

Savage  — The  nqble,  a delusion, 
413. 

Sayings— Of  Capt.  Cuttle,  57. 
Scadder — (See  Speculator),  451. 
Scenes — Christmas,  95,  96. 

Scenery — (See  Alps),  12. 

Of  a battle-field,  38. 

A western  swamp,  424. 

(See  August),  26. 

Autumn,  28,  29. 

Country,  119,  424. 

From  Rochester  bridge,  424. 
Landscape.  425. 

Of  an  American  prairie, 
425. 

On  the  Mississippi,  425. 

“ “ Cairo,  425. 

And  weather,  426. 

Scholar — The  new,  415. 

A poor,  415. 

Sissy  Jape’s  ignorance  of 
facts,  415. 

A,  415. 

School— Of  facts  (See  Facts,  Grad- 
grind),  185. 

The  Gradgrind,  169. 

Dr.  Blimber’s,  168. 

A holiday  in,  415. 

A jumble  of  a,  416. 

David  Copperfield  at,  417. 

Of  Dr.  Blimber.  417. 

First  h airs  in,  417. 

The  village.  418. 

Of  Squeers  (Dotlieboys’  Hall), 
419. 

Influence  of  cruelty  in,  420. 
Vacation.  421. 

Of  facts,  423. 

Schoolmaster— Squeers,  the,  75. 
'The  good,  415. 

Dr.  Biimbcr,  62. 

In  England  (See  Education), 
168. 

Love,  as  a teacher,  421. 

The  old,  421. 

The  kind,  421. 

Bradley  Headstone,  the,  422. 
Creakle.  the.  422. 

Mr.  McChoakumehild,  422. 
423. 

And  mistress.  423. 
Schoolmistress — Miss  Peecher  in 
lov* •,  423. 

In  love.  274. 


School-room  — And  master  (Sde 
Facts),  186. 

First  memories  of,  185. 

The  old  master  and  scholar, 
418. 

School-days,  416. 

A retrospect,  420. 
School-boy— Death  of  the,  420. 

Squeers  on  the  diet  of,  421. 
School-books— The,  421. 

Science— The  mistakes  of,  426. 

Where  is  it.  to  stop  ? ” 34. 
Cuttle's  reverence  for,  57. 
Scientist — (See  Chemist),  88. 
Scoundrels— Night  birds  of  prey, 

427. 

Scrooge— (Nee  Death  of  Marley),  144. 
His  opinion  of  ghosts.  208. 

In  foul  neighborhood,  329. 

His  Christmas  dinner,  99. 

Sea — Storm  at,  '427. 

An  excursion  party  at,  427. 
Impartiality  of  the,  428. 

Mark  Tapley’s  opinion  of  the, 

428. 

“ On  the  bar,”  428. 

The,  428. 

Breakers,  428. 

Voice  of  the  waves,  428. 

And  love,  428. 

Its  associations,  429. 

In  a storm,  429. 

At  night  (Nee  Night),  334. 
Captain,  his  face,  429. 

Scenery,  429. 

Shore,  at  the,  429. 

Sickness,  misery  of,  429. 
Sickness,  430. 

Seaport— (Dover),  429. 

Seaside— A scene  at  the,  430. 
Children  at  the,  431. 

The,  432. 

Views:  approach  to  Calais, 
432. 

Views;  landing  at  Calais,  432. 
Voyage,  the  end  of  a,  432. 
Seclusion  — Mrs.  Skewton’s  Arca- 
dia, 119. 

Second-hand  Cares  — Like  clothes, 
70. 

59. 

Furniture,  54. 

Secrets,  433. 

The  bearer  of,  71. 

A lawyer  the  depositary  of, 
263. 

Depositaries  of,  433. 

Of  humanity,  433. 

Possessor  of  (Snagsby),  433. 
Secretary,  Private  — His  duties, 
381. 

Seediness — The  genius  of  (See  Insol- 
vent Court),  121. 

Segar,  445,  446. 

Self-deceit,  433. 

Selfishness,  433. 

In  love,  434. 

(See  Heart,  an  empty),  219. 
Self-important  Men,  56. 
Self-importance— (Nee  Egotism). 
Sentiments— Hollow,  94. 

Sentinel — Sam  Weller  as  a,  434. 
Separations— In  liie,  434. 
Serjeant  Snubbin,  266. 

Sermons— Subjects  for,  466. 
Servant,  293. 

( See  W aiters),  501. 

(Nee. Footman,  Butler,  Waiter, 
etc.),  238. 

(See  Office),  339. 

Tilly  Slowboy  as  a,  85. 
Steerfort h’s,  396. 

Bagslock’s  (See  Valet),  497. 

M iseries  of  housekeeping,  434. 
Sexton— And  Little  Nell,  135. 

(See  Grave-digger),  212. 
Shabbiness  — Of  London  people, 
274. 

Shabby-genteel  People,  207,  446. 
(See  Tiirs),  77. 

Shadows— Of  memory,  182. 

Evening,  434. 

Shakers— American,  434. 
Shakspeare— Mr.  Wolf’s  idea  of, 
434. 


SHAM 


560 


STREET 


Sham— (See  Skimpole),  442. 
Sherry-Cobbler  — An  American, 

435. 

Ship—  A hymn  on  board,  435. 

At  sea,  435. 

Cabin  of  a,  435. 

An  emigrant,  171,  172. 

First  breakfast  on,  205. 
Departure  of  an  emigrant',  435. 
In  a storm,  436. 

Prayer  on  board,  436. 
Preparations  for  departure. 

436. 

Scenes  on  board,  437. 
State-room  of  a,  437. 

Voice  of  the  screw,  437. 

Steam,  441. 

Mark  Tapley’s  jollity  on,  439. 
Night  scenes  on,  440. 

Scenes  on,  440. 

Shipbuilding,  326. 

Ships — Their  associations,  437. 

The  riggi  ng  of,  437. 
Shipwreck— Cap t.  Cuttle’s  descrip- 
tion of  a,  437. 

(Death  of  Ham),  438. 
Sheriff— (See  Court).  120. 

Shop — A curiosity.  441. 

An  old  clo’,  441. 

Tetter  by' s,  441. 

Shops — Of  brokers,  54. 

Shorthand,  539,  540. 

Shows— Giants  and  dwaffs,  209. 
Shrewdness,  441. 

Sick— (In  hospitals),  229,  230. 

(See  Invalid),  252. 

Sick  Room— Reflections  on  a,  145. 
Sickness— Its  hallucinations,  193. 

Of  Johnny  Harmon,  88. 

Of  Dick  Swiveller,  461. 

Of  a child,  89. 

The  suspense  of,  441. 

Sigh,  442. 

Sign— A tobacco,  442. 

The  ghost  of  dead  businesses, 
442. 

“An  out’ard  sign,”  (Capt 
Cuttle).  57. 

Of  a walking-stick  shop.  273. 
Sikes— His  dog  (See  Dog,  a Chris- 
tian), 155. 

Silence — (See  Reticence),  399. 
Silent  Sympathy,  474. 

Simon  Tappektit— His  figure  and 
dress.  76. 

Simplicity— Pickwick’s,  357,  358. 

Of  Captain  Cuttle,  61. 
Sincerity,  442. 

Sincerity  vs.  Bluntness,  48. 
Singing,  289. 

Sinister  Eyes,  178. 

Single  Men,  33. 

Skettles,  Sir  Barnet— His  art  of 
acquaintance,  7. 

Skewton,  Mrs. — Her  opinion  of 
death,  136. 

Her  Arcadia,  119. 

Death  of,  136. 

Skimpole,  Harold — His  character, 
442. 

His  philosophy  of  common 
sense,  114. 

Opinion  of  bees,  41. 

His  idea  of  debt,  144. 

On  trouble,  491. 

On  principle,  374. 

Slammer— Dr.,  description  of,  73. 
Slander — (Sec  Press),  372. 

(See  New  York),  331. 

Of  tbc  unfortunate,  443. 
Slang— Of  the  pulpit,  443. 

Sleep— (See  Fat  boy  i. 

Of  Pickwick  after  dinner,  152. 
Swiveller  on,  463. 

443,  444. 

After  wine,  444  . 

A refreshing  (Sam  Weller  on), 
444. 

Dick  Swivoller’s  “balmy,” 
444 

Of  Uriah  Deep.  444. 

Snoring  of  Mr.  Willet,  444. 
And  dreams  among  the  poor, 
444. 

Di  u stage  coach,  445. 


Sleeve — Like  a cloth  sausage,  159. 
Sloppy — Description  of,  73. 

Dress  of,  159. 

His  story  of  Johnny  Harmon, 

88. 

Sluggishness — (See  Drummle),  CG. 
Slyme — Dilapidated,  44G. 

Chevy,  74. 

Smallweed— Mr.  (See  Rage),  386. 
Description  of,  74. 
Precociousness  of,  261. 

Smell — “ A simoon  of  liam,”  23. 
Smike — At  Squeers’,  419. 

Grave  of,  212. 

Smile  — A crowd  of  welcomes  in 
every,  179. 

(See  Sampson  Brass),  G2. 
Smiles— Description  of,  445. 

Smoke,  445. 

Smoking,  44G. 

Board  and  lodging,  446. 

The  content  of,  446. 

Snagsby — The  law  stationer,  2G0. 

Description  of  Mr.  and  Mrs., 
74. 

Mrs.,  jealousy  of,  253. 

Her  inquisitiveness,  250,  253. 
Snitchey  and  Craggs  — The  law- 
yers, 74,  261,  268. 

Snoring— (See  Sleep),  444. 

Snow,  508. 

Snowstorm,  509. 

Social — Distinctions,  272,  446. 
Humbugs,  240. 

Pretender  (See  Flamwell),  6G. 
Tastes  and  habits,  475. 

Wit,  a,  80. 

Ice  of  Podsnappery,  188. 
Impostors,  246. 

Pretenders,  188. 

Company,  a,  80. 

Gradation#  (See  Life),  272. 
Socially  Dilapidated  — Chevy 
Slyme,  446. 

Society,  293. 

The  duty  to,  1G5. 

The  passports  to,  246. 

The  beggars  of,  42. 
Fashionable,  188. 

Bachelors  in,  33. 

The  gypsies  of,  50. 

Man,  71. 

In  England  (See  Revolution), 
399. 

Of -girls,  delightful  but  not 
professional,  209. 

Its  vices,  446. 

At  dinner,  447. 

Fashionable,  447. 

Mr.  Merdle,  the  rich  man, 
448. 

Fashionable  young  ladies,  448. 
Rich  man  of,  448. 

Societies — Learned,  361. 
Sofa-bedstead,  41. 

Sold — By  friends  and  society,  448. 
Soldiers— Military  glory,  448. 
Military  review,  307. 

A swarm  of,  449. 

The  corporal,  449. 

Solitude— Of  a city  crowd,  105. 

(See  Crupp),  130. 

(See  Night),  333. 

Blessings  of,  449. 

Misery  of,  449. 

Solitary  Men — ( See  Friendless), 201. 
Sol  Gills,  410. 

Solemn  Eye — A,  178. 

Solemnity-  -In  dancing,  132. 

Song— Of  the  kettle,  255. 

An  unearthly,  450. 

“Table  beer  of  acoustics,” 
450. 

Sorrow-— A teacher,  450. 

Sounds — And  scenes  of  a city,  105, 
106. 

Soui.lesknkrr — (See  Heart,  an  emp- 
ty), 219. 

Sowerbkrry — The  undertaker,  de- 
scription of,  75. 

Spangles— By  daylight,  34. 

Sparks  Iiiii  Christmas  fire.  450. 
Sparkler-  His  idea  of  Dante,  133, 
289. 


Sparsit—  Mrs.,  450. 

Spartan  Boy.  52.  * 

Spasms  — Inquisitiveness,  a cure 
for,  250. 

“ Spazzumm  Of  Mrs.  Crupp,  130. 
Speciality— Sparkler’s  idea  of  a, 

451. 

Speculators— Scadder,  the  Ameri- 
can, 451. 

Mr.  Lammle’s  friends  on 
Change,  452. 

In  charity,  87. 

Speculations — In  shares,  455. 
Speech—  A morsel  of,  452. 

“ The  gilt  of  gab,”  452. 
Micawbcr’s,  300. 

Public  (See  Addresses),  7. 
Spenlow.  tiie  Lawyer— Descrip- 
tion of,  75. 

Spinster  — Bagstock’s  opinion  of 
Miss  Tox.  452. 

Influence  of  young  men  on, 

452. 

Spiritual  Growth— Of  dead  chil- 
dren, 452. 

Spite,  452. 

Spitting— In  America,  13. 

Sponge— (See  Skimpole).  442. 
Sports — On  the  river,  406. 
Sportsman— Winkle  as  a,  452. 
Spring.  452. 

Time,  453. 

Time;  an  evening  in,  174. 
Squeers— His  expression,  181. 
Description  of,  75. 

His  opinion  of  “ wisitations,” 
240. 

On  philosophy,  357. 

His  advice  on  appetites,  22. 

4*  is  bruises,  55. 

Menagerie  of,  419. 

Fanny  ; a letter  from,  269. 
Mrs.  (See  Nurse).  338. 

Squod— Phil. ; description  of,  75. 
Stage— Adapted  to  the,  453. 

Coach,  445. 

Starched  People,  453. 

Stars— Children  of  the,  92. 

Their  alphabet  yet  unknown 

453. 

The  eyes  of  angels,  453. 

(See  Night),  332,  333. 
Starvation— Deal  h by.  141. 
Stationer—' The  law,  260. 
Stations— In  life,  272. 

Statistics,  292. 

Steamboat— -An  American,  453. 
Night  scenes  on  the  Potum* 
453. 

Mrs.  Gamp’s  opinion  of,  41? 
In  the  harbor,  454. 

Steamer— Crossing  the  Cha  D'yrl.V  1. 
Steam-engine— A thinking,  435. 
Steamship,  441. 

Steerforth—  (See  Gracuof  a gentle- 
man), 208. 

His  respectable  eotwant,  396. 
Stenography,  539,  540. 

Stifler— Dick  Swivel)r,r  experien- 
ces a,  279. 

Stiggins — And  Sam  Waller,  517,  518. 
Description  of  the  Iteverend 
Shepherd,  75. 

Weller’s  opinlrn  of,  244. 

On  the  coach,  520. 

As  a borrower,  620. 
Stiltstalking— Lord  (See  Austeri- 
ty), 26. 

Stocks  and  Bonds  — The  result  of 
shares.  45ft 

Stomach  — Influenced  by  tight 
boots.  50. 

The  rattling,  357,  358. 
Stone-cutter— Durdles,  tde,  66. 

“ Stop  Thief,”  479. 

Storm — Approach  of  a,  455. 

455,  456. 

At  night,  455. 

At  sea,  427,  420,  436,  456. 
Thunder,  457. 

Its  influence  on  human  pas- 
sions. 457. 

Strategy-  ()t  Mr.  Weller,  521. 

' Street— A dull,  457. 


STREET 


561 


TOMBSTONES 


Street — A gloomy,  457. 

A London,  457. 

A quiet,  458. 

Houses  in  a,  233. 

Of  perishing  blind  houses, 
236. 

An  Italian,  34. 

Lights,  270. 

( See  Obstructions),  339. 

Death  in  the,  138. 

Boy,  52. 

Pig,  New  York,  362. 

Crowd  and  mud,  458. 

In  London,  316,  458. 

Streets  — London,  at  night  ( See 
Night),  334. 

Scenes,  London,  458. 

In  London  (morning),  459. 

“ (The  Dials),  459. 
Singer,  the,  460. 

Crooked  ( See  Neighborhood), 
328,  329. 

A repulsive  neighborhood, 
457. 

(Nee  New  York),  331. 

Strong — Dr.,  the  schoolmaster,  76. 
Study— Of  the  alphabet,  11,  12. 

(Nee  “Education”  and 
“School”),  168. 

Stryver — A type  of  misdirected 
ability,  5. 

(Nee  Bank),  35,  76. 

His  florid  face,  179. 

St.  Louis— The  houses  of,  236. 

St.  Peter’s — Rome,  407. 

Subjects — For  dissection,  298. 

For  sermons,  466. 

Sublime  Intelligence — The  power 
of,  466. 

Subpqsna  — Sam  Weller  receives, 
466. 

Suburb — A London,  466. 

Of  a city,  224. 

Success — A crime,  467. 

Constancy  the  secret  of,  467. 
Suicide— Of  Jonas,  320. 

Excuse  for,  467. 

Apartment  of  a,  21. 

(Nee  Mantalini),  297. 

Suit  at  Law,  126. 

Summer — An  evening  in,  173. 
Nature  in  August,  26. 

A factory  town  in,  183. 

Quiet,  in  London,  467. 

468. 

August  scenery,  468. 

A legal  vacation,  468. 

Scenery,  and  sentiment,  469. 
Vacation,  of  Courts,  469. 
Weather,  469. 

Sun,  470. 

A punctual  servant,  470. 

In  the  city,  471. 

Its  influence  on  Bagstock,  471. 
The  summer’s,  471. 

Sunshine,  471. 

In  church  windows,  103. 
Sunrise — Its  associations,  471. 

In  prison,  374. 

Sunset — An  autumn,  174. 

A summer,  472. 

In  a cathedral,  472. 

472. 

Its  effect  on  pictures,  472. 

On  the  Mississippi,  472. 
Sundays — In  London,  469. 

In  childhood,  470. 

Evening,  in  London,  470. 

(Nee  Religion),  396. 

Bells,  associations  of,  43. 
Summer,  173. 

Tranquillity  of  (Nee  Content), 
117. 

Surface — Of  beauty,  39. 

Surgeon — Dr.  Slammer,  73. 
Surgery  Extraordinary,  357,  358. 
Surliness — (Miss  La  Creevy),  283. 
Surprises,  383,  474. 

Susan  Nipper— Her  sayings,  472. 
Suspicions  — And  inquisitiveness, 
253. 

Of  lawyers,  267. 

A maxim  of  life,  474. 
Susquehanna — Crossing  the,  474. 
Swamp  Scenery,  424. 


Swiveller — Dick,  description  of,  76. 
Dick,  music  his  solace,  197. 
Observations  on  dinner,  148. 
His  melodramatic  laugh,  259. 
Rooms  of,  18,  20. 

As  a correspondent,  541. 
Drunk,  162. 

The  disappointment  of,  279. 
His  fight  with  Quilp,  193. 
Dick,  and  Sally  Brass,  460. 
Dick,  his  apology  for  drunk- 
enness, 460. 

His  sweetheart,  461. 

Sickness  of  Dick,  461. 

The  Marchioness  as  his  nurse, 
462. 

Observations  of  Dick,  463. 
Dick  soliloquises  on  his  des- 
tiny, 463. 

On  extra  sleep,  463. 

Dick  and  the  Marchioness, 
464,  465. 

On  charitable  missions,  310. 
Opinion  of,  299. 

Sympathy,  474. 

Silent,  474. 

Influence  of,  474. 

Of  children,  92. 

(See  Affliction),  10. 

The  hand  of,  217. 

True,  218. 


T. 

Table,  296. 

The  furniture  of  a,  223. 

Beer,  of  acoustics  (See  Song), 
450. 

Tackleton,  76. 

The  child-hater,  94. 

Opinion  of  woman,  532. 
Talent  and  Capital,  305. 

Tangle— Mr.,  127. 

Tapley — Mark,  wants  misfortune, 
288. 

His  opinion  of  Americans,  15. 
289. 

Aboard  ship,  439. 

As  a verb,  498. 

(See  Mark  Tapley.) 

Tappertit — Simon,  76. 

Life  a burden  to,  270. 

His  legs,  269. 

Tartar — Mr.,  apartments  of,  17. 
Tar- water,  298. 

Taste — Viewed  from  Gradgrind’s 
standpoint,  474. 

And  habits,  social,  475. 

Versus  fact,  186. 

(See  Life,  Pancks’  philosophy), 
273. 

Tavern — (See  Weather),  507. 

Room  in  a,  21. 

(See  Inn),  247. 

Taxes — True  as,  37. 

Tea — A termagant  at,  476. 

Drinking,  a pastoral,  at  Mrs. 

Weller’s,  475. 

Drinking,  a serious,  476. 
Drinker,  Mr.  Venus  as  a,  476. 
Teacher  in  Love,  423. 

Tears,  476. 

Sam  Weller’s  opinion  of,  476. 
Of  disappointment,  476. 
Pecksniffian,  477. 

The  mist  of,  477. 

Hydraulic,  477. 

A remedy,  477. 

Not  the  only  proofs  of  dis- 
tr6ss  477. 

Of  Job  Trotter,  182,  477,  514. 
Valuable,  .477. 

Of  Miggs,  477. 

And  prismatic  colors,  61. 
Useless,  396. 

Drop,  a,  477. 

Teeth — Cutting,  31. 

(See  Features),  192. 

The  attraction  of,  477. 
Chattering.  477. 

Telegraph  Wires,  478. 

Tellson’s  Bank,  35. 

Temper— Of  Pickwick,  11. 

Mrs.  Joe  Gargery’s,  478. 

The  thermometer  of  Mrs. 
Varden's,  478. 


Temper— And  devotion,  478. 
Temptation — A teacher,  478. 
Tenderness— (Nee  Baby,  Dot’s),  32. 

Of  Tim  Linkinwater,  252. 
Tenement  House,  232. 

Ten-Pins— (Nee  New  York),  331. 
Terror— A look  of,  182. 

Tetterby,  296 

Baby  of,  31,  32. 

Adolphus  (Newsboy),  330. 
Thames— At  night  (See  Night),  334; 
Thanks— From  the  heart's  mint; 
211. 

Theatre— Maggy’s  idea  of  a,  478. 
Deserted,  478. 

An  old,  479. 

First  impression  of  a,  479. 

(See  Shakspeare),  434. 

(See  Stage),  453. 

Theft — An  emporium  of,  479. 
Theodosius  Butler  — A type  of 
conceit,  116. 

Thief— “ Stop,”  479. 

Literary,  363. 

The  river,  404. 

Thin  Man,  383. 

This  and  That— Success  of  a comr 
bination,  479. 

Thought— Its  chance  revelations, 
218. 

245,  480. 

Capt.  Cuttle  in,  215. 
Depressing,  479. 

A jumble  of,  479. 

A haunting  topic  of,  480. 
Throat— A thoroughfare.  209. 
Throng— A city,  130. 

Thunder  Storm,  457. 

Tibbs— Mr.  and  Mrs.,  71. 

Mrs.,  as  a housekeeper,  238. 
Tide— Barkis  went  out  with  the,  3T. 
High,  480. 

Tigg — Montague,  77. 

His  idea  of  life,  273. 

The  financier,  77. 

Comments  on  debt,  206. 

Tilly  Slowboy — Her  legs  a calen- 
dar, 269. 

85. 

Time— During  love.  280. 

Its  changes,  87,  481. 

The  river  of,  272. 

292,  481. 

Its  progress.  481. 

Is  money,  481. 

A slippery  animal,  481. 
Factory  of,  481. 

And  the  havoc  of  suffering, 
481. 

A gentle  parent,  481. 
Timber-yard.  481. 

Tim  Linkinwater — (See  “ Clerk  ”), 
108. 

( See  “ City  Square  ”),  106. 
Tobacco-chewing  — In  America, 
177,  481. 

Tobacco— Its  use  in  America,  482., 
(See  Pipe),  3fi3. 

Sign,  412.  445,  446. 

Toby  Veck— The  porter,  369. 

His  dinner,  147. 

And  the  bells.  45. 

Todgers,  Mrs.— Her  boarding- 
house, 49,  50. 

Scene  from  her  housetop, 
237. 

Serenade  at,  323. 

On  gravy.  213. 

(See~  Ancient  Neighborhood),. 
328. 

Toilette— A boy’s,  482. 

Of  Miss  Tippins,  483. 

(See  Dress),  157. 

Toleration,  483. 

To  Let — Apartments,  20. 

Toll,  310. 

Tom-all-Alone’s,  329. 

(See  Outcast),  350. 

Tom  Pinch— His  ride  with  the 
boachtnan,  113. 

His  patience,  146. 

Tom  Smart's  Vision,  60. 

Tomb— The  silent  (See  Favor),  191. 

Toots  on  the  silent.  117. 
Tombstones— A petrified  grove  of, 
66. 


TOMBSTONES 


Tombstones*  4S3. 

'I'ombatism — (See  Rheumatism),  401. 
Tongue — Of  Sampson  Brass  (See 
Compliments),  115. 
Toodle— A family  reunion,  225. 

Mr.  78. 

Toots— His  unrequited  love,  275, 
276. 

On  the  world,  639. 

Mrs.,  a mother,  318. 

Opinion  of  woman,  531. 

A constant  visitor,  500. 

And  Miss  Florence,  191. 

And  Captain  Cuttle,  58, 

Mr.,  78. 

Opinion  of  his  wife,  524. 

His  contrition,  117. 

Ilis  feelings,  193. 

Bashfulness  of,  37. 
Acquaintance  a charity  to,  7. 
Tortures— Of  the  Inquisition,  250. 
Tottle,  Watkins— A bachelor,  78. 
Tourists— English,  483. 

Town — A factory,  183,  484. 

Approach  to  a manufacturing, 
485. 

A lazy, 485. 

And  country  scenery— Jour- 
ney of  Little  Nell,  483. 
Pickwick’s  description  of  a, 

485. 

Tox— Miss,  her  dress,  157. 

The  home  of,  222,  226. 

Toys — Christmas,  95. 

Toy-maker— His  home,  486. 

Tozer — ( See  Education),  169. 

Trades — Eccentricity  of,  486. 
Tragedian — “ Feeling  a part,”  7. 
Traits — Of%irds,  47. 

Training — Of  children,  91. 
Traddles — His  hair,  216. 

At  school,  416. 

Transcendentalism  — In  America, 

486. 

Travel  — The  attractions  of  high- 
way, 487. 

( See  Tourists),  483. 

{See  Obstructions),  339. 

( See  Omnibus),  348. 

(See  Sairey  Gamp),  412. 

{See  Restaurant),  397. 

( See  Steamer),  454. 

Scenes  of,  487. 

Associations  of,  488. 
Experiences  of,  488. 
Preparations  for,  488. 
Traveller — The  home  of,  220. 
Bagstock  as  a,  489. 

The  uncommercial,  490. 
Travellers — Unsociable,  489. 
Englishmen,  as,  173. 
Citywards,  105. 

Travelling— By  twilight,  489. 

In  imagination,  489. 

The  miseries  of  coach,  113. 
Treadmill  — Brass  condemned  to 
the,  379. 

Trees,  490. 

Dead  American,  491. 

In  a city,  491. 

Of  Java,  a shelter  for  lies,  179. 
Trial  in  Court  — (See  Court),  120, 
125. 

Of  a convict,  123. 

Triples— The  power  of,  217. 
Triumph — Of  faith,  59. 

In  argument,  a,  177. 

Trotter — Job,  his  tears,  477. 

Job,  the  face  of,  182. 
Tuotwood— Betsey, and  Mrs.  Crupp, 
46. 

294,  296. 

Troubles— Of  workingmen,  537. 

Bklmpole  on  taking,  491. 
Trumpet  Notes— Not  always  true, 
491. 

Truth  Its  socrodness,  491. 

491. 

Not  always  welcome,  491. 

And  falsehood,  491. 

Tugok — Cyinon,  in  lotfe,  276. 
Tuooheh-  The,  78. 

Tulkinohoiin  His  face  and  man- 
ner. 180. 

The  lawyer,  263. 


662 


Tupman— (See  Pickwick),  360. 

“ Turning  up,”  302. 

Turveydkop— The  prince  of  deport- 
ment, 78. 

On  deportment,  144. 

Twemlow — (See  Fashionable  Peo- 
ple), 188. 

Twilight,  491,  492. 

Wind  at,  29. 

In  summer,  491. 

Seasons,  shadows,  and  as- 
sociations, 492. 

A winter,  492. 

Evening  scenes,  492. 

Twist— Oliver,  the  hunger  of,  242. 
Tyranny — Domestic,  493. 

U. 

Umbrella—  (See  Omnibus),  348. 
Uncle— Little  Dorrit’s,  65,  66. 
Uncommercial  Traveller,  490. 
Uncongeniality— In  marriage,  493. 
Undertaker — The,  493. 

Mr.  Mould,  the,  494. 

“ at  home,  494. 
Experiences  of  an,  494. 

Shop  of  the,  495. 

Sowerberry,  the,  75. 

Lawyers  like,  267. 

289. 

His  philosophy,  201. 

(See  Funeral  of  Mrs.  Joe  Gar- 
gery;  Mould,  etc.). 
Unfortunate — Happiness  of  the, 
217. 

Unhappiness — Of  caged  birds,  47. 
Unities — Dramatic,  495. 

Unsocial — Dinner,  an,  151. 
Travellers,  489. 

Ups  and  Downs — Philosophy  of  Plor- 
nish,  495. 

Usurer — (See  Arthur  Gride),  68. 

Newman  Noggs’  opinion  of 
Balph  Nickleby,  495. 

.Ralph  Nickleby,  the,  496. 
Avarice  of,  29. 

The  home  of  Arthur  Gride, 
204. 

Utilitarian  (See  Practical  Men). 

(See  Opportunities),  348. 
Unwelcome  Truth,  491. 

V. 

Vacation,  421. 

Legal,  468,  469. 

Vagabond — A,  78. 

(See  Vagrant),  78. 

“ Not  of  the  mean  sort,”  496. 
Vagrant — (See  Jingle),  69. 

(See  Dismal  Jemmy),  65. 
“Jo,”  52. 

(See  Vagabond),  78. 

Boy,  52. 

Vagrants — ( See  Refinement),  394. 
Vagrancy — In  childhood,  91. 
Valentine — Sam  Weller’s,  496. 
Valet— Bagstock’s  native,  497. 
Vanity— Human  (See  Old  Age),  343. 
Varden— Mrs.,  as  a Christian,  94. 
Mrs.,  525. 

Gabriel,  the  home  of,  223. 
Workshop  of,  538. 

Mrs.,  her  family  tactics,  186. 
Vauxiiall  Gardens,  497. 

Veck — Toby,  in  storm,  509. 
Vegetables — Languago  of  love,  498. 
Courtship  of  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
281. 

Veneerings  — The  (See  Dinner- 
party), 150. 

The,  188. 

Venice— A dream  of,  498. 

Venus— On  anatomy,  15. 

As  a toa-driukor,  476. 

Vicnn— Mark  1’aploy  as  a,  498. 
Verona,  499. 

“ Veskitb  ” — For  heathen,  310. 
Vexation  A cheap  commodity,  499. 
V holes  The  lawyer,  79,  264. 

Vice-  Its  Influence  on  youth,  52. 

Virtue  in  oxcoss,  499. 

Vices— Of  society,  -146. 

Kindred,  499. 


WEALTH 


Vices— Of  Piacenza,  499. 

Victuals  — Quarrelling  with  ono’s, 
499. 

Vigor— Personal  (See  Mr.  George), 

67. 

Of  character  (See  Laugh),  259. 
Village— The  poor,  499. 

Fair,  a,  187. 

Virginia  Experiences  in  a Coach,  , 
111. 

Virtues — And  vices,  of  weak  men, 
499. 

In  excess  (See  Vice),  499. 

Snagsby  as  an  enemy  to,  110. 
Visits— Fashionable,  188. 

Visitors— The  cards  of,  58. 

Constant  (Toots),  500. 

Vision— Of  Tom  Smart,  60. 

Psychological  experiences  of, 
499. 

Voice— Of  the  bells,  45. 

Hard  and  dry  (See  Face),  182. 

Of  the  alarm-bell,  44. 

(Sec  Laugh  of  Boythorn),  259. 
The  still,  small,  of  tho  heart, 
227. 

Of  Bagnet,  61. 

Of  the  waves,  428. 

Of  a clock,  111. 

Its  expressions,  500. 

Little  Dorrit’s  blessing,  600. 

A faint,  500. 

A disagreeable,  500. 

And  eyes,  of  Mrs.  Pardiggle, 
600. 

A bass,  500. 

A buttoned-np,  500. 

Not  of  Toby,  500. 

Sam  Weller’s  signals,  600. 

Like  a hurricane,  500. 

601. 

A muffled,  501. 

A sharp,  501. 

Of  an  old  friend,  501. 

Oppressed,  501. 

Volubility  — (See  Compliments), 
115. 

Of  Mrs.  Hominy,  28. 

W. 

Wakefulness,  30. 

Waiter — Traits  of  the,  501. 

Habits  of  the,  502. 

His  misfortunes,  503. 

Wrongs  of  a,  503. 

A dignified,  503. 

The  chief  butler,  503. 

The  model,  503. 

Characteristics  of,  503. 

Waiting — Misery  of,  503. 

Walk — An  egotistic,  504. 

A fast,  504. 

A dignified,  504. 

Walking— Better  than  riding,  504. 
Walls— Maps  bursting  from,  232. 
Wandering  Jew— Of  Jog  Millerism, 

77. 

"Washington,  505. 

Americans  in,  13. 

Washington  Irving — At  the  White 
House,  505. 

Watch,  291. 

A model.  505. 

Of  Sol  Gills,  505. 

Of  Captain  Cuttle,  505. 

Like  an  anchor,  505. 

Water,  298,  506. 

Making  a Sunday  tune.  205. 
Expression  of  (See  Fountain), 
199. 

In  the  mountains,  318. 

Pipes,  505. 

Waterbrook,  Mu.  and  Mrs. — And 
company,  80. 

Watering-place  — Pickwick  at 
Bath.  506. 

Waves — The  mystery  of  the,  136. 

The  mystery  of  the  (See Death 
of  Youth),  113. 

Waxwork-  Mis.  .Jarley’s,  506. 

W e a k n ess— Human,  506. 

“ Weal  I’m-:  "—(See  Weller),  514. 
Wealth — Ignorant  men  of,  506. 
its  influence,  210. 


WEALTH 


563 


WOMEN 


Wealth— Conceit,  intolerance,  and 
ignorance  of  Podsnap,  507. 
World's  tribute  to,  507. 

The  rich  man,  507. 

Without  station,  507. 
Weather— Stormy  ; The  Maypole, 
507. 

The  snow.  508. 

Wintry,  508. 

Frosty,  508. 

A November  fog,  508. 

Co'd,  50!). 

Beautiful,  509. 

Toby  Veck  in  stormy,  509. 

A snow  storm,  509. 

Dismal.  509. 

Suggestive  of  roast  pig,  510. 
Rainy,  510. 

Foggy,  510. 

Misty,  510. 

Mournful,  510. 

And  muffins  (Mr.  Tugby’s 
opinion),  510. 

Wedding— Regrets  of  a,  510. 

Christening,  and  Funeral, 
Pleasant  Riderhood’s  views 
of  a,  510. 

294. 

Weeds — Mrs.  Heep’s,  524. 

Wegg  — Silas,  description  of,  239, 
240. 

As  an  anatomical  subject,  15. 
Reading,  391. 

His  insolence,  371. 

Well— (See  Grave-digger),  212. 
Weller  — Sam,  personal  appear- 
ance of,  511. 

As  boots,  511. 

Engaged  by  Pickwick,  512. 
Recognizes  the  old  ’un,  512. 
And  the  new  birth  of  Mrs.  W., 

512. 

Sam,  his  observations,  512. 

As  a dutiful  son,  512. 

On  the  marriage  of  his  father, 

513. 

Sam,  receives  subpoena,  466. 
Sam,  and  Job  Trotter,  513. 

A flow  of  ideas,  245. 

And  the  laundress,  260. 

Mrs.,  death  of,  139. 

296,  297. 

Samuel  as  a witness,  122. 

Sam  (Wery  good  imitation, 
etc.),  207. 

Sam  on  law  terms,  266. 

Advice  to  his  father,  520. 

Sam  in  prison,  519. 

Sam,  his  valentine,  496. 

His  idea  of  an  alibi,  11. 

His  philosophy  of  death,  141. 
On  legacies,  268. 

Described,  511. 

In  prison  for  debt,  518. 

Sam,  his  opinion  of  tears,  476. 
Sam  at  home,  517. 

On  clerical  shepherds,  244. 
Sam,  on  principle,  374. 

Sam,  on  oysters,  371. 

Sam,  on  post-boys  and  don- 
keys, 370. 

Sam,  the  sentinel,  434. 

On  widows,  524. 

Sam,  and  Job  Trotter,  513. 
(Tears),  514. 

As  a philosopher,  514. 

Sam’s  opinion  of  “ weal  pie,” 

514. 

Sam,  and  the  Sawbones,  514. 
On  social  proprieties,  515. 
Among  the  fashionable  foot- 
men, 515. 

Sam  at  a footman’s  “ swarry,” 

515. 

Sam  and  the  fat  boy,  516. 

His  compliments,  517. 

At  home,  517. 

Sam,  and  his  mother-in-law, 

517. 

Sam  and  Rev.  Mr.  Stiggins, 

518. 

Imprisoned  for  debt,  518. 

Sam  and  his  father,  520. 
Father  and  son,  520. 

Mrs.,  and  Mr.  Stiggins,  520. 


Weller— Mr.,  and  the  gentle  Shep- 
herd, 520. 

The  elder  drives  Mr.  Stiggins, 
520. 

The  elder  on  married  life,  521. 

“ at  dinner,  521. 

His  opinions  of  widows,  521. 
The  elder,  in  a quandary,  521. 
Personal  appearance  of  the 
elder,  522. 

Sam  in  mischief,  426. 

At  an  election,  170. 

Sam,  his  story,  153. 

Sam,  apologises  for  his  hat, 
218. 

Sam  and  Job  Trotter,  182. 

Mr.,  on  judges  of  human  na- 
ture, 254. 

His  remedy  for  the  gout,  210. 
Sam,  “an  out  an  outer,”  39. 
His  opinion  of  coaches,  113. 
Sam,  on  feelings,  192. 

Sam,  on  flannel  and  straight 
veskits,  310. 

Wemmick— Mr.,  79. 

His  embrace  of  Miss  Skiffins, 
172. 

His  opinion  of  a friendly  act, 

200. 

266. 

Western  Pioneer,  362. 
Westminster  Abbey — The  dead  of, 
135. 

Whiskers— Peachy  cheek  of  Fledge- 
by,  523. 

A rainbow  in,  181. 

Shaving  of  Mr.  Bailey’s;  523. 
Whisper — A double-barrelled,  523. 
Whispering — Effect  of,  523. 

Whist — Pickwick  at,  523. 

524. 

White  House — At  Washington,  505. 
Wickam — (See  Nurse),  337. 

Widow — Weller’s  opinion  on,  521. 
296. 

Medusa-like  glaring  petrifac- 
tion, 179. 

A cure  for  the  gout,  210. 

Her  weeds  (Mrs.  Heep),  524. 
Opinion  of  Weller  the  elder, 
524. 

Width  and  Wisdom  — Weller’s 
maxim,  524. 

Wife— Toots’  opinion  of  his,  524. 
Of  Mr.  Pott,  206. 

Duties  to  a husband,  524. 

A solemn,  524. 

A bad-tempered,  525. 

(Mrs.  Varden),  525. 

Of  Snagsby,  250. 

Weller’s  loss  of  his,  141. 

An  unhappy,  524. 

Loss  of  a,  524. 

Wig — Life  in  a (See  Innocent),  250. 
WlGLOMERATION  OF  LAW,  128. 

Will — A contested  (See  Courts), 
126-7. 

(See  Funeral,  the  request  of, 
etc.),  201. 

Won’t  and  can’t,  525. 
Depositary  of  human  pas- 
sions, 525. 

Making  of  a,  525. 

Mr.  Boffin’s  “tight,”  526. 

Of  Charles  Dickens,  201. 
Wilfer — Mrs.,  her  dress,  159. 

Reginald,  the  conventional 
cherub,  79. 

Mrs.,  the  frosty,  530. 
Wilkins— Samuel,  80. 

Willet — John,  the  landlord,  257. 
The  oozing  of  his  ideas,  245. 
Argument  a gift,  etc.,  22. 

Mr.,  his  face  and  laugh,  180. 
William — Mr.  and  Mrs.,  80. 

Wind — Change  of,  356. 

Leaves,  clouds,  autumn,  174. 
Charged  with  aroma,  23. 

At  twilight,  29. 

And  fire  (See  Fire),  195. 

A winter,  526. 

And  snow,  526. 

The  east,  of  Mr.  Jarndyce, 
526. 

A gale  of,  526. 


Wind— Whistling  of  the,  527. 
Storm,  at  night,  527. 

A solemn  sound,  527. 

An  easterly  in  London,  527,. 

A penetrating,  527. 

An  angry,  527. 

The  west,  528.  . 

Around  a c hurcb  * ’ 1 
Windows— Of 
ters,  219. 

Wine— (See  Sleep),  444. 

Not  wine,  but  salmon 
Drunkenness),  162. 
Pickwick  after,  152.  , 

Aroma  of,  23. 

The:  broken  cask,  528. 
Journey  of  a bottle  of,  529. 
Old,  529. 

Wink— (Nee  “Eye;”  its  expres- 
sion), 179. 

530. 


(Nee 


A slow,  530. 

Winking— A vent,  61. 

Winkle— On  horseback,  228. 

Asa  sportsman,  452. 

In  Court,  124. 

Winter— (Nee  Frost),  201. 

Day.,  a,  530. 

A ride  in,  530. 

Wisdom— Age  of  (Nee  Revolution), 
399.' 

Wit— And  money,  530. 

A social,  80. 

Witness — Winkle  as  a,  124. 
Evidence  of,  173. 

Examination  of  Sam  Weller, 
122. 


Wole— His  opinion  of  Shakspeare, 
434. 

Woman  — Deal  lightly  with  her 
faults,  530. 

Her  perceptions,  530. 

Her  influence,  280. 

A stately,  530. 

The  frosty  Mrs.  Wilfer,  530. 

J quarrelsome,  530. 

Madame  Delarge,  the  tigress, 
531. 

An  angelic,  531. 

An  old  bundle  of  clothes,  531. 
A handsome.  531. 

A brave  and  tender,  531. 
Toots’  opinion  of,  531. 

An  old,  531. 

Influence  of  a true,  532 
A betrothed,  532. 

Tackleton’s  opinion  of,  532. 

A delicate,  532. 

An  enraged,  532. 

A merciful  (See  Todgers),  50. 
A true  (Nee  Devotion  of  Little 
Dorrit),  146. 

A lucifer  (See  Spinster),  452. 

A forcible  (See  Grammar),  211. 
An  ugly  old,  192. 

A knitting,  256. 

Dress  of  an  artificial,  159. 

As  a lawyer  (See  Sally  Brass), 
264. 

A little,  274. 

A wicked,  210. 

A she  devil,  533. 

An  unselfish,  Miss  Pross,  533. 
An  edge  tool  (Rosa  Dartle), 
533. 


A sharp  (Rosa  Dartle),  533. 

An  artificial,  533. 

Of  fashion,  paralyzed,  534. 

Of  fashion,  534. 

Sympathy  for  a fallen,  534. 
Instincts  and  prejudices  of, 
534. 

Influence  of  a good,  534. 

Her  revenge  on  dress,  534. 
Character  of  Mrs.  Bagnet,  534. 
Mrs.  Bagnet  as  a true,  535. 
Her  devotion,  535. 

Her  better  nature,  535. 

Her  art  at  home,  535. 
Women— Fainting.  532. 

As  drivers.  532. 

Prettv.  532. 

Wolf-like.  533. 

Elderly,  533. 

Rights  oi,  531. 


WOl'i  3N 


Women-  (Sec  Betsey  Trotwood),  46. 
I . (Sec  Female  Characters),  83. 

(See  Dingwall;, 


' Mi  trust,  351 . 

\i  tefican,  14. 
ljuwn  of  husbands.  243. 

* oo ,v  • «««  of  a hospitn 1 , 230. 

*V;t-394- 

“ 'lhVL11'  ' (See  Revolution), 


401. 

(See  “Florence”),  275. 

(See-  Dolly  Varden),  83. 

The  world’s  homage  to,  219. 
Inquisitive,  535. 

Wopsle’s  Heading,  391. 

Word— Of  honor,  227. 

The  last  a new  injury,  536. 
Words,  536. 

And  high  sounding  phrases, 


536. 


Versus  oaths,  536. 

Parade  of,  536. 

To  be  economized,  536. 

In  earnest,  536. 

Their  influence,  536. 
Workingmen— Of  England,  184,  537. 

Troubles  of,  537. 

Working  People,  536. 

Workshop — Gabriel  Varden’s,  538. 
World — The,  538. 

A battlefield,  538. 


564 


World— The  material  and  moral, 538 

Its  hollowness,  539. 

Opinion  of  the,  639. 

Toots’  idea  of  the,  539. 

Its  idea  of  bankruptcy,  .16. 
u Of  fashion;  its  management, 
189. 

The  social,  190. 

Its  credulity  and  incredulity, 
193. 

Its  travellers  ( See  Destiny), 
145. 

Its  idea  of  duty,  165. 

Wounds— Of  affect  ion,  10. 

Wren,  Jenny — Her  memory  of 
flowers  and  angels,  197. 

The  funeral  of  “ the  poor 
boy,”  203. 

Write — Kit  learning  to,  541. 

Writer— Public,  512. 

The  begging  letter,  43. 

A smeary,  540. 

Writing— Short-hand,  539,  540. 

Att  empts  of  ignorance,  540. 

An  ecstasy  of  pen  and  ink, 
540. 

Efforts  of  Sam  Weller,  540. 

“Wery  large”  ( See  Death  of 
Jo),  141. 

541. 

Dick  Swiveller  as  a corre- 
spondent, 541. 


YOUTH 


Writing — Of  Joe  Gargery,  541. 
Preparations  for,  541. 

Of  a beginner,  4141. 

A letter,  541. 

Writing-desk— A spattered,  541. 

Yard— Timber,  481. 

Yawn — An  unfinished,  542. 

Year— The  last  stroke  of  the  bell, 
45. 

New,  512. 

The  old  and  new,  542. 
Years— Death  of.  542. 

The  declining  of  life,  272. 

Yes — Its  expression,  543. 

Y'oung— The  death  of  the,  140, 
144. 

Youth— Its  early  experience  in 
church,  102. 

And  age,  a contrast,  90. 

The  death  of  Paul  Dombcy, 
143. 

Depraved,  543. 

Depravity  of,  543. 

(See  Girlhood). 

(See  Boy),  52. 

(See  Child,  etc.),  88,  91. 

A precocious,  261. 

The  influence  of  austerity 
upon,  27. 


